The sky above Mornstead was a bruised smear of gray, the kind that pressed low enough to feel suffocating. Smoke from burned grain stores drifted upward in thin, ghostlike ribbons, twisting through the air with a slow, languid cruelty—as if the village itself exhaled in pain.
The village square—normally lively, filled with merchants and children—had been reduced to a grim display.Bodies of Valdyr soldiers lay crumpled among shattered carts and overturned market stalls.
Mornstead did not look like a village anymore.
It looked like something that had been chewed through.
Their boots squelched in the mud—mud that was too dark, too thick, streaked with the ruin of Valdyr red. Every step sent a new wave of metallic scent rolling through the square, so sharp it stung the back of the throat. Pulverized wood, wet ash, spilled grain, blood. It created a heaviness to the air, as if everything had been soaked in dread.
Villagers were forced to their knees in the mud, hands over their heads as Plugish soldiers patrolled with smug cruelty. Some trembled so violently their chains rattled. Others stared blankly ahead, eyes glassy, minds already trying to leave their bodies.
"Move faster, rats!"
"Get that fire going—he wants the bodies burned before sundown!"
"If one of you even looks at me wrong, I'll—"
A shove. A cry. A dull thud as someone fell.
Dead Valdyr soldiers lay facedown along the street, armor cracked open, some stripped for parts. A child—no older than eight—was forced to scrub blood from the cobblestones with shaking hands.
A Plugish soldier dragged a corpse—a Valdyr scout—by the collar, boots digging grooves through the mud as he grunted.
Another Plugish soldier barked orders at the crowd, voice cracking with impatience.
"Faces down! Eyes lowered unless you want to lose one!"
He struck the nearest villager with the butt of his spear, reopening a bruise that hadn't yet finished swelling.
A woman whimpered when a sword tip lifted her chin.
A child buried his face in his mother's shawl, trying not to breathe the iron in the air.
This village had been reduced to a single heartbeat: thin, weak, trembling.
The Plugish scout on the ruined fence squinted toward the eastern ridge. The sunlight shimmered strangely across the hills—too rhythmic, too purposeful.
He frowned, leaning forward.
"...What in—?"
A horse.
Then another.
Hoofbeats began as a murmur, then grew into a deep-throated drumming that made dust lift from the ground in shivers.
Riders.
More than one.
More than a handful.
The Plugish scout's pulse hitched.
"S-sir—!"
he shouted to his captain.
"Riders! Fast! Coming in from the east!"
The captain didn't even look up from cleaning his sword.
"Probably merchants or deserters. Deal with it."
"No—sir, they're—"
The beat of hooves grew louder. Fiercer. The earth trembled.
Then sunlight hit a familiar face. One that was known to give hope throughout these lands.
And for a heartbeat the entire square froze.
Solas led the charge, his horse's mane whipping like a banner behind him. His coat, dark from travel dust, still seemed to catch the light with every stride. And behind him—his unit poured down the hill like a living storm:
Erik's cold gaze locked on the battlefield, posture sharp as a blade.
Lyra leaning low over her horse, eyes burning with focus.
Mira's braids streaming behind her as water shimmered faintly around her fingers.
Charlotte biting down on a grin that spelled absolute ruin for the men below.
Renn clutching satchels and vials, lips pressed tight in nervous determination.
And Kael—at the rear— His eyes flickering with something between guilt and hesitation.
A gasp rose from the villagers.
The one kid—mud on his face, snot running from his nose—shot to his feet with a wild, breaking sob.
"They're alive! VALDYR'S SIX IS HERE TO SAVE US!"
A Plugish soldier immediately cuffed him, knocking him flat.
"Silence, you little—!"
But the spell had broken. Hope had already lit the village like wildfire.
The villagers' heads rose.
Their eyes widened.
Their chains rattled not from terror, but hope.
The Plugish captain finally looked up.
And fear crept across his face.
"Archers!" he bellowed. "On the rooftops, now! Draw!"
One archer reacted fastest and released the moment his bow was taut.
It sliced through the sky—sharp, fast—aimed straight for Solas' skull.
Solas didn't even flinch.
His hand lifted.
A single, perfect motion.
The air hummed.
CLANG.
