….
The morning sun broke over Isle Fareth with a slow, golden stretch — its light spilling through the worn glass panes of Daliah's fathers inn, bathing it in soft orange hues. The night's chaos had long since faded, leaving behind the faint scent of ale, sea salt, and burnt wood.
The low murmur of waves lapping against the docks crept in through the open windows, carrying with it the cry of gulls and the distant hum of sailors already at work. It was 6:45 a.m., and inside the inn's lower hall stood Zayn, Charolette, and a barely-conscious Chauncey — his head drooped, his breath slow, his hangover monumental.
Daliah's father stood behind the counter with a knowing smile. His daughter, bright-eyed despite the early hour, leaned beside him, hands still dusted with flour.
"So,"
The old innkeeper said, voice steady,
"you three are really leaving."
Zayn nodded quietly, his sword strapped to his back, his expression firm but heavy.
"We've been here too long already. The winds favor us today."
Chauncey groaned in half-agreement, rubbing his temples. "Aye, and my head doesn't. Saints above, I think I left half my soul in that rum barrel."
Charolette shot him a look. "You left your dignity there too."
Daliah's father chuckled, but his gaze soon turned distant, thoughtful.
"Where will you go?"
"Storm Isle," Charolette answered, glancing at her companions. "Valdyr."
The man's brows lifted. "A dangerous choice. That isle's said to eat ships whole."
"Then we'll just have to be harder to swallow,"
Chauncey grinned in an attempt to sound confident — though his voice cracked halfway through. They shared a brief laugh before silence returned. The innkeeper's eyes lingered on Zayn, who had turned toward the window, his gaze lost in the sunrise.
"Well," the old man said finally, "I can't say I know what you'll find out there. But I do know this — journeys worth taking never start in comfort."
Zayn opened his mouth to respond, but before he could, the innkeeper suddenly snapped his fingers, eyes igniting in remembrance.
"Wait here."
He disappeared behind the counter, rummaging through shelves and drawers, muttering under his breath. After a few minutes of frantic shuffling, he emerged — clutching something long, narrow, and covered in dust.
It was a scroll. Old, fragile, its edges browned and curled like leaves left too long in the sun. It must've been Atleast a century old.
"Won this at an auction a few years back," he said, brushing off the dust as he handed it to Charolette.
"Didn't know what to make of it. But… you might."
Charolette took it gently, the parchment crackling as she unfurled it. Zayn and Chauncey leaned in, their eyes scanning the faded ink.
Symbols and scribbles filled the page — diagrams of the human soul, fragments of text in ancient dialects, and strange, looping glyphs that shimmered faintly when the sunlight hit them.
At the center of the scroll was a title written in deep crimson ink:
"The Codex of Hearts."
Below it, smaller notes and annotations: The Nature of Heretical Resonance. Taximony of the Lost. The Philosopher's Oath.
"What is this…?" Charolette murmured, tracing the drawings with her fingernail.
"Something written by one of the old philosophers who sought to understand the True Warrior's Heart," the innkeeper said softly.
"Most of it's gibberish now, even to scholars. But maybe you three can make sense of it."
Chauncey immediately snatched the scroll from her hands, eyes darting across the page.
"Heretical resonance, huh? Sounds like something I could use to make my axe stronger!"
"Or something that'll make you explode,"
Charolette said, yanking it back. "I'm keeping this. You'd probably use it as a napkin."
"Would not."
"Would too."
Their bickering drew a tired chuckle from Zayn, though his eyes lingered on the parchment. The symbols seemed to hum faintly, almost in recognition — as if something deep within him stirred at the sight of them.
The innkeeper stepped closer, placing a hand on Zayn's shoulder. His grip was firm, reassuring.
"Son,"
he said quietly,
"you've got a strength in you that you haven't yet come to terms with. I can see it — even if you can't. Protect them both, aye? The seas ahead won't forgive the unprepared."
Zayn met his gaze, nodding slowly.
"I will."
A sweet aroma interrupted the solemn air — cinnamon, honey, and freshly baked bread. Daliah emerged from the kitchen, holding a large woven basket nearly her size.
"Breakfast!"
She exclaimed brightly, steadying the basket in her hands.
"For your journey. Don't let it go bad before you reach the next port!"
Chauncey, suddenly revitalized by the scent of food, lunged forward and took the basket.
"You're a saint, Daliah! Truly!"
He inhaled deeply, the heavenly scent wiping away his hangover for a fleeting moment.
Charolette smacked the back of his head.
"You could at least thank her properly, you oaf."
"Ow! I was thanking her!"
Daliah giggled, cheeks flushed pink. "It's fine. Just… come back safe, okay?"
Zayn nodded again — quiet as ever — before turning toward the door. Outside, the docks of Isle Fareth were alive once more. Dozens had gathered to see them off — fishermen, merchants, children waving small flags of woven rope. Cheers rose through the air as the three boarded their ship, Auriela, its white sails billowing softly in the morning breeze.
