The hallway still shook with the aftershocks of Elara's parting blast. Dust drifted down like ash. Smoke clung to the air. The sharp scent of ruptured stone and scorched metal lingered as the ten warriors stepped forward into what remained of the Plugish prison.
Boots crunched over debris.
The corridor that once caged Valdyr's 6 now looked like a collapsed lung—broken beams jutting out at violent angles, shattered lanterns flickering weakly, and the groans of injured Plugish soldiers echoing through the ruins.
A man dragged himself away from falling stone, coughing blood. Another lay unmoving beneath a splintered support beam. Some attempted to crawl, only to collapse from exhaustion.
Charolette walked past one, her jaw tight—eyes burning not with cruelty, but with the grim weight of necessity.
Mira flinched at the sight of a dead Plugish soldier half-buried in rubble, his fingers still curled toward the weapon he never reached.
Solas led the group slowly, his breathing steadier now. The faint glow of his Codex had dimmed, leaving only determination in his stride.
He spoke without turning.
"There are three nearby villages—possibly a fourth—depending on how much ground the Plugish took while we were imprisoned,"
he said, voice firm despite exhaustion.
"Mornstead, Brackenlight, and Riverfall. All three are under Plugish control."
Renn let out a long breath, his hands already glowing with healing luminescence as he knelt beside a whimpering Plugish soldier.
"Meaning more wounded on both sides,"
He murmured.
"Exactly,"
Solas continued.
"Renn, you'll be responsible for stabilizing anyone we find. Civilian or soldier. We must restore trust before we restore order."
He nodded quietly.
"Got it."
Solas' eyes flickered to Mira.
"Mira—you restore whatever order you can. Break the panic before it spreads."
Mira exhaled through her nose, steadying herself.
"I'll do what I can."
His gaze hardened as he looked at the rest.
"Lyra. Charolette. Jasmijn. Erik. And me—we'll be spearheading the push to drive the Plugish out of Mornstead first."
The air shifted. The weight of expectation settled.
Chauncey and Zayn exchanged glances. They had both heard the tone in Solas' voice—the war had resumed, and their roles were clear.
Kael swallowed, stepping slightly forward. Solas' eyes cut to him, a glint of disdain marking his pupils.
"…And me?"
Silence fell like an anvil.
Solas faced him fully, face shadowed by the flickering torchlight. No warmth. No gentleness.
Only duty.
"You?"
Solas repeated, voice low. Kael had almost immediately regretted asking such a question.
"You don't leave my sight."
Kael stiffened.
Solas' next words cut like a blade.
"When this is done, Flokki will judge you."
Kael's throat tightened. Lyra looked away, arms folded. Erik's jaw clenched. Mira's eyes softened with pity she couldn't voice. Renn exhaled shakily. Charolette, Chauney and Zayn said nothing, but their expressions were clear—they hadn't forgiven him either.
The group continued walking again.
They reached the collapsed outer breach of the prison—where moonlight poured in through a cracked ceiling and the night breeze carried screams from distant villages.
Mira was the one who spoke next.
Her voice was soft, but steady.
"The woman with the cursed tongue… she may be a problem."
Solas stopped mid-step.
The mention of her name—her scream, that unnatural resonance that disrupted their Codex flows—sent a quiet dread through them all. Even Kael, bruised and still tasting blood from Solas' fists, felt his stomach twist at the memory.
Before Solas could respond—
Chauncey stepped forward, tightening the wraps on his fists.
"Then me and Zayn will handle her."
Zayn blinked, stunned.
"Wait—what?"
Chauncey clapped a hand on his shoulder before he could protest.
Solas turned.
"You two sure?"
Chauncey nodded without hesitation.
Zayn hesitated—but as everyone stared, as Solas' eyes fixed on him with that unspoken demand—
He sighed.
"…Yeah. We're sure."
Solas nodded.
That was enough.
Through all the planning, the tension, the splitting of roles—
Jasmijn had remained silent.
Her eyes traced the collapsed walkways, the sealed cell blocks, the demolished side corridors. Her jaw clenched with a quiet pain only she felt.
Finally, she spoke.
"My soldiers."
Everyone turned.
Jasmijn stepped back, toward the deeper interior of the prison, where shadows crept along the battered stone.
"They were held captive here the first time we stepped into Valdyr. They're somewhere in this place."
She glanced back at the group—her wind swirling faintly around her ankles like a loyal spirit.
"I'm going to find where they locked them up."
Solas opened his mouth to object—but she lifted a hand.
"Go. Retake the villages. I'll regroup with you after I free them."
Chauncey, Zayn, Lyra, Mira—they all looked at her with a mix of worry and trust.
