….
The sun hung high over Varnhold Colony, its golden light washing across rooftops of red-tiled stone and narrow streets filled with the hum of life. The moment Zayn, Charolette, and Chauncey stepped off the gangplank, the world felt… different.
Varnhold wasn't like Plugand's rigid cities or the quiet villages of Fareth — it was alive in a way that was almost overwhelming. Brass instruments played in distant courtyards, merchants in long Drenmarch coats shouted in rough, melodic tones, and the aroma of roasted fish and foreign spices filled the air. Soldiers in crisp black uniforms patrolled alongside civilians who smiled, bowed, or tipped their hats at Commander Jasmijn Doutzen as she led the trio through the cobbled streets.
"Afternoon, Commander!"
"Long live Drenmarch!"
"Blessings to you, Lady Doutzen!"
Each voice was filled with admiration, even love. Jasmijn's stride never faltered. Her soldiers flanked her in two perfect lines, their armor reflecting the sunlight like glass. She waved to her people with easy grace, the kind of woman who knew the name of every merchant, every fishmonger, every smith.
"You seem pretty famous around these parts,"
Chauncey muttered, unable to take his eyes off the soldiers' perfect formation.
Jasmijn smiled over her shoulder.
"Fame is for bards and poets, sir. These are my people. I love them as they love me. I protect them, and in return, they give me their loyalty."
Her tone was sincere — and perhaps, even a little proud.
Charolette rolled her eyes quietly behind her, mimicking the commander's words under her breath. Zayn noticed and almost chuckled, but one glance from her silenced him.
They passed market stalls lined with gilded trinkets and silver ornaments, auction tents filled with Drenmarch banners fluttering in the breeze. Children chased mechanical toys powered by strange glowing stones — an invention none of them had seen before. Massive bronze statues lined the avenues, each depicting Drenmarch heroes of old with inscriptions in a curling, foreign script.
It was militaristic, yes — banners and soldiers were everywhere — but the artistry of the place made it beautiful. The scent of blackpowder mixed with roses. The sound of hammers echoed beside laughter.
"Plugand could learn a thing or two about presentation," Chauncey said, brushing past a merchant selling glass bottles of something bright and bubbling.
After what felt like hours of walking through the bustling colony, Jasmijn finally stopped at the edge of two massive white gates. Beyond them lay a sight that stole their breath.
A sprawling estate, nestled in a sea of green. The grass was neatly trimmed and soft beneath their boots, the air rich with the scent of flowers. A grand white mansion stood proudly at the center, its spires reaching for the sky.
"This will be your temporary residence,"
Jasmijn announced, her voice softening.
"You'll find it… comfortable."
A whistle escaped her lips — sharp and commanding. From the distance, a black stallion appeared, galloping across the field. The horse was magnificent, its mane flowing like silk as it stopped perfectly before her. Jasmijn climbed onto the saddle in a single, fluid motion, her posture still regal even astride the beast.
"I'll leave you three to explore the grounds. My servants will provide whatever you need."
She smiled, that same calm, knowing smile.
"Make yourselves at home."
And with that, she rode off, her hair catching the wind, her soldiers following behind.
For a long moment, the three stood in silence, taking in the sheer beauty before them.
Chauncey looked to Zayn.
Zayn looked to Charolette.
Charolette looked at both of them.
"This…" Chauncey breathed, "…is heaven on earth."
...
Charolette wasted no time in finding comfort to rest her body and brain — a spacious room with velvet drapes and a bed big enough for four. She collapsed onto it almost instantly, muttering something about "finally having some civilization."
Zayn and Chauncey, however, found themselves drawn to the training grounds, almost as if it were faith telling them this was where they needed to be. Rows of Drenmarch soldiers were sparring in formation, their movements sharp and synchronized under the booming voice of a bald, broad-shouldered man who seemed to command more through presence than words. His scars told a lifetime of war.
Chauncey watched with childlike excitement.
"These guys look tough…"
"Don't even think about it," Zayn muttered, but it was too late. Chauncey had already made up his mind about asking the question eventually. For now, he watched in silence, seeming to mimic each soldier's every move in his own, clumsy manner. Scanning. Burning techniques into his memory.
One thing was for certain—these warriors fought nothing like those in Plugand. Their movements were fluid, almost graceful, every strike flowing into the next with purpose and precision. They favored parries over blocks, evasive footwork over brute strength. There was rhythm in their combat, a kind of disciplined dance that made Chauncey realize just how rigid and force-driven Plugish fighting truly was.
Moments later, Chauncey cleared his throat loudly. "When do I get a chance to spar?"
The soldiers paused mid-swing. The vice commander turned, his face a blank canvas of disinterest. A long silence followed before he gestured lazily to one of the men.
"You. Test him."
Zayn's palm met his forehead. "Oh no…"
It didn't take long for a circle to form around them, the soldiers muttering in Drenmarch as Chauncey stepped into the ring, grinning like a fool. A wooden stave was tossed his way, and he caught it, testing its weight. His sparring partner rolled his shoulders, stretching his limbs before assuming a stance, his demeanor somewhat mocking.
The match began.
Chauncey lunged first — too strong, too eager. His stave swung toward his opponent's temple as if he were weilding an axe. The soldier ducked, sidestepping before sweeping Chauncey's legs out from under him. The crowd roared with laughter.
Chauncey rolled to his feet, face flushed, teeth bared in a grin.
"Oh, so it's like that, huh?"
He swung again — left, right, a wide arc meant to overpower rather than outsmart. His opponent moved like water, ducking under each strike, his expression calm, calculating. The final swing met a parry—
CRACK!
