Two weeks had slipped by faster than the four foreigners could comprehend.
The days bled into nights, and nights into days — an unbroken rhythm of sweat, bruises, and breathless resolve.
Flokki's mastery had shown in every small correction, every deliberate word. His patience was both a blade and a balm, cutting away weakness until only will remained. Under his tutelage, each of the four had transformed in ways they hadn't yet seen in themselves.
Charolette, though still far from graceful, now wielded her twin daggers with a new-found steadiness. Her clumsy precision had become something almost admirable — stubborn and sharp, like ice refusing to melt.
Jasmijn's codex grew stronger, her strikes rippling with focused power, each movement honed with quiet fury.
Chauncey, once hot-headed, sat often in silence now — his aura no longer wild but pulsing with calm restraint. Each inhale brought clarity; each exhale, strength.
And Zayn — though his codex remained elusive, though Kelios' influence still clawed faintly at the edges of his spirit — moved with the precision of a swordsman reborn. Each swing carried intent. Each breath, discipline.
Valdyr had begun to feel safe. Like a new home.
Peace had become routine.
And that was when it shattered, all with just a sound.
BWOOOOOOOOOM!
A warhorn.
Low. Distant. Ancient.
It rolled through the mist-draped mountains like thunder whispered by gods. The temple walls trembled with its call; torches flickered violently in their sconces.
Zayn froze mid-swing, the tip of his sword lowering slowly. His chest tightened as the sound echoed again, louder this time, deeper — a haunting tone that gnawed at something buried in his memory.
Chauncey's eyes snapped open from meditation, his aura spasming around him.
Charolette paused, dagger mid-spin, as the shrill resonance clawed its way up her spine.
Jasmijn turned toward the courtyard entrance, grip tightening on her saber, a knot forming in her gut.
The horn's third call reverberated through the stone halls. Birds erupted from the temple roof, scattering into the pale fog. Every monk, every student, stopped. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath.
On the coast below, the mist churned like a living thing — thick, heavy, and unnatural. A soldier steadied a spyglass against trembling hands, boots half-buried in frost. He peered through the swirling haze, struggling to see.
"Nothing yet,"
he muttered, breath fogging the lens. Then —
He froze.
Dark shapes emerged.
One.
Two.
Then a dozen.
The fog parted in slow horror to reveal the outline of ships — hulking, spectral vessels pushing through the sea's veil like predators stalking prey. Their lanterns burned red against the gray, reflections twisting across the water like rivers of blood.
The soldier's heartbeat thundered in his ears. He turned, stumbling slightly.
"C-Chief— Chief Sigurd—!"
"Out of the way."
Sigurd's gravelled voice cut through the panic. The man himself strode forward, his presence a wall of authority. The spyglass was snatched from the soldier's hands. He raised it, scanning.
And there it was.
A banner snapping faintly in the wind — crimson, ominous, a sight many saw before destruction.
The Plugish crest.
His jaw locked. Breath left his lungs in a single, cold exhale. The snow beneath his boots creaked.
"Ready the first defense," he said, calm but lethal.
The soldier hesitated, lips parting.
"Sir, are we—"
Sigurd's head turned sharply, his voice cutting like steel.
"Now. And notify the temple. Immediately."
Still, the young soldier stood there, paralyzed by the sight of what moved within the fog.
Sigurd's tone broke from command to fury.
"NOW! MOVE!"
The man jolted to life and sprinted up the steps, his voice echoing through the cliffs.
"Valdyr is under siege! Ready the lines!"
Sigurd stood alone on the ridge, snow whipping against his armor. His hand tightened around the spyglass until his knuckles blanched.
How?
How could they have known? This passage was sacred — hidden beneath fog and spell. Only Valdyrians knew these waters.
A low gust swept past, carrying the smell of ash. Sigurd turned, eyes narrowing. The horizon had begun to glow faintly red — not from dawn, but from the ships. From torches. From war.
He didn't need the glass to see it now.
The fleet was moving fast. The lead ship's figurehead — a gilded lion — cut through the mist like a blade.
His lips pressed into a grim line.
"So,"
he muttered, voice a low growl lost to the sea wind,
"the gods send cowards cloaked in fog."
Behind him, drums began to sound — deep, rhythmic, growing louder with every passing second.
The Plugish fleet had found them.
