….
The morning came like a whisper of war drums.
A low, rhythmic sound echoed through the halls of Jasmijn's mansion—grunts, sharp exhalations, and the dull thud of wood striking straw with violent repetition. The noises bled through the walls, crawling into Charolette's dreams until she jolted awake, eyes snapping open.
For a moment she didn't move. Her mind was fogged with sleep, her body heavy, her thoughts still entangled in whatever fleeting peace she'd found the night before. But then another impact came—louder this time, cracking against the quiet morning like a thunderclap. She winced.
"By the heavens… what now…"
she muttered, dragging herself upright. The cold floor bit into her soles the moment she stood, shivers coursing through her body as she stretched. She blinked the sleep from her eyes, rubbed the gunk from her lashes, and sluggishly made her way to the window. With one slow motion, she tugged the curtains open—
—and froze.
Outside, the courtyard was alive with movement. Soldiers barked orders at one another, their training already in full swing. The faint morning fog had not yet lifted, and it gave the field an ethereal haze, ghostly figures moving in synchronized chaos. But her attention wasn't on them.
It was on Chauncey.
Barebacked, drenched in sweat, swinging a wooden stave with a precision she'd never seen before. Each strike was deliberate, guided by the booming voice of the bald vice commander who stood beside him like an unyielding shadow. Every time Chauncey faltered, the man's voice thundered across the field.
"Shoulders loose! Again! Again!"
And again, Chauncey obeyed.
His swings weren't wild or clumsy like before. They were sharp, controlled, fueled by a strange discipline that felt alien coming from him. The muscles in his arms tensed and released in perfect rhythm, his body flowing through each motion like he'd been training his whole life for this. Even the soldiers who had laughed at him yesterday were now silent, watching.
Charolette blinked in disbelief.
"He's… actually improving."
A smirk tugged at her lips despite her exhaustion. Maybe this stop was worth it after all.
But as her gaze drifted beyond the training grounds, she began to wonder—where was Zayn?
????
"That's it,"
Jasmijn's voice echoed, calm yet commanding. She stood before him in tight, battle-fit gear that left no room for ornament or vanity. Every inch of her radiated control.
"Channel it, Zayn. Let it move through you—don't fight it."
He was far from the courtyard.
Deep beneath the mansion's marble floors, Zayn stood in a hidden chamber known only to Jasmijn and her inner circle—a private training hall forged of reinforced iron, its walls glinting faintly in the amber torchlight.
He skin was sleek with sweat, his breathing ragged, his pulse drumming in his ears.
Zayn's hands trembled, his eyes closed, jaw tight. He could feel Kelios' energy boiling beneath his skin, that familiar dark pulse crawling through his veins like molten glass. The air around him shimmered faintly, distorting as the spiritual pressure grew heavier.
Jasmijn watched closely, her tone unwavering.
"Stop,"
She said, her voice acting like the calm in the storm.
"You're hesitating. That doubt weakens the resonance. Stop denying him."
Zayn's teeth clenched.
"You don't understand. If I let him in—he takes everything."
She stepped forward, eyes locked on his.
"Then take it back. He lives in you, Zayn. You are not his vessel—you are his jailer. If he's staying in your body rent-free, it's time he pays up."
A shaky laugh escaped him despite the strain. It was absurd. And yet… somehow, it made sense.
He closed his eyes again.
This time, he didn't fight.
Kelios' energy surged up his spine like wildfire—his hair lifting, streaks of silver overtaking his natural black. The veins in his arms glowed faintly, his body trembling under the force. Jasmijn felt it too—the sheer, corrupted resonance that made even her breath hitch for a second.
And then—he began to control it.
For the first time, Zayn commanded Kelios' power instead of being consumed by it. A pale, ghostly flame bloomed between his palms—white fire, flickering violently, its essence whispering unholy heat into the air. The torches around them dimmed as if the flame itself rejected ordinary light.
Jasmijn's eyes widened, awe softening her stern composure.
"Incredible…"
But before he could release it—
BANG BANG!
A heavy knock rattled the metal door. The flame flared uncontrollably, bursting outward in a violent surge that knocked Zayn off his feet. The explosion of spiritual force rippled across the room, sending papers and dust into the air. Jasmijn shielded herself, her body braced against the impact.
When the smoke cleared, Zayn lay sprawled on the floor, chest heaving, hair returning to its dark sheen. The iron walls bore the scorch of divine corruption.
Jasmijn sighed, annoyed, and marched toward the door. She swung it open—
And froze.
Charolette stood there.
Still half-dressed from sleep, her eyes darted from Jasmijn's revealing training gear to Zayn's exhausted, bare-chested form. Her face twisted in immediate, blazing suspicion.
"And what in the hell do you think you're doing with Zayn?"
Jasmijn's brow arched, unimpressed. "Who told you about this room?"
Charolette ignored the question entirely, attempting to brush past her.
"You're pushing him too hard! He could've lost control—Kelios could've—"
Jasmijn caught her by the shoulders, her grip firm.
"Everything is under control."
"Fine!"
Charolette snapped, yanking herself free. "If it's so under control, then train me too!"
Jasmijn blinked. "You—?"
Before she could even finish, a soldier burst into the room.
"Commander! Someone is here to see you."
"Tell them to wait," Jasmijn replied without looking.
"She says she's an old friend."
Jasmijn's expression faltered. Her hands lowered.
"…What?"
Jasmijn froze, her composure flickering just briefly, curiosity overtaking caution.
"Where?"
she asked, sliding past Charolette.
"In the main hall," the soldier answered. The curious Charolette followed reluctantly, leaving Zayn to gather his strength on the floor, alone in the training room.
…
A woman lounged across Jasmijn's expensive couch like she owned the room—a statuesque figure carved from shadows and sunlight. Her skin gleamed like polished bronze, taut and smooth over toned muscles, every movement deliberate, effortless. Long black locks were pulled into a tight, precise bun, revealing the sharp lines of her jaw and the cold glint in her dark eyes. Her armor, unlike anything Jasmijn had seen in the colony, shimmered with the crimson and gold of the Sahran Wastes, etched with intricate, sun-scorched patterns that caught the light with every slight tilt of her body. A curved sword lay across her lap, its blade whispering of battles fought under a merciless sun, its hilt engraved with symbols foreign and elegant, dangerous in their precision.
"Nora."
Jasmijn's voice cracked slightly, barely audible, but enough to betray the jolt that ran through her spine. A cold unease crept upward from her chest, curling around her shoulders and tightening her fists. Memories—half-forgotten, half-wounded—flashed across her mind: a storm of recklessness, danger, and moments that she had buried, now resurfacing in the presence of this one woman.
"W-What are you doing here?"
she managed, her voice trembling more than she intended. Charolette, standing a step behind her, tilted her head, confusion and wariness twisting her features. It was the first time she had ever seen Jasmijn falter, the first time the confident commander had stuttered, and the sight unsettled her more than she expected.
Nora's lips curved into a faint, knowing smile, her accent thick and melodious, carrying the weight of far-off deserts and sun-bleached winds.
"It's been a long time, Jas,"
she said, her tone smooth but edged with something sharper, colder.
"You've done well for yourself."
Her gaze slid toward Charolette with casual precision, appraising her in a single, fluid motion, as if weighing the girl's worth with a single glance.
"You've even picked up strays,"
She added, voice low, almost a purr, the words loaded with unspoken judgment.
Charolette's fists clenched reflexively, her knuckles whitening as heat surged up her arms.
"Strays…?"
she muttered under her breath, a dangerous edge threading her voice, her tone wary but defiant.
Nora leaned back slightly, letting her body sink into the couch with the lazy confidence of someone who knew they were untouchable. Her eyes never left Jasmijn, cold and calculating, reading her every twitch, every micro-expression. The air between them was thick, charged with years of history and unspoken grievances, a tension that made the room feel smaller, heavier, almost suffocating.
"Tea?"
Jasmijn's voice carried a soft tremor beneath its calm veneer — a desperate attempt to reclaim control of the room. She gestured sharply to a nearby servant, her composed smile as brittle as porcelain.
"Fetch us some tea," she said.
But before the servant could move, Nora raised a hand — slow, deliberate — her dark eyes fixed squarely on Jasmijn.
"I'll have the Drenmarch favorite, if you have it."
Her tone was silk over steel. The accent, thick and foreign, rolled off her tongue with a confidence that made the air feel heavier. The request was pointed, personal — a blade disguised as courtesy.
Jasmijn froze. The faintest flicker of surprise crossed her face before she hid it behind another polite smile.
"That was always your favorite when we were little, wasn't it?"
she murmured, voice soft but tight at the edges.
Nora leaned back against the couch, the fabric creaking under her weight. Her every movement oozed control — from the way her fingers idly traced the curve of her sword's hilt, to how her eyes never once left Jasmijn's face.
"You remember,"
she said simply, though there was venom beneath the sweetness.
The servant returned, carefully placing the tray on the low table between them. Steam rose in elegant curls from the porcelain cups, carrying a faint aroma of cinnamon and burnt oak — the signature scent of the Drenmarch blend.
Nora lifted her cup slowly, swirling the amber liquid with the small silver spoon provided.
"You've done well for yourself,"
she said, the faintest smirk ghosting her lips.
"A mansion. Servants. Influence. I almost didn't believe it when they said the once-disgraced Windblade of Drenmarch had turned noble."
Charolette looked sharply at Jasmijn, her eyes wide.
"Windblade?"
she whispered, but Jasmijn didn't look at her — her focus was locked on Nora, her jaw tightening.
"I left that title behind a long time ago,"
Jasmijn replied evenly, though her tone betrayed a ripple of unease. Nora's eyes glimmered, dark amusement dancing there.
"Funny,"
She retorted, taking a slow sip of her tea,
"because it seems the past hasn't quite left you."
The air in the room thickened. The faint sound of the servant retreating down the hallway was the only thing that broke the silence.
Jasmijn exhaled, forcing herself to meet Nora's gaze.
"Why are you here, Nora?"
she asked at last. Her voice was steadier now, but her hand gripped the edge of her chair a little too tightly.
Nora set her cup down with a quiet click.
"You always were direct, weren't you?"
she said, leaning forward slightly.
"Fine. I'm here for work."
Her gaze flicked briefly to Charolette, then back to Jasmijn. "The Plugish Inquisition hired me. They're hunting someone — someone dangerous."
She smiled thinly, her expression unreadable.
"And something tells me that danger is closer than they think."
"You took a church bounty? You of all people?"
Jasmijn chuckled nervously, voice cracking as she attempted to divert the conversation.
"I go where the coin flows,"
Nora said casually, though her eyes darkened.
"Besides, Plugand doesn't pay well, but they pay steady. And I need steady right now."
She leaned forward slightly, her gaze cutting through the room. "Of course… when I heard you were harboring fugitives—well, I just had to come see for myself."
The blood drained from Charolette's face. Her heart thudded in her chest. She glanced toward Jasmijn, but the commander's expression had already shifted — calm, poised, but her eyes said everything.
Nora rose from her seat, brushing invisible dust from her armor.
"It's been a long time since Drenmarch, Jas,"
She said quietly.
"You and I both know how this ends."
Charolette's legs trembled slightly as she slowly rose from the low couch, every muscle tense, her fists curling at her sides. Her pulse pounded in her ears, the tea steam still curling in the air between them like some fragile veil she could barely breathe through.
"Where are you going?"
Nora's voice cut through the space, calm but edged with a sharp authority that made the hair on Charolette's arms rise. Her dark eyes fixed on Charolette, unwavering.
Charolette's gaze darted immediately to Jasmijn, who was still seated, her jaw tight and her shoulders slightly hunched. Anxiety flickered across the commander's expression — a subtle shake of her head, fingers curling into her lap, a silent warning: do not go anywhere.
Charolette swallowed hard, forcing a tight smile to her lips, the kind that tried to pass for casual but failed to mask the unease burning in her chest.
"I… I was just going to check on something,"
She said softly, her voice steadying despite the tension gripping her throat.
"But I can do it later."
Nora's dark gaze lingered on her for a heartbeat, and then a faint smirk curved her lips.
"Very well then," she said, her voice deceptively gentle, carrying an edge that suggested every word was a subtle test. Her eyes flicked to Jasmijn, sharp and calculating.
"Jasmijn. Why don't you give me a tour? This is a really nice pad you have."
Jasmijn stiffened imperceptibly, the words hanging in the air like a weight pressing down on her chest. She rose slowly, the careful precision of her movements betraying a flicker of tension she was desperate to hide. Her fingers brushed lightly over the smooth surface of the table as she moved, her mind already calculating every possible risk of this "tour."
Nora's presence was a storm contained in human form—every glance, every step deliberate, every pause a challenge. Charolette felt the room's air thicken, a tangible pressure pushing down, urging her to remain still, to watch, to wait.
As Jasmijn gestured for Nora to follow, the dark-skinned bounty hunter's eyes swept the room in a slow, deliberate scan, taking in the layout, the weapons, the subtle creases in the commander's armor and clothing. It was the kind of look that made Charolette's stomach tighten, an invisible thread of unease tugging at her spine.
Charolette fell in step behind them, shoulders rigid, mind racing. Her instincts screamed that every step Nora took was calculated, that every compliment was a weapon she hadn't yet revealed. And as the two women began the slow, deliberate tour through the high-ceilinged hallways of Jasmijn's mansion, Charolette realized just how little she could trust the surface calm.
The three women moved through the long marble corridor, boots clicking softly against polished tile. Chandeliers swayed faintly from the morning breeze seeping through tall glass windows, the sunlight splintering across the gold trimming of the walls. What was once the serene luxury of Jasmijn's mansion now felt suffocating — every reflection, every footstep echoing like the ticking of a clock counting down to disaster.
They walked the outside corridor for a while, Chauncey's attention being caught mid swing.
"Who's the hottie..?" The Plugish man muttered under his breath.
"FOCUS!"
The bald vice commander screamed, Chauncey obliging.
Nora walked between them, slow and purposeful, her hands clasped behind her back. On the inside of the mansion, she commented idly on the paintings, the statues, the ornamental armor on display — her words light, but her tone dripping with veiled mockery.
"Lovely collection of art,"
She mused.
"Still stealing from conquered colonies, I see."
Jasmijn's nostrils flared, but she kept walking.
"We preserve culture. Not destroy it."
Nora hummed a short laugh.
"Right. Preserve. How noble."
Charolette wanted to say something—to break the tension—but she knew better. There was a sharpness in the air that warned her to stay silent.
"You've certainly done well for yourself,"
she murmured, eyes tracing a mural of Drenmarch's early conquests.
"I remember when you used to sleep under tents and steal rations from my pack."
Jasmijn's face twitched — only slightly — but Charolette caught it. She could feel the tension humming off the commander like static, could see her jaw clenching tighter with every step.
Nora smirked. "You've come a long way, Commander."
They turned a corner. The hall grew quieter — too quiet. The echoes of training from outside were distant now, replaced by the faint hum of wind threading through the narrow stone gaps. Charolette's eyes flicked ahead — and froze.
The corridor led straight to a heavy, iron door, slightly ajar. The faint metallic scent of burnt air wafted out from within. She recognized it instantly.
Zayn.
He was still in there.
Her heart skipped. Her throat went dry. Nora was headed straight for him.
Jasmijn must've realized it too — her pupils darted to the same door, the faintest tremor flashing through her otherwise composed demeanor. Without thinking, her spiritual energy stirred, a pressure in the air that made Charolette's ears pop.
Nora's steps slowed, eyes narrowing slightly as if sensing it.
"Oh?"
she said softly.
"Something in there?"
Before either Jasmijn or Charolette could answer, Nora took a step toward the iron door.
That's when Jasmijn moved — a sharp motion, her codex surging to life. A violent gust exploded from her palm, slamming the metal door shut with a deafening CLANG, the echo rattling through the hallway.
Charolette flinched. Nora didn't.