Kael… said nothing.
Renn swallowed hard.
Solas nodded at last.
"Find them, then. We'll need all the help we can get."
Jasmijn offered a small smile—thin, but real.
"I will."
The ten of them stood there in the fractured moonlight—dust drifting around them, distant screams echoing through the wounded night, the ruins of the prison collapsing quietly behind.
Some looked pensive.
Some determined.
Some afraid.
But all carried the weight of what came next.
A quiet voice whispered—
"…Good luck, everyone."
They didn't know who said it.
Maybe all of them.
Solas turned toward the mountain path with his team, heading for the nearest village.
Zayn and Chauncey split off toward the darker side of the prison, weapons drawn—looking for the cursed-tongue girl.
Jasmijn vanished into the shadows of the broken prison halls, searching for her soldiers.
The night swallowed each group one by one.
Valdyr's fate fractured into three paths.
And a war waited on all of them.
.....
A low tremor rolled beneath the Frost Temple's ancient stones—subtle at first, like a distant avalanche—before the entire foundation seemed to inhale.
Then the gates detonated.
They didn't simply break open; they were ripped from their hinges, hurled inward with enough force to blister the air. The centuries‑old frost lining the arch shattered into a thousand shards, glittering like thrown stars as they rained across the courtyard floor.
Through the drifting mist of snow-dust stepped Edgar The Immortal.
He didn't look like a man entering hostile ground.
He looked like a force the mountain itself had given up trying to resist.
His aura hit the courtyard before his boots did—heavy, oppressive, wrapped in a cold so unnatural it gnawed at bone. Every torch dimmed. Every breath felt like it scraped the lungs raw. His metal arm, darkened with battle-wear, hissed faintly where the cold met the warm air.
Behind him poured his Plugish soldiers—shadows in plated armor, their movements precise, disciplined, unnervingly silent. They fanned across the courtyard like a sinister tide, crunching frost beneath their heels.
A temple scout stumbled out from behind a column, eyes widening.
"INTRUD—!"
He didn't finish.
Edgar's silhouette blurred—too fast for the eye—and his metal arm shot forward, clamping around the man's skull before slamming him into the wall so hard the stone cracked like brittle ice. The sound—stone cracking under pressure—echoed off the temple's columns as the scout's helmet dented like softened metal. Edgar tossed the limp form aside without breaking stride.
More temple warriors stormed into the courtyard, weapons drawn, breath steaming in frantic bursts.
Edgar didn't slow.
A spear thrust toward his ribs; he pivoted, seized it mid‑air, snapped it clean in half, and rammed the broken haft through the attacker's armored chest, pinning him to a pillar. Another swung an axe—Edgar ducked beneath it, slammed his elbow into the man's stomach, and sent him flying through a frost‑slick bench.
He moved like a predator that had grown tired of playing with its prey.
Every strike he delivered was effortless. Economic. Brutal.
A soldier charged from behind—Edgar reached back, grabbed him by the face, and drove him into the ground so hard the ice fractured in a spiderweb around their impact.
Minutes passed.
Maybe less.
Silence returned—except for the groans of the dying.
Edgar stood among them, breath steady, his boots haloed by shattered frost and broken weapons. He grabbed one of the barely-conscious soldiers by the collar, lifting him as though he weighed nothing.
"Search everything,"
Edgar commanded, voice dangerously calm.
"Every hall, every chamber, every crawlspace. Find me that boy and his little friends."
His grin—cold, anticipatory—cut across his face like a wound.
Plugish soldiers scattered at once, disappearing into temple corridors with chilling efficiency.
Inside the temple, a young voice gasped.
Flokki's niece froze mid-step as the distant crash of battle echoed through the stone. Her heart seized. She spun and sprinted down the corridor, panic choking her.
"Uncle Flokki—!"
She burst through the office door, hair disheveled, panic shaking her words.
"Someone's here—the gates—they broke—!"
Flokki was already rising from his chair.
Frustration clung to the lines of his face, but beneath them was the hardened steel of a man who had survived more winters than this girl had lived. His expression didn't break—but something in his one eye dimmed.
He stepped forward, resting a steadying hand on her shoulders.
"You will be safe. No harm shall come to you.
he said gently, firmly.
"I promise."
"But—"
He gave a thin, steady smile.
"I need you to stay here. No matter what you hear. Do you understand?"
Her lip trembled. She nodded.
He ushered her back into the office, pulled the door shut, and turned the key.
The click of the lock echoed in a way that felt like a farewell.
He rested his palm on the door for a heartbeat…
Then he turned toward the hall.
Where Edgar waited.