The arrow snapped into two perfect halves that spiraled past him.
The gasps from the villagers were not quiet.
Some cried outright.
Some whispered prayers.
Some simply watched with trembling wonder.
Even some Plugish soldiers froze.
And then—Solas rose.
Balanced atop his galloping horse as if he had grown from it. Wind whipped his hair back, framing his face in a harsh streak of sunlight. Muscles coiled beneath him.
Charolette grinned.
"Show-off."
Erik huffed a faint laugh.
Lyra didn't react—eyes half-lidded, already drifting her consciousness outward like a dream catching fire.
For a moment, even the Plugish archers hesitated.
The captain didn't.
He screamed, voice cracking:
"DOES YOUR HAND NEED A COMPASS!? SHOOT THEM!!! SHOOT NOW—!"
But Solas had already moved.
He bent his knees before leaping from the beast—a clean, powerful arc that carried him through the air like a thrown spear.
His sword gleamed.
The first Plugish soldier barely had time to gasp.
Solas' blade carved across him in a brutal, downward crescent—
a strike so fast it sent a fan of blood spraying over the mud like scattered paint.
The impact shook the ground.
The soldier's body hit it a second later.
Solas rose from his landing, blade dripping, the light behind him turning the edges of his silhouette to gold.
Behind him--
Mira's spear whipped upward—water spiraled into a shield that caught a volley, splashing against wood and metal before snapping into hard, sharp needles aimed back at the attackers.
Erik swept his hand across the ground—frost shot outward, freezing mud solid beneath a cluster of Plugish soldiers, locking their feet as if time had gripped them.
Charolette dove from her horse, blades flashing silver as she slid under a raised pike—then severed the soldier's tendons before rising behind him to finish the strike.
Renn dismounted last, running toward the bound villagers, hands glowing with warm restorative light.
But Lyra…
Lyra remained mounted for a moment, still as a painting.
Her lashes fluttered.
A shimmer rippled behind her—colors soft and wrong, like light reflecting off water in a dream.
The air around the nearest Plugish soldiers wavered.
One blinked.
Then blinked harder.
He saw—
Not the battlefield.
But a dark hallway. Footsteps behind him. The clatter of chains. A voice whispering his name.
"No… n-no no—"
Another soldier stumbled, swatting at his own shadow as it elongated into something with too many fingers.
A third soldier swung wildly at an enemy who wasn't there, screaming.
Lyra finally opened her eyes.
Iridescent. Calm. Terrifying.
Her voice drifted across the square like a lullaby woven from silk and knives.
"Sleepwalk… deeper."
Half the front line broke into chaos, some collapsing into fetal positions, others staggering backward as their senses betrayed them completely. Dreams—nightmares—illusions—it bled into their waking minds like ink in water.
Solas carved through another soldier, calling:
"Lyra—keep the illusions controlled. Mira, with me!"
The battle raged like a storm.
Kael dismounted with reluctance, azure fire blooming in his hands. It was quieter than other flames—no roar, just a cold, eerie hum. His face twisted with conflict, but when a Plugish spearman lunged at him—
Kael's flame surged.
Blue fire consumed the spear's shaft, melting iron to slag before he kicked the soldier back, breath shaking.
Lyra's illusions warped the battlefield like shifting fabric—mirages masking the villagers, phantoms distracting the archers, dream-glows marking safe paths for Mira and Solas to advance.
The Plugish forces were collapsing, tripping over bodies real and imagined.
Solas raised his blade.
"Drive them out! Leave none who raise arms against the innocent!"
The counterattack surged.
Erik froze another line of soldiers solid.
Charolette's blades spun through the air like silver storms.
Mira's spear shattered shields with water pressure sharp as stone.
Renn shielded villagers with glowing barriers.
Lyra's illusions made enemy formations crumble from within.
And Solas pushed forward like the heart of the strike—calm, precise, unstoppable.
Mornstead's walls shook with the roar of renewed hope-- as the warriors began to make it clear why they were revered as Valdyr's great protectors, safe for Charolette.
Valdyr's Six had arrived.
And the battle for the retaking of villages had only just begun.
....
The Plugish war-camp crackled with the low hum of tension.