And Valdyr, the kingdom hidden in mist, was about to burn.
….
The sound of heavy panting echoed through the hall as a lone soldier stumbled into the main chamber. Sweat streaked his dirt-smeared face, armor clanking with each frantic step. His chest rose and fell violently, eyes wide with panic.
"Commander Flokki… Valdyr… they're coming!"
he gasped, collapsing onto one knee, hand gripping the edge of the table to steady himself.
"A fleet… Plugish… headed straight for the coast. I— I— they got a glimpse through the mist. There's… there's no time!"
Flokki's eyes narrowed, his jaw tightening. The room seemed to shrink around the urgency of the words. He rose smoothly, the weight of command settling on his broad shoulders.
The shrill, resonant blast of the temple horn shattered the morning calm, echoing through the high vaulted halls. The sound was reserved for crises—the kind that demanded every able-bodied member of Valdyr's 6, and anyone else who could fight, to pay attention. Candles flickered violently in their sconces as the vibrations rattled through the stone, sending a shiver through the grand hall.
Flokki's boots struck the polished floor with deliberate force as he moved to the center, eyes scanning the assembled members of Valdyr's 6 and the few others present. The air was thick with tension, the smell of wax and smoke mingling with the faint metallic tang of fear.
"There's been a sighting,"
Flokki began, his voice low, measured, but carrying the weight of urgency.
"A fleet—Plugish. They've found a route through the northern fog. They're coming straight for Valdyr. Mist won't hide them. And… they're fast."
The members of Valdyr's 6 exchanged grim glances. Erik's usual stoic expression showed a crack, Solas clenched his jaw, Renn's hands twitched, Lyra's eyes, originally full of wonder, narrowed in anxiety, and Mira's calm exterior betrayed a flicker of concern. Kael's arms folded, posture rigid, his jaw tight, every line of his body screaming disapproval and suspicion.
From the doorway, Zayn and the three foreigners burst in, sweat-streaked and breathing hard from their training sessions.
"What can we do?"
Charolette demanded, eyes darting between Flokki and the rest of Valdyr's 6.
Flokki remained silent, his hands clasped behind his back. The quiet stretched, oppressive, like the calm before a storm.
Solas and the others were equally still, every one of them poised, ready, yet weighed down by the gravity of the situation.
Kael's eyes cut to the newcomers, a sharp, dirty glare that could have carved stone. Every muscle in his body tensed. In his mind, he had tried to convince himself that the foreigners were the source of this impending doom, yet not a word passed his lips. The room was taut with unspoken blame, suspicion thick enough to choke on.
Flokki cleared his throat, the sound cutting through the tension like a blade.
"We will let you know,"
He said, voice steady but cold, final.
There was nothing left to say. The room seemed to exhale as if acknowledging the unspoken: action would come, but not yet.
the members of Valdyr's 6 moved with practiced precision. Solas tightened his gauntlets, fingers brushing against the runes etched into the leather. Renn adjusted the straps of his armor, the steel plates sliding into place with a muted clang. Lyra fastened her belt, pulling her dagger snug against her thigh. Mira's hands hovered over her gear, eyes flicking between the other members, calculating, wary. Erik moved silently, almost too quietly, fitting his chestplate with measured precision.
Kael was last, slipping a dark glove over his hand with deliberate care. His gaze briefly met Erik's. The younger man held his stare, unblinking, a silent accusation—or perhaps understanding—burning in his eyes. Erik didn't speak. He didn't move. He just watched.
Kael's eyes flicked to Erik, sharp and unreadable, and for a moment the tension was electric. Then, with a curt nod that felt more like a challenge than acknowledgment, Kael tightened the glove and stormed out of the room. In his haste, he brushed past Mira. She barely caught the movement in time, her brow furrowing in curiosity and concern. Questions, heavy and unspoken, began to bloom. What was he hiding? Why the urgency?
Mira's gaze dropped back to Erik, who quickly averted his eyes, head lowering as if to shield both his thoughts and the truth he silently carried.
The hall fell silent for a heartbeat, the weight of anticipation pressing down like a physical thing.
….
The sea was cruel that morning—grey, restless, and endless. The mist that clung to the fleet blurred horizon from sky, yet the ships of Plugand cut through it like silent predators. The flagship groaned under the weight of iron and men. Armor clattered. Voices murmured. Salt and steel thickened the air.
Edgar stood at the prow. The wind tugged at his dark cloak, the fur around its collar damp with sea spray. A bottle of ale hung loose in his hand, half-empty, amber liquid sloshing with each tilt of the ship. His expression was unreadable—neither joy nor fury, but a tempered stillness. Behind him, Plugish soldiers stood rigid, weapons in hand, faces carved in grim anticipation. They were ready. He was… waiting.
He took a slow swig, the bitter drink burning down his throat, and wiped the remnants from his stubble with a thumb. His eyes—cold, steel-grey—never left the horizon.
A voice broke through the sound of the waves.
"I've always wondered why you drink before a conquest,"
Said a woman, her tone curious but edged.
"Don't you think it's quite foolish?"
The words came from a few paces behind him. She had hair the color of fire, tied back, her Plugish uniform crisp despite the damp air. Her eyes studied him, looking for some trace of humor, something human.
Edgar didn't turn. He lifted the bottle again, taking another slow drink before answering.
"I believe," he said, voice low and even, "in giving people fighting chances."
The woman frowned.
"Fighting chances?"
He lowered the bottle, gaze hardening against the fog.
"It would be quite the unfair advantage," he continued, "for any warrior to fight me sober."
The reply should have been followed by a smirk, a glint of jest. It wasn't. His tone was grave—measured, sincere, and far too calm for comfort. The red-haired woman blinked, realizing it wasn't bravado. It was conviction.
She sighed, shaking her head before barking an order to the nearest soldier.
"Tighten formation. The mist's thick—don't let them use it."
"Aye!"
came the sharp reply. The deck burst into motion—men adjusting sails, checking blades, the sound of boots thudding on wet wood.
Edgar didn't move. His eyes stayed locked ahead, where faint shapes of cliffs and peaks were starting to emerge through the veil of fog. Valdyr.
"They seem to be scrambling,"
said a voice from his right. A silver haired man with an eye speckle—half of it clouded white, the other glinting like polished iron—had an eye peering through the clearing mist. A grin stretched across his scarred face.
"Looks like we caught them at a bad time."
Edgar exhaled, slow and steady.
"There's no good time for death."
The man chuckled.
"You really do have a way of killing the mood, Commander."
From the ship's edge, another voice—this one quiet, lilting—broke the rhythm of the sea. A dark-haired woman sat cross-legged near the bow, dagger in hand, its silver edge reflecting the faint glow of dawn. She was whispering. Words so soft they seemed to dissolve into the mist, curling into the air like smoke.
The language was old—foreign even to Plugish ears—but it carried weight. Her fingers traced invisible runes into the wood of the deck, her whispers laced with promise and threat.
The red-haired woman glanced her way uneasily.
"She's at it again. That cursed tongue…"
"Let her,"
Edgar murmured.
"If the gods are watching, they might as well know our names before we arrive."
The fleet pressed on, silent but for the waves and the whispering of steel.
And as the mist parted, revealing the distant, jagged ridges of Valdyr's coast, Edgar finally lowered the bottle and set it beside his boot. His hand rested on the hilt of his sword—a blade wrapped in blackened leather and history.
He tilted his head slightly, watching the light break through the clouds.
"Let the North remember us,"
he said under his breath, voice barely audible.
The woman with the red hair looked at him, her throat tightening.
"For what?"
He looked up, eyes gleaming like a storm about to break.
"For bringing the end that should have come long ago."
The fleet surged forward—fifty ships cutting through mist and fate alike—toward a land unready for what was coming.
….
The northern coast of Valdyr was cloaked in a cold, silver mist as Sigurd stood at the forefront of his assembled soldiers. Over ninety Valdyrian men and women formed precise ranks, their spears catching what little sunlight filtered through the fog, armor glinting with a dull gleam. The waves crashed violently against the cliffs, sending salty spray into the air, a natural drumbeat for the tension that had gripped the cliffside.
Sigurd's jaw was tight, eyes narrowed into steel. His gloved hands rested on the hilt of his great sword, knuckles white with the force of restraint. Every man and woman behind him mirrored his readiness, yet the collective unease was palpable. The distant shapes of the Plugish fleet emerged through the swirling fog, hulls cutting through the mist like predators closing in on their prey.
The ships crested the horizon slowly at first, then with sudden clarity—banners snapping in the wind, crimson glinting faintly in the sun. Edgar's flagship led the formation, its figurehead slicing through the water with terrifying precision.
Time seemed to stretch, the seconds elongating into unbearable minutes. Sigurd's gaze never wavered, scanning the lead ship with grim calculation. The smell of salt and smoke mixed with the faint scent of iron on the sea breeze, sharpening every sense.
Finally, the fleet docked. The sound of chains clanging against wood echoed across the harbor, mingling with the cries of sailors and the pounding of waves. Edgar stepped off the prow of his ship with a lunge, landing on Valdyr soil with the weight of a man who had walked through a storm and emerged unscathed. His frame towered over the assembled soldiers, broad shoulders, scarred face, and a metallic hand that caught the morning light like a blade.
A bottle of ale fell from his hand, shattering on the cobblestones, liquid and glass spraying outward in a chaotic arc. Sigurd's nostrils flared at the sharp tang of alcohol, a sour, intrusive presence that only added to his fury.
Edgar's gaze swept across Sigurd and the soldiers behind him, sizing them up with a cold, appraising glance. He didn't move with caution or respect—he moved with confidence bordering on arrogance. Sigurd's hand went to the hilt of his sword.
"What is the meaning of this fleet? How do you know this route? Speak!"
His voice cut through the roar of the sea like a blade.
Edgar lifted a hand lazily, wiping ale from his stubble
. "Ah… Valdyr,"
he said, voice calm, almost amused.
"Beautiful land. Truly. A wonderful colony addition to the Plugish empire."
Sigurd's eyes narrowed.
"You will not take this land. Not while I stand. Turn your fleet around. Leave now, or face consequences you cannot survive."
Edgar's scarred face broke into a faint, unsettling smile.
"Consequences… hmm?"
He hiccuped faintly.
"You think bloodshed is necessary? Perhaps. But tell me,… do you value your soldiers, your people, more than your pride?"
Sigurd's jaw tightened.
"You threaten them. You threaten all of Valdyr. I give no quarter to invaders."
Edgar stepped closer, the metallic gleam of his prosthetic hand catching the muted sunlight.
"Quarter… now that's an interesting word."
Edgar paused, clearing his throat before continuing.
"I offer you one last chance. Give up your land. Surrender the fugitives in your temples, and your people may yet live."
There was a brief silence. The cold sea wind whipped through Sigurd's short cropped hair. For a moment, there was a flash of thought in Sigurd's mind, then recognition. They hadn't just come for land, but for Zayn and his friends as well.
"I will never bow to the likes of you. Not for land, not for life, not for anything."
Edgar's eyes hardened, and the air seemed to tighten around him like steel cables.
"Bold words,"
He said, voice low, dangerous.
"Do not mistake pride for wisdom. One miscalculation, one hesitation… and all you cherish will be nothing but ashes."
Sigurd's fingers tightened on his sword.
"We are Valdyr. You will find no weakness here."
There was a standoff. The two men read each other keenly, watching micro movements, anticipating a next move.
Sigurd couldnt help a pit forming in his stomach, his body tense with anxiety for his people. The four foreigners. Wrathfield's offspfings.
His muscles coiled like springs, jaw set, weapon raised. Behind him, the Valdyrian soldiers mirrored his readiness, tension crackling like lightning in the air.
Sigurd lunged. In that moment, the battle should have begun. But Edgar's metallic hand moved faster than any human eye could follow, piercing through Sigurd's armor, cold steel driving into his stomach. Gasps erupted from Valdyr soldiers and Plugish alike.
Sigurd's chest heaved as blood sprayed outward, his weapon slipping from his grip as he was lifted high, suspended by a single hand.
Edgar's eyes, scarred and unflinching, met Sigurd's for a heartbeat.
"It's a shame it had to turn out like this,"
He said softly, almost regretfully. Then, with effortless power, he threw Sigurd's body to the ground, the thud echoing across the harbor, reverberating in the bones of every soldier present.
Every eye, Valdyrian and Plugish alike, remained locked on the immovable figure of Edgar, the unrelenting harbinger of chaos, as the first wave of true conflict descended upon Valdyr.
Suddenly, a blood curdling war cry from a Valdyr soldier. Sides sprung into action.
With that, a seemingly long awaited war had begun.