….
The sun hovered at its apex, golden rays scattering across the rippling sea as the Auriela sliced through the sapphire waters like a silver knife. The air smelled of salt and sun, the sails billowed with the steady grace of the wind, and for the first time in what felt like ages, the trio aboard seemed to be in higher spirits.
It was their sixth day at sea, and the gloom that once shadowed their departure from Fareth had lifted—at least, somewhat.
Chauncey, bare-chested and glistening with sweat, stood at the main deck, his axe planted firmly in the wooden planks beside him. His golden hair was tied messily behind him, fluttering as he swung his weapon with reckless determination. The scroll Daliah's father had given them lay unfurled nearby, its runes and cryptic markings fluttering in the breeze. His focus was divided between training and deciphering the scroll's secrets.
"Come on, come on…"
he muttered under his breath, striking the air as if his will alone could summon his spirit's flame. Each swing was powerful—gritty, deliberate—but the spiritual resonance refused to show. The air remained still. Not even a flicker of aura surrounded him.
"Bah!" he grumbled, throwing the axe down and scratching his head. "How does one even manifest a warrior's heart, anyway? Is there a switch for this thing?"
Zayn watched him from the shade of the aft deck, sitting cross-legged near an old altar post once used for navigation rites. His katana rested beside him, sunlight dancing along its blade. His eyes half-lidded, he studied Chauncey in quiet amusement and contemplation.
He admired the man's persistence—his determination was as strong as his volume—but Zayn's thoughts were elsewhere. His leg was pulled up to his chest, arm resting lazily atop it as he stared into the endless horizon.
Should he be training too? Probably.
But every time he tried to focus, his voice whispered again—smooth, patient, persuasive.
…..
"You'll never reach your true potential without me, Zayn."
Kelios.
Zayn clenched his jaw, trying to drown it out. His mind raced with anxious thoughts. What if they never found Flokki? What if he wasn't who they expected? What if Kelios took over again and he wasn't able to stop him?
Meanwhile, below deck in the humid captain's quarters, Charolette leaned over a large wooden table, maps sprawled before her. Her brow was knit tight in concentration. The heat in the room clung to her like a second skin, beads of sweat dripping down her forehead as she traced potential routes with her finger.
"By my estimates…"
she murmured,
"…if the winds stay in our favor and we maintain a southern trajectory along the Ardent Coast, we'll reach Valdyr in about…"
Her voice trailed off as she ran the calculations again, tapping her chin.
"…two and a half weeks, maybe less if we don't stop."
Her eyes darted to the markings for possible refueling islands, weighing risks and provisions. It was tedious, but necessary.
Then—
BWOOOOOOOOOHHHHH!
The sound ripped through the air. A long, low, piercing blast that made the wood beneath their feet tremble. The birds scattered overhead, and the ship's sails rustled violently as the sea seemed to still for a moment.
Zayn was already on his feet, hand gripping the hilt of his sword.
Chauncey froze mid-swing, eyes darting to the horizon.
Charolette burst from the cabin, map still clutched in her hand.
"The hell was that?"
Chauncey's expression hardened.
"A battle horn." He looked out toward the distant haze. There, on the shimmering horizon, a dark silhouette approached—large, armed, and closing fast.
"We've got company."
Zayn narrowed his eyes, scanning the vessel's design. The flag wasn't Plugish. Its colors were different—black and crimson with a white falcon at its center.
Charolette's stomach sank. "Drenmarch?"
Chauncey frowned, gripping his axe.
"What the hell would they want with us? They hate Plugish just as much as Plugish hates them."
"Unless," Zayn said, tone low, "someone paid them to hunt us."
Before they could make sense of it, the horn sounded again—but softer, followed by the sight of a white flag being hoisted on the Drenmarch ship's mast.
"They're… surrendering?" Charolette questioned, lowering her weapon slightly.
"No," Zayn said. "They want to talk."
...…
The two ships eventually ran parallel, their sails brushing the wind in synchronized rhythm. Then—CRACK!—a massive metal plank extended outward from the Drenmarch vessel, smashing through part of the Auriela's railing. Splinters flew across the deck.
"HEY!"
Chauncey barked.
"That's twenty-five thousand fuer in damages!"
But before his outrage could fully ignite, his voice faltered. Descending the plank was a woman—a tall, commanding figure draped in a long Drenmarch naval coat, decorated with golden trim. Her jet-black curls framed sharp, elegant features, and a feathered hat tilted rakishly over her eyes. At her hip rested a polished pistol and a curved hanger sword, gleaming even in the salty air.
"Greetings,"
she said, her voice like honey over steel—smooth, confident, dangerous.
"Apologies for the damage. My men can be a bit… enthusiastic."
Chauncey blinked rapidly, his earlier anger dissolving instantly. "No problem at all! Ships break all the time, you know. Hah!"
Charolette folded her arms, unimpressed. Zayn remained silent, eyes fixed on her in quiet assessment.
"I am Commander Jasmijn Doutzen of Varnhold Colony,"
The woman continued, her descent elegant as her attire.
"I come under a banner of peace. I wish to discuss… business."
Minutes later, the five of them—Zayn, Charolette, Chauncey, Jasmijn, and two of her armored soldiers—sat within the Auriela's captain's quarters. The air was thick with salt and steam from freshly brewed tea. Jasmijn sipped gracefully, her eyes never leaving Zayn's.
"Would you care for some? Finest blend in Drenmarch."
Before Zayn could respond, Charolette interjected sharply.
"Maybe after you explain why you destroyed half our ship!"
Jasmijn merely smiled, setting her cup down with composure.
"A fair question. I'll be direct, then."
Her gaze hardened, voice lowering to a calm, weighty tone. "I know who you are, Zayn Weissland. And I know what lives within you."
The room fell silent.
Chauncey's eyes widened. Charolette stiffened.
"No need to be alarmed,"
Jasmijn said lightly, swirling her tea.
"The Plugish church might outlaw the name, but Kelios is no stranger to our archives. You are… fascinating."
"How—how do you even know about that?"
Charolette stammered.
Jasmijn chuckled softly. "The Plugish have their inquisitors. We have our spies. And besides…"—her eyes narrowed—"the display on Isle Fareth was difficult to miss."
Zayn's knuckles planted on his knees whitened. The commander leaned forward, tone now grave.
"Drenmarch plans to wage war on Plugand. To erase its corrupt influence from Edacia once and for all. The Church has made monsters of men for too long."
Charolette scoffed. "Oh, right—and I suppose you plan to take their place?"
A flicker of annoyance crossed Jasmijn's face, but her composure returned quickly.
"Hardly. We seek balance, not dominion. But I won't lie to you, girl—your friend's… condition… could turn the tide of war. I'm offering protection. You scratch my back, I'll scratch yours."
Her words hung heavy in the air.
Chauncey scratched his head.
"So… you want Zayn to, what, blow things up for you?"
Jasmijn smiled thinly. "If need be."
Zayn said nothing.
By evening, the decision was postponed. Jasmijn ordered her ship to tow the damaged Auriela toward her home port—Varnhold Colony, nestled among lush jungles and misty cliffs.
———————————————————-
WORLD INFO>>
Currency.
The Plugish fruer (₣) is the dominant currency across Edacia, valued for its stability and wide circulation. Minted from a blend of gold and aurite, the fruer became the continent's standard due to Plugand's long-standing economic influence and control over trade routes. Even rival nations like Drenmarch and the Southern Colonies reluctantly accept it for major transactions.
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????
The Plugish warship cut a shadow across the gray waves, its sails like dark wings against the horizon. On the main deck stood Sir Havelock, his heavy armor polished to a cruel shine, his lance resting against his shoulder. His hair and mustache danced in the sea wind as his sharp eyes scanned the open waters through a spyglass.
"Nothing yet, sir,"
A soldier said behind him. Havelock's brow furrowed slightly.
"No signs of the ship?"
"None, my lord. It's possible they changed course."
Havelock lowered the glass with a quiet sigh, rubbing the bridge of his nose.
"They didn't. They're headed to Valdyr. I know it."
His tone was calm—but beneath that calm was something cold and dangerous. He turned slightly, looking back toward the quarterdeck, where a faint memory began to resurface.
???????
The air inside Daliah's father's inn was thick with smoke and candlelight. The faint scent of oil and rust filled the room, mixing with the metallic tang of blood.
Daliah sat in a chair at the corner, trembling, wrists bound, her eyes wide with silent terror. Her father stood before Sir Havelock—hands tied, nose bloodied, lip split open. Two inquisitorial soldiers held him upright by his arms.
Havelock circled the man like a predator, his polished boots clicking against the wooden floor.
"I'll ask again,"
Havelock said, voice low and deliberate.
"Where did they go?"
"I told you already," the man spat, defiance still flickering in his weary eyes. "They left. That's all I know."
Havelock sighed, the sound almost sympathetic. He stopped behind the man, placing a gloved hand on his shoulder.
"You see… I don't believe you."
With a sharp movement, he gripped the man's hair and slammed his head into a workbench. Daliah screamed, struggling against her bindings.
"Please—stop! He doesn't know anything!"
Havelock turned his gaze to her—cold, unflinching. "Silence. I'm not after you, girl. I'm after the heretic you helped."
He released her father, who slumped to the floor, groaning. Then he leaned down, voice dropping to a whisper near his ear.
"You can keep your pride,"
he murmured,
"or you can keep your daughter's hands intact. Which will it be?"
The man's breathing quickened, torn between rage and fear.
Finally—broken—he rasped,
"Valdyr… They're headed to Valdyr. North-east passage, through the Ardent Coast."
Havelock's expression didn't change, but the faintest smirk ghosted across his face. He straightened, looking down at him.
"Good. That wasn't so difficult, was it?"
Then, to his men: "Let them live. They've served their purpose."
As the soldiers withdrew, Daliah rushed to her father's side, tears streaking her face. Havelock paused at the doorway, glancing back once more.
"Pray the church never needs to ask you questions again," he said softly, before vanishing into the night.
...
The memory faded with the sound of crashing waves. Havelock's face hardened as he tucked the spyglass beneath his arm.
"They'll head to Valdyr,"
he repeated, his tone final.
"And when they do, we'll be there waiting."
A dark smile formed beneath his mustache.
"If I must burn that island to the sea to find him, I will. The inquisition will have its vessel."
The soldier bowed his head.
"At once, my lord."
The ship turned slowly, cutting a clean line through the water—heading straight for Valdyr, and the trio that had no idea death was following close behind.
...….
By dawn, Auriela and the Drenmarch warship had docked at Varnhold Colony—a bustling port alive with trade and the scent of spice and steel. The Auriela creaked and swayed as the Drenmarch warship slowly guided her toward the docks of Varnhold. The sun shimmered off the colony's whitewashed stone towers and steel defenses, banners of deep crimson fluttering above them — the mark of the Drenmarch Dominion. Zayn stood near the bow, his arms folded, eyes scanning the bustling port ahead.
Dockworkers shouted in the Drenmarch tongue, soldiers in black and silver uniforms patrolled the pier, and the faint sound of chimes carried on the salt wind.
Behind him, Chauncey was crouched low beside the railings — the ones that had been split by Jasmijn's ornate plank earlier. He pressed a hand to the splintered wood with an exaggerated sigh, the expression of a man mourning a fallen comrade.
"You've been through a lot, haven't you, girl?"
he murmured to the ship. His voice softened as though speaking to a friend.
"You held us through the storm, and even let that fancy lady bust through your ribs without complainin'. You're stronger than most of the people I know."
He leaned forward, wrapping both arms around the broken rail, pressing his cheek against the sun-warmed wood.
"I promise, Aurelia," he whispered, "we'll get you patched up real good. You'll look even prettier when we're done. Can't have my favorite girl fallin' apart, can I?"
Zayn, watching from a distance, couldn't help but crack a faint smile. Charolette, arms crossed, stood beside him shaking her head.
"He's talking to the ship again,"
she muttered.
"Let him," Zayn said quietly, amusement flickering in his voice. "Maybe she listens better than we do."
Chauncey turned back to them, catching their glances. "Oi! Don't act like she's not part of the crew. Without her, we'd be fish food by now!"
Charolette rolled her eyes but smirked despite herself.
"If she's part of the crew, then she's the only one who doesn't talk back."
As the ships docked, Commander Jasmijn Doutzen strode across the deck, her posture immaculate, voice crisp as ever.
"We'll have her repaired within the week," she assured them, glancing briefly at the damage with a hint of sympathy.
"Varnhold's craftsmen are among the best in the Western Belt."
Chauncey gave a proud, protective pat to the ship's side. "Hear that, Aurelia? You're in good hands now."
Jasmijn tilted her head, a faint, amused smile playing at her lips.
"Does she talk back, too?"
"Only when she's mad," Chauncey replied with a grin.
Zayn stifled a laugh, Charolette sighed, and Jasmijn simply gestured for them to follow. "Well then, gentlemen, lady—welcome to Varnhold Colony. Let's discuss your stay and your…future prospects."
Chauncey hugged onto Auriela, planting continuous kisses onto its jagged wooden surface.
"This colony has much to offer you three,"
Jasmijn said warmly as they stepped onto the pier.
"Before we sail again, rest. Enjoy yourselves. You'll need strength for what's ahead."
Charolette glared. "We have to get to Valdyr pronto! I don't think we have time to waste—"
Jasmijn smiled knowingly, cutting her off.
"Patience, miss. Every good strategist knows: a delay is sometimes a weapon. It will throw your hunters off your trail."
Chauncey grinned. "See? The lady's right."
Charolette groaned, palming her face.
As Chauncey eagerly followed Jasmijn into the bustling market square, Charolette muttered bitterly under her breath,
"Can you believe her? Acting like she knows us. Like she's in charge."
Zayn gave a quiet sigh. "Yeah, maybe. But… she might be useful. I don't sense any ill intent—"
"The fact she wants to use you as a weapon is ill intent!"
She snapped.
Zayn looked away, his gaze distant toward the sea.
"Maybe. But for now… she's an ally."
Charolette folded her arms, scowling.
"And Chauncey's over there drooling like a lovesick idiot. I swear, one pretty face and he forgets his own name."
Zayn smiled faintly, placing a hand on her shoulder.
"He'll come around. He always does."
And as the sun began to dip below the jagged cliffs of Varnhold, painting the sea crimson, the winds carried with them the scent of a coming storm—
both over the waters of Valdyr,
and within Zayn himself.