Canvas tents stretched in rigid rows, torchlight casting jagged shadows across iron armor and muddied boots. The smell of oil, steel, and burnt driftwood laced the air. Outside the command tent, Plugish soldiers stood rigid, helmets tucked beneath their arms, each glancing nervously at the man inside—their general, their apex predator.
Edgar.
Inside, the tent was dim—lit only by a single lantern swaying from the center pole, its glow reflecting against the cold plates of Edgar's metal arm. Papers littered the map table. Red markers dug deep into the carved relief of Valdyr's coastline.
Elara Voss stood before him, posture firm but shoulders tight, the tremor in her voice barely suppressed.
"They escaped?"
"Yes, sir.."
Her words were crisp, but the moment they left her mouth, she regretted them.
Edgar did not look up immediately.
He sat in his heavy war-chair, eyes fixed on nothing, the ale bottle in his hand dangling loosely. His metal fingers twitched—
CRUNCH.
The bottle shattered in his fist.
Ale dripped between the steel plating, down his wrist, pooling near his elbow. The scent of bitter alcohol filled the tent.
Elara flinched.
Edgar still hadn't moved.
His jaw tightened; the muscles in his neck coiled like cables drawn too tight. His plans— waiting to execute Valdyr's 6 in front of Flokki as a punishment for non compliance—gone. Slipped away, stolen.
A shadow rolled over his eyes.
Elara couldn't read him. She wasn't sure anyone ever truly had.
When he finally rose from his seat, the tent seemed to shrink around them. His metal arm clicked as the joints tightened, the glow in its grooves dimming to a cold, dangerous blue.
Elara's breath caught.
Edgar stepped toward her.
One step.
Two.
Her heart pounded against her ribs so hard she thought he might hear it. Her fingers flexed instinctively toward her weapon—but she knew it would be pointless.
She closed her eyes, bracing for a strike.
But Edgar walked past her without a second glance.
She blinked, exhaling shakily as her eyes reopened.
His voice cut through the tent like a blade scraping stone.
"No matter."
He slid on his chest plate, tightening the straps with deliberate, practiced movements.
"They aren't a top priority."
He paused, turning slightly, the lanternlight catching the sharp line of his cheek.
"The boy and his friends are."
His eyes—cold, calculating—locked onto hers.
"How much of this island has been taken so far?"
Elara straightened immediately, glad to be speaking again.
"Seventy-five percent, sir. At least."
Silence followed.
Edgar stood still, expression unreadable, breaths slow and controlled. The soldiers outside the tent seemed to stop breathing altogether, sensing the change in the air.
He finally spoke.
"Give the signal for an island wide search party."
Edgar stepped toward the tent opening, the flap swaying in the coastal wind, reflecting sparks from distant campfires.
His voice lowered—dangerous, absolute.
"We will not have a celebration…"
He looked over his shoulder, gaze sharp enough to cut steel.
"…until I have that devil in a cage…sailing back to Plugand."
His metal arm clenched.
The lantern flickered as the wind shifted.
Outside, Plugish soldiers straightened, sensing the storm their general was about to unleash.
.....
The forest around them was eerily silent, the kind of silence that pressed into the chest and made every heartbeat loud. Rain-slicked leaves dripped onto the mud, the scent of wet earth mixing with smoke from distant fires. Shadows pooled beneath gnarled roots, providing natural cover for the hunters—and for the hunted.
Zayn crouched low atop a moss-covered ridge, eyes squinting at the distant black figure of Juniper, her hair dark as night, movement fluid and deliberate. Beside him, Chauncey's broad shoulders were taut, muscles coiled, every sinew ready to spring. Both knew the danger; both understood the stakes.
But doubt clawed at Zayn. Memories, sharp and unbidden, flared in his mind.
"She sounds like an Eidolon Whisperer,"
Jasmijn's soft voice echoed.
"My grandfather told me stories. They aren't bound to the heart—they borrow from what's left after it stops beating."
The thought made his stomach twist. Her abilities—whatever they truly were—had shattered normal Codex logic, leaving even the most battle-hardened warriors uncertain. But the words weren't just a warning—they were a guide, a lifeline.
Chauncey's hand landed firmly on his shoulder, jolting him out of his spiