The battlefield had become a living nightmare.
Within moments of Sigurd's fall, the coast was drowned in chaos — steel clashing against steel, fire licking at the horizon, and cries of pain echoing through the valley. The clash of armies reverberated through the cliffs, the very earth trembling beneath the violence. Smoke began to coil upward in thick plumes, blackening the sky. Even from the temple miles away, the faint hum of the warhorns and the distant roars of battle could be felt like tremors in the air.
Edgar moved like a beast among men. His fists were his primary weapons — brutal, unrelenting, unstoppable. His metallic arm glinted in the flickering light of the burning coast, every swing delivering ruin. When it connected with flesh or armor, the sound was a deafening crack, a percussion of destruction that made even the bravest hesitate.
A Valdyrian soldier lunged. Edgar caught him by the neck mid-swing, hoisting him effortlessly before slamming him into the earth with enough force to splinter his spine. Another came from behind, sword flashing — the blade grazed Edgar's armor, drawing sparks. Edgar turned with the sluggish patience of a drunk, then delivered a kick so vicious it sent the man sprawling backward, ribs crunching audibly beneath his boot.
He was chaos incarnate — messy, unfocused, yet impossibly strong. The stench of ale mixed with blood and smoke around him, his breath heavy, his grin almost feral.
But the illusion of invincibility shattered when a sharp, fierce voice cut through the chaos.
"LEAVE MY ISLAND!!!"
Solas's sword snapped upward, a precise rising arc meant to disarm and unbalance. Edgar, drunk or uncaring, let a plugish soldier hurl his longsword through the chaos — a desperate, practiced throw that cut between men like a hunting hawk. It spun true, blade flashing.
Edgar didn't catch it with knife-and-grace — his metal hand angled, caught the weapon by the handle as though it were a twig, and the thrown longsteel thunked against Solas's parry.
Solas's blade intercepted his, the clash ringing out like thunder. Sparks exploded as steel ground against steel, both men locking eyes over the trembling edge of their weapons. Solas's expression was cold, disciplined, while Edgar's carried that same infuriating calm, as though none of this mattered — as though he were merely testing the waters of his own strength.
"So you're the one leading this circus,"
Solas said through gritted teeth.
Edgar chuckled, pressing against the warrior's weapon with his full weight.
"Leading? No. I just enjoy the sound of good metal breaking."
Their blades screeched as they slid apart, only to collide again. The ground beneath them trembled. Edgar's strikes were wild, destructive — a storm of brute force — while Solas countered with precise, surgical movements. For every slash that Edgar made, Solas deflected two. But even as he fought, Edgar's attention drifted — his gaze flicked to the edges of the battlefield.
In his peripheral, he saw Valdyr's 6 pushing back his soldiers with ruthless efficiency. Lyra and Erik fought in seamless coordination, their movements a blur. The Plugish ranks were bending under their might. His smirk faltered.
That single moment of distraction cost him.
Solas twisted his wrist, parrying low before driving a heavy strike into Edgar's side, sending the man stumbling back several paces. The metallic clang of impact rang out over the chaos. Edgar coughed, the smile returning—bloody this time.
Solas pressed forward, relentless.
Edgar hiccupped between breaths, recovering his stance.
Their swords met again, a symphony of death and rhythm. Sparks burst in bursts of gold and orange, illuminating their faces in flickering flashes. Then—
"Juniper! NOW!"
Edgar's command bellowed across the battlefield like a curse.
The quiet, dark-haired woman—Juniper—lifted her gaze. She had been sitting at the ship's edge only minutes ago, whispering words into the air. Now her lips parted, eyes narrowing into obsidian slits. Her hands trembled slightly as she turned toward her target—Mira.
Mira had just finished cutting down a Plugish soldier when she heard the sound. It wasn't loud at first—more like a hum, a vibration that wormed its way into her bones. Then came the scream.
It wasn't human. Not even close.
The air rippled, distorted like heat over fire. The sound tore through the battlefield, slicing through armor and spirit alike. Mira's body convulsed, the sword slipping from her fingers as her knees hit the ground. Her mouth opened, but no sound came. Pain—white-hot, searing—ripped through her veins, locking her limbs in place. Her codex flickered and died in her chest.
"MIRA!"