The shockwave echoed across the courtyard. The soldier stumbled back, eyes wide as his stave splintered in two from the sheer force of the hit.
The murmuring crowd quieted. The Drenmarch soldier clutched his shoulder, dazed. Chauncey smirked, twirling his stave before thrusting it straight into the man's chest — not hard enough to wound, but enough to send him sprawling onto his back with a pained groan. The soldier wheezed, trying to catch his breath.
The match had ended in just minutes.
The courtyard erupted. Soldiers clapped, shouted in approval, some even whistled. Zayn crossed his arms, shaking his head — but couldn't hide the small, proud smile tugging at his lips.
The vice commander said nothing. His expression remained unreadable. Arms folded, eyes sharp.
Either Chauncey had just earned his respect…
Or he had just made one hell of an enemy. Either way, whatever he sought out to prove had been accomplished.
————————————————————
WORLD INFO>>>
The Drenmarch Fighting Doctrine.
Unlike the Plugish school of warfare, which emphasizes overwhelming power, rigid formations, and sheer endurance, the Drenmarch martial doctrine—known as The Flow of Steel—centers on adaptability, precision, and controlled aggression.
Their warriors are trained to read the rhythm of combat, to let momentum guide their strikes rather than brute strength. Parries, redirections, and psychological feints form the foundation of their dueling philosophy. This refined approach originates from the WitlashTreatises, a series of ancient Drenmarch military texts written by General Hadrin Voss, who believed that "to fight is to breathe; and those who hold their breath die first." It's said that a seasoned Drenmarch soldier can defeat a Plugish knight twice his size by turning his strength against him—making their armies both feared and respected across Edacia.
———————————————————-
…..
The dining hall of the Drenmarch mansion was grand enough to make even royalty blush — chandeliers of carved glass swayed gently with the island breeze, casting golden light over the long oak table where Zayn, Charolette, Chauncey, and Jasmijn sat among the clatter of plates and soft laughter of servants. The air smelled of roasted venison, buttered potatoes, and Drenmarch's signature red wine — Creslen Rouge, thick and sweet. Chauncey leaned back in his chair, a chicken leg in one hand and a mug of ale in the other, animatedly recreating the afternoon's sparring match with wild hand gestures and loud bursts of laughter.
"—and then, BAM! One hit, and the bloke hit the dirt like a sack of bricks! You should've seen the look on their faces, priceless!"
he roared, mouth half-full, a few Drenmarch soldiers nearby chuckling politely at his exaggerated bravado. Zayn smirked faintly, shaking his head. Charolette rolled her eyes, stabbing at her meal with her fork, clearly having heard enough of her brother's "epic" retelling.
Jasmijn, seated at the head of the table, chuckled softly, sipping her ale with poise.
"I'm glad to see you taking initiative, Chauncey. Drenmarch favors men who aren't afraid to step into the ring."
Her tone, though amused, carried a note of authority — enough to quiet the laughter just slightly. Then, with an almost seamless shift, her eyes slid toward Zayn, her expression calm but deliberate.
"Speaking of initiative…" she began, "your training starts tomorrow morning."
Zayn's fork froze halfway to his mouth.
"Training?"
He repeated, brow furrowed. Chauncey blinked in confusion too, setting his drink down with a soft thud.
"Wait—training? You never mentioned anything about training before."
Jasmijn took a slow sip, letting the silence stretch before answering. "You'll need to have Kelios under control if we want to win this war with Plugand."
Her voice was calm, almost unnervingly so, but the weight behind her words hung heavy over the table. Zayn stared down at his plate, muttering just low enough for no one to catch:
"Easier said than done."
Before anyone could respond, Charolette's voice cut sharply through the tension.
"We're already planning to get trained in Valdyr,"
She said, her tone edged with defensiveness.
"I don't think we need any pre-lessons."
Jasmijn turned her gaze to her, eyes unreadable as she swirled her drink. "By whom, exactly?"
"Flokki," Charolette answered flatly, trying to sound confident.
Jasmijn set her cup down with a faint click.
"And how do you know such a man even exists?"
The fire that once lit Charolette's glare flickered. She stumbled.
"Because we…!!!"
She started loudly, before her voice deflated into an awkward murmur,
"...read it...in a book."
The table fell silent. Even Chauncey looked at her sideways, eyebrows raised. The realization of how absurd that sounded painted her cheeks red.
Jasmijn allowed a small, knowing smile.
"I see."
Her tone was neutral, but the glimmer in her eye told them she saw straight through the lie. She leaned back in her chair, hands clasped.
"The philosophy of A True Warrior's Heartoriginated here in Drenmarch nearly eight centuries ago — from the philosopher Kurio Witlash. A man your Plugish church condemned as a heretic."
Her words carried both pride and defiance, her soldiers lifting their chins ever so slightly at the mention of their homeland's legacy.
Her gaze shifted between the three.
"If you wish to find your Codex Heart," she said, glancing at Chauncey, "or master the dual soul inside you," her eyes flickered to Zayn, "then training here might be your best chance. I may not know as much as this mysterious 'Flokki,' but I can give you both a fighting chance to prove you are worthy… and teachable."
The room fell into contemplative silence. Zayn's hand subconsciously tightened around his mug — that quiet reminder of Kelios lurking beneath his skin. Charolette sat stiffly, torn between suspicion and curiosity. And Chauncey, despite his usual cocky grin, looked thoughtful for once, his mind wrestling with the weight of her offer.
Outside, the night wind whispered against the tall windows, and the distant echo of soldiers sparring in the courtyard filled the silence. Jasmijn lifted her glass once more, her eyes glinting in the candlelight.
"Rest well tonight,"she said smoothly.
"Tomorrow, your real work begins."