The bounty hunter turned slowly, eyes gleaming under the flicker of chandelier light. Her expression darkened — no longer playful.
"…So it's a fight, then."
Her tone was calm. Too calm.
Jasmijn squared her stance, wind rippling faintly around her shoulders like an invisible cloak.
"You don't belong here, Nora."
"Neither do they," Nora retorted, her gaze flicking to Charolette — sharp, knowing.
Before Jasmijn could conjure another gust, Nora moved. Fast. Her hand shot out, grabbing Jasmijn's wrist mid-cast, twisting it upward with bone-snapping precision. The air pressure burst wild, tearing through the ceiling tiles in a spiral of raw force.
Jasmijn let out a grunt of pain before she was hurled backward, body slamming against the marble wall. The shockwave shattered the vases nearby.
Charolette screamed.
"Stop!"
She shouted, stepping forward instinctively, though her legs trembled beneath her.
Nora didn't even look at her — she simply brushed her aside, pushing her to the ground with a single dismissive shove. The bounty hunter strode to the iron door, ripping it open with one brutal kick—
And there he was.
Zayn. On his knees. Breathing hard. Eyes wide with confusion.
"Found you," Nora whispered, raising her palm—
Then a roar of wind. A blast struck her side, sending her sprawling into the wall opposite. The pressure broke through its constraints, sending Nora to the room that connected.
Jasmijn was already back on her feet, one knee bent, blood streaking her temple.
"Take your friend and go!"
She shouted, voice breaking with command.
Zayn didn't hesitate. He grabbed Charolette's trembling hand, pulling her up from where she was thrown down, before pulling her through the hallway and out toward the courtyard.
They reached the main training grounds where the confused Chauncey, in the midst of his break , finally asked,
"What the hell was that noise?"
Charolette could barely catch her breath.
"Big… scary woman… after Zayn."
Charolette managed, gasping.
"What?"
He blinked. Before Chauncey had been able to make sense of the situation—
CRACKLE! BOOOOOOM!!
The smoking figure of Jasmijn tore through the remnants of the roof with a violent crash, splinters of wood and shards of tile raining around her as the courtyard below erupted in startled shouts. The trio's heads snapped upward, eyes wide, their hearts hammering in sync with the shaking timbers. Hot, acrid smoke curled into the sky, mixing with the early morning light, casting long, wavering shadows across the mansion's courtyard.
Nora followed immediately, her lithe form slicing through the chaos, boots landing silently on the broken tiles. Sparks flew from her armor as she twisted midair, eyes locked on Jasmijn, every movement precise, predatory. The air around her shimmered with the latent heat of her power, faint wisps of smoke rising from the scorched edge of her gauntlets.
The sky above the mansion seemed to twist with energy as the two women collided midair. Nora lifted her palm, a violent burst of explosive energy shredding roof tiles and sending chunks of masonry tumbling to the courtyard like falling meteors. The sound was deafening — a roar of metal and stone clashing, mingled with the whistling fury of the wind.
"We have to help her!"
Chauncey exclaimed.
Jasmijn twisted instinctively, barely dodging Nora's attack, a blade of air cutting forward in a roar of power, countering the blast. The force slammed into Nora, who was sent spinning violently through the air, armor screeching against the sharp tiles of the shattered roof. Smoke poured from her damaged shoulder plate, the scent of burning metal and leather stinging the trio below. Nora fell to the ground infront of them with a great thud.
"I think…" Charolette whispered, eyes wide as the battlefield unfolded before them, "she's got it handled."
Jasmijn descended from the roof, her boots barely making a sound on the fractured tiles, eyes locked on Nora as she prepared to land directly on her opponent to deliver the finishing blow. The air around her shimmered with raw force, each step bending the wind, her muscles coiled like springs ready to explode.
Nora, sensing the inevitability of Jasmijn's strike, twisted her body with feline precision, rolling aside at the last possible moment. The courtyard erupted beneath Jasmijn's landing, shards of tiles and stone exploding outward in a storm of debris, but her target was already gone. The maneuver threw Jasmijn slightly off balance, forcing her to recover mid-motion, hair whipping violently as she steadied herself, eyes narrowing in frustration.