Kael's shout was raw, panicked. His fury surged, a ball of flame forming in his palm as he aimed it toward Juniper—
But before he could release it, his vision blurred as he heard her directed blood curdling scream. His own body locked, muscles seizing as if invisible chains had bound him. The azure flame sputtered and vanished, smoke curling from his fingertips. His heart thundered in his chest, but his body refused to obey.
Solas saw it all mid-fight. The sound. The stillness. The blood running from Mira's nose. The tremors in Kael's arms. A cold pit opened in his stomach as realization struck.
That language…
He had never heard of it. It was ancient, forbidden. A tongue of heresy, decay and madness.
"Stop her!"
he barked, eyes darting to Renn—but it was too late.
Edgar lunged, driving a heavy blow into Solas's ribs. The impact knocked the breath from his lungs, his footing lost. Edgar followed with another savage kick, sending him sprawling into the mud.
Solas's world spun. His grip loosened on his blade. Through the haze, he saw her—Juniper—walking closer, her lips moving faster now, blood running from under her own nose.
Then came the second scream.
A guttural, cursed shriek that split the air and shattered Solas's consciousness. His body went limp, his blade sinking into the earth beside him.
Edgar exhaled, rotating his metallic wrist as the din of battle roared on around him.
"Well,"
He murmured, stepping over Solas's fallen form.
"That's that, I suppose."
The coast of Valdyr burned red.
....
Smoke rose on the horizon — dark plumes that bled into the orange sky, churning and shifting with the wind. From the temple's high vantage point, the distant coastline flickered with the fires of war. It had just been a few hours, and half the island was already swallowed by chaos. Faint echoes of clashing steel and distant horns carried across the valleys, a grim lullaby to what was unfolding below.
Within the temple courtyard, the air was heavy — choked not just with ash, but with dread.
Charolette paced in frantic circles near the marble fountain, her boots clacking against the stone with each turn. Her eyes were wide, restless, flicking between the horizon and the temple doors. She chewed her fingernail until it bled, then dragged her hand through her tangled hair, breathing hard through her nose. The tension in her shoulders spoke louder than words.
Jasmijn stood nearby, her usual composure splintered. Her fingers fidgeted with the edge of her cloak, and every so often, her gaze would dart toward the sky as if expecting something — anything — to descend from it.
Zayn leaned against one of the ancient alters, arms folded tightly. His eyes were distant, shadowed, reflecting the flickering orange light spilling in from outside. His jaw clenched with each muffled explosion echoing from the valley below.
Chauncey sat on the base of a pillar, elbows on his knees, fingers interlocked and pressed against his lips. His brows furrowed deep, the silence around him almost meditative — but his tapping foot betrayed him.
Then, suddenly, Charolette stopped pacing.
Her eyes hardened.
"I've had enough of this."
The others looked up as she spun on her heel, fury igniting behind her.
"Charolette—"
Jasmijn started, but the girl was already storming toward the main hall, her cloak flaring behind her like a battle flag.
The heavy wooden doors to Flokki's office slammed open moments later.
The four burst in together — Charolette leading, her presence sharp and volatile. The smell of smoke seemed to follow them inside.
Flokki stood behind his desk, head bent over a table cluttered with maps, sigils, and dispatch scrolls. His brow was furrowed deep, but his posture remained unyielding. He didn't even flinch as Charolette's voice cut through the silence.
"From the looks of it, Valdyr's Six aren't doing much to stop the Plugish advance!" she snapped, slamming her palm against the table. "We have to help!"
Flokki's head lifted slowly. His gaze met hers — calm, but cold enough to freeze flame.
"As I said before," he said, voice deep and measured, "you four are not ready. You will remain in the temple. Reinforcements have been sent."
Jasmijn's composure finally broke. She stepped forward, her tone sharp and desperate.
"We're sitting ducks here, Flokki! If our enemy is the Plugish Empire, they're not just here for Valdyr."
She turned, pointing toward Zayn, who stiffened at her words.
"They're here for him."
The commander's eyes followed her hand to Zayn, who stared back, silent. The tension in the room spiked, until all that could be heard was the faint crackle of the torches on the walls.
Flokki sighed — long and heavy — but his stance did not waver.
"They're going to end up marching right up to the temples and killing us all!" Jasmijn pressed, voice rising.
Flokki said nothing. His expression remained hard as stone.
Charolette stepped closer, eyes blazing. "Your students, Flokki. It's been hours. They're probably in danger."
"They're serving their purpose,"
he replied quietly, though the strain in his voice betrayed him.
A brief silence.
"If they die,"
he continued after a moment, "they will be replaced by a new generation."
The words hit like a hammer.
The room froze — the only sound was the low hum of the wind outside.
Charolette's face twisted, disbelief giving way to fury. She stared at him, trembling, her eyes glassy. Then she turned away sharply, muttering under her breath as she shoved past Zayn and Chauncey, her boots echoing down the corridor.
The door slammed behind her, leaving a heavy stillness in her wake.
Jasmijn and Chauncey exchanged glances, but neither spoke.
Zayn lingered, his voice breaking the silence, quiet yet desperate.
"Flokki… please. We've been through life-threatening scenarios before. If you let us fight, we can make a dent. We can help them."
Flokki's eyes lifted, shadowed with exhaustion.
"My decision is final, Zayn."
Zayn's hands tightened into fists, knuckles white, but he said nothing more. The three exchanged grim looks before turning to leave, their frustration palpable.
The door shut behind them.
Flokki stood motionless for several seconds. The weight of his own command pressed down on him like lead. His jaw flexed, and the map beneath his hand crumpled under his tightening grip.
He looked down at the crushed parchment — then to the window beyond, where the sky glowed red with the fires of war.
His reflection in the glass was tired. Haunted.
For the first time that day, Flokki looked uncertain.
The corridor doors burst open with a sharp thud, echoing through the temple's hollow halls. The sound of hurried footsteps followed — Charolette's first, quick and heavy with purpose, the others trailing close behind. The air outside was colder now, carrying with it faint traces of ash from the burning coast below. The courtyard that had once been a sanctuary now felt like a cage.
Charolette stopped abruptly in the middle of the open space, her boots scraping against the worn stone. Her chest rose and fell as she turned to face the others — Jasmijn, Zayn, and Chauncey. The torchlight carved sharp edges into her expression, illuminating the anger and fear swirling beneath.
"I don't know about you three," she said, her voice low but trembling with fire, "but I'm not gonna just sit here and wait until they get here and take away Zayn."
Her words hung in the air — defiant, dangerous. The distant booms of war punctuated the silence that followed.
Zayn froze for a moment, his throat dry. Jasmijn's eyes darted between them, lips parting as if to object — but nothing came out. Chauncey stood back, his calm demeanor cracking under the weight of realization.
Then, one by one, their gazes met.
No one had to speak.
The same thought burned in all four of them — clear as the fires that painted the horizon red.
If they stayed, they'd die as prisoners of inaction.
If they left, at least they'd die fighting.
Zayn stepped forward first, resolve settling in his voice.
"Then we go."
Jasmijn nodded, the uncertainty in her eyes giving way to conviction.
"We go."
Chauncey exhaled through his nose, glancing up at the temple's towering walls.
"Flokki will have our heads for this."
Charolette gave a small, bitter laugh.
"If we make it back, he can have them."
With that, the four moved in unspoken synchrony. They slipped through the outer courtyard's shadows, boots silent against the stone, hearts pounding in rhythm with the distant drums of war. The temple's great walls loomed above — carved with runes, vines creeping through the cracks of centuries-old stone.
Charolette went first, scaling the wall with deft precision, fingers gripping the weathered edges. Zayn followed close behind, steadying her footholds when loose stones gave way. Jasmijn climbed next, her breath short, wind pulling at her hair. Chauncey brought up the rear, glancing back toward the main hall with a flicker of hesitation.
High above, in the dim light of his office, Flokki stood at the window. His silhouette was still, hands braced on the frame. The faint glow of torchlight revealed the tightening of his jaw, the furrow in his brow.
Through the haze of smoke and sunset, he watched as four figures scaled the temple gates — small, defiant shadows against the burning sky.
He didn't call out.
He didn't stop them.
His eyes lingered, heavy with unspoken conflict. For all his orders, for all his control — part of him knew this was inevitable.
As the four disappeared beyond the walls and into the evening, Flokki finally exhaled, the words leaving his lips barely above a whisper.
"So be it."
The sound of distant thunder rolled across the valley — or perhaps it was cannon fire. Either way, the night of chaos and defiance had begun.