The grand hall was dim, lit only by pale blue braziers. Frost curled along the edges of tapestries. The quiet was suffocating.
Then footsteps approached—slow, deliberate.
Edgar's footsteps echoed like war drums through the hall. Chipped ice and broken stone littered his path. A Plugish soldier jogged up to him.
"Sir, the west wing is clear—"
Edgar raised a hand for silence.
He had already sensed someone approaching.
Flokki stepped into view at the far end of the corridor, posture rigid, eyes steady despite the destruction around him.
Edgar's lips curled into something between recognition and amusement.
"So," Edgar said lightly,
"you must be Flokki. The one who keeps this temple upright. I am--"
"I know who you are,"
Flokki cut in coldly, voice calm despite the tension.
"Your reputation precedes you."
Edgar's eyes glinted with approval.
"A well traveled man, then."
He continued walking, unhurried.
"Good. Then you must understand why I'm here. Let's make this simple—I don't want any more meaningless deaths like your war general. Sigurd, was it?"
Flokki froze.
His chest tightened. His fists curled almost imperceptibly.
He hadn't expected Sigurd's name—not like that. Not so casually thrown into the cold air like it meant nothing.
Edgar caught it.
"He was your friend, then?"
Edgar asked, smiling as he stepped closer.
"I doubt you want to meet that same fate." His boots crunched over fallen ice shards. "Tell me where the boy and his friends are."
"They aren't here,"
Flokki answered, voice low, unwavering.
Edgar stared at him for a long moment.
"Then where are they?"
Flokki's eyes remained wintry.
"I do not know."
The truth. Yet, his tone stated that he wouldn't give away imperative information even if his life depended on it. Edgar had caught wind of his unwavering resolve, his eyes growing furious as if offended by it.
Edgar exhaled in frustration, seemingly fatigued by the man's stubbornness. A mixture of annoyance and disappointment crept up on his expression as he pinched the bridge of his nose as if nursing a headache.
"Stubborn old man…"
When Flokki said nothing, Edgar moved.
Like a striking beast.
His hand shot out, metal fingers clamping around Flokki's throat, lifting him clean off the ground and slamming him into the wall. Frost cracked outward from the impact, dust raining down like snow. Flokki's feet kicked against nothing, desperately seeking footing as air fled his lungs. Edgar's grip tightened until the world around Flokki blurred at the edges.
"Tell me,"
Edgar growled, tightening his grip-- breath warm against the icy hall.
"or risk your students I have captive being executed."
Flokki clawed at the cold metal crushing his windpipe, nails scraping uselessly against alloy. His vision pulsed. Adrenaline pumped thoroughly throughout his body. His face reddened. Yet, through it all, what came from his mouth hadn't been compliance, but sounds of fighting frustration.
"You will...never find them--"
Flokki rasped.
"You and your soldiers will perish before getting close to capturing that boy...."
Flokki fought against his closing windpipe to get his point across. Yet, he managed to. This only frustrated Edgar even more.
Edgar's eyes narrowed, jaw tightening as he squeezed harder.
Then—
THWACK.
A snowball smacked against the side of Edgar's face.
He jerked his head toward the attacker, more confused than harmed. His grip didn't loosen.
She stood there—
Flokki's niece, small, shaking, eyes burning through her tears. Snow still clutched in her red fingers.
"Leave my uncle alone!!!"
She screamed.
For a moment, the world held its breath.
Edgar turned fully, assessing her.
Flokki's heartbeat thundered in his ears. Not her. Not here. Fear—pure and choking—flooded his chest. He fought harder against Edgar's hold, panic breaking through his stoic mask.
Edgar finally dropped Flokki.
The temple master collapsed to his knees, gasping, clutching his neck, the imprint of the metal hand already bruising purple.
Edgar crouched to eye level with the man gasping for air, voice disturbingly calm.
He grabbed a fist full of hair, forcing the man to look at Edgar with his single eye.
"First," he said, "I'm going to kill your six foolish students."
Flokki froze. The words stabbed deeper than any blade.
"Then," Edgar rose, shadow looming over them both, "I will return to this temple and burn it to the ground—along with everyone in it."
He turned, sharp and purposeful.
"We're done here."
He barked to his soldiers, disappointment and anger imminent on his facial features.
They followed him into the frozen light, boots thundering away.
Flokki was left trembling, pale, cold seeping into his bones—not from the frost, but from the message.
His niece fell to her knees beside him, wrapping her arms around him.
"Uncle—are you okay? I didn't know what to—"
Flokki pulled her close, eyes distant, haunted.
He knew exactly what Edgar had just promised.
And he knew Edgar would keep that promise.