Nora rolled to her feet, smoke curling from her scorched armor, her curved sword glinting as the morning sun struck its Sahran-etched metal. The space between them shrank instantly — the calm before their close-quarters storm — charged with wind, sweat, and unspoken fury.
Jasmijn's hand shot forward, a gust of cutting wind aimed at Nora's face. Instinctively, Nora snapped her head sideways, letting the force glance off her, her body flowing with the dodge. In the same fluid motion, Jasmijn closed the distance, seizing Nora's wrist in a vice-like grip. A precise, devastating strike to a pressure point jolted through Nora's body, making her stagger and gasp, the impact driving her briefly to the ground.
"Now then,"
She started, eyes flickering to the trio, her voice unnervingly calm.
"Still think she's got it handled?"
Chauncey whispered, before darting to the mansion to retrieve his axe. Nora's optics darted to his moving figure before returning to Zayn's.
Zayn assumed a defensive stance, his body tense, energy coiling beneath his skin like a caged storm.
"Stay back!"
he barked, his voice carrying the weight of authority and desperation. Charolette, still catching her breath, instinctively ducked behind him, eyes wide with fear and defiance. Nora advanced slowly, each step measured, her hands raised in mock surrender, a cruel smirk playing across her face.
"Relax," she taunted, her voice low and smooth, "the Church wants you alive. I have no reason to kill… if you cooperate."
"No way!"
Charolette screamed from behind him, her fists clenched tight, eyes blazing.
"You're not taking him!" Her shout rang across the training ground, cutting through the tension.
Zayn's eyes widened, recognizing the immediate danger, and without hesitation, he lashed out. In one swift motion, he grabbed Charolette and hurled her out of the path of Nora's incoming strike.
BOOM!
A searing explosion of burning energy erupted from her palm. He crossed his arms, bracing for the feedback of her power, the force hurling him several meters backward. He rolled over the grass, his body slamming against the ground. His eyes were closed, his body limp, unconscious.
….
Nora didn't pause. The moment she saw Zayn prone, she surged forward with slow steps, intent on seizing him. The air shimmered around her with lethal precision, and just as her hand reached toward him—
BLAST!
A torrent of white, unholy fire erupted from Zayn's palm, coiling like living lightning, and slammed into her. Nora was ripped from her footing, flying meters through the air. Smoke and sparks hissed around her as her armor melted and blackened, searing her neck, chest, and arms with third-degree burns. The heat was unimaginable, a pain that radiated through every nerve. She hit the ground with a heavy, scorched thud, her breaths ragged and shallow, yet she struggled to rise, defiance still burning in her eyes.
Before she could regain her stance,
Chauncey barreled forward, axe in hand. The sheer weight of his weapon and his strength pinned her down, crushing her attempts to push back. Metal scraped against armor, sparks flew, and the powerful thunk of his weapon pressing against her shoulder and chest reverberated through the courtyard. She exhaled sharply, realizing she was overpowered. Her defiance faltered, replaced by the sting of defeat.
Jasmijn, battered but determined, limped forward, supported by her soldiers. They worked in unison with Chauncey to restrain Nora, her wrists now secured with golden, special reinforced cuffs that glimmered in the morning sun.
"Ugh!" Nora spat.
The commander's eyes, still burning with wind-forged energy, watched as Nora, finally subdued, sagged against the restraints, her chest heaving, hair and armor scorched and singed.
The fight was over. Nora's expression shifted from prideful challenge to grudging acceptance,
"Take her,"
Jasmijn ordered. She was instructed to be locked away in Jasmijn's basement cellar, a place built for interrogation and containment, far from prying eyes.
The courtyard was quiet now, save for the distant hiss of fading energy and the heavy breathing of those who had survived the storm.
Zayn slowly pushed himself upright, the white fire in his palm still flickering faintly, and glanced at Charolette, who approached him cautiously. The three of them shared a brief, exhausted moment of silence, the gravity of their victory settling in.
They had survived. For now.