"Farewell, heroes of Fareth!" someone shouted.
"Come back soon!" another cried.
Zayn, Charolette, and Chauncey waved as the ship drifted from the pier. The crowd's voices carried across the water, fading slowly into the distance — all but one.
A small figure pushed through the mass of people, stumbling, panting, waving both hands desperately.
"Wait! WAIT!"
It was Sarah — the young woman Pinkbeard had tormented. Her hair whipped in the wind, eyes wide as she shouted toward the ship.
"I never got to thank you!"
she cried, cupping her hands around her mouth.
"You're welcome at my tavern anytime!"
Zayn's lips curved into the faintest smile. He raised his hand, waving back — as did Charolette and Chauncey.
"She's pretty cute, isn't she?" Chauncey muttered with a grin.
Zayn didn't even look at him, just nodded. "She is."
Charolette rolled her eyes so hard it was audible. And so, the Auriela drifted away, its sails catching the morning wind as the island grew smaller behind them. Ahead lay the open sea — and far beyond that, the Storm Isle of Valdyr.
Where truths awaited.
Where strength would be tested.
———————————————————
????
Hours later, as the horizon swallowed the last trace of their ship, another vessel docked at Isle Fareth — a Plugish warship, painted in the deep blue and silver of the royal fleet. Its massive hull cut through the waves with purpose, casting a shadow over the docks.
The townsfolk whispered, their celebration replaced by quiet unease.
From the ship descended a tall man — broad-shouldered, clad in royal armor polished to a mirror sheen. His auburn hair brushed his shoulders, and a thick, bushy mustache covered his upper lip, leaving only a grim, calculating mouth.
On his back was a lance — engraved with Plugish Inquisition sigils.
INHALE…
He took a deep breath of the sea air, nostrils flaring. When he exhaled, it was with quiet certainty.
"He was here."
His voice was deep, calm, and chillingly sure.
He turned to his men.
"Search the town. Every corner. Every whisper. I want traces — not tales."
The soldiers dispersed quickly, their boots thudding against the docks, their armor clinking as they spread through the streets.
Minutes later, the man arrived at the door of Daliah's fathers inn.
Knock knock.
He knocked once — then again, harder.
BANG BANG!
Daliah opened the door, still chewing a cob of corn. Her eyes widened at the sight — the large man, the Plugish crest, the soldiers flanking the doorway. There must have been a dozen of them.
"Uh—Father!" she shouted.
Within moments, her father appeared, wiping his hands on a cloth — only to find his inn filled with armored soldiers, their leader already seated calmly at one of the tables.
The knight's gaze lifted.
"You're not in trouble,"
He said evenly.
"I simply need to ask a few questions."
He paused, his gloved fingers tapping lightly on the wood.
"About a peculiar young man who was here not long ago." He leaned forward, eyes sharp beneath the dim light.
"Zayn Weissland."
————————————————————
WORLD INFO>>>
Taxonomy of Heretics.
Under Plugish law, the inquisiton classifies awakened individuals under three orders:
Order I – The Embered: Latent awakeners. Often unstable; prone to spontaneous emotional surges. Dangerous in masses but easily broken individually.
Order II – The Resonant: Capable of forming Symmetries (techniques). Classified as Class-Red Hazards.
Order III – The True Hearts: Fully awakened. Reality around them bends. No known countermeasure exists except Divine Nullification Seals, of which fewer than ten remain functional.
Among the Order III records is one name often struck through in black ink: The Nameless One.
It is said he reached the Ethereal Stage, transcending the flesh entirely, and that the supercontinent of Plugand still speak his name when thunder rolls.
III. The Heresy of Emotion: the untrained eye, it may appear that emotion is the source of Resonant energy. This is a misconception.
Emotion is merely the language through which the soul speaks to the world.
The true corruption lies in unmediated will — when man's inner truth overshadows the divine structure meant to contain it.
The Heart, unbound, is creation itself.
Left unchecked, it can remake reality in its wielder's image. History whispers that the first cataclysm — the Fall of the Twelve Kingdoms — began not with war, but with a single man who believed too deeply.
IV. Current Directives: Per decree of the Council of Order, all field inquisitors are instructed to:
Eliminate any individuals exhibiting sudden physical phenomena tied to emotional extremes (heat, frost, tremor, temporal distortion, etc.).
Confiscate any relics or manuscripts referencing "Symmetry," "Eminence," or "True Warrior's Heart."
Report all suspected "Vessels" of the Nameless Lineage for immediate termination.
(Note: the term "Vessel" has recently resurfaced in frontier reports. Subjects display dual auras, suggesting the resonance of more than one consciousness.)
"There is a flaw in every cage we build, for the bars themselves remember freedom.
Should another heart awaken… should another dare to dream without permission…
Plugand will burn again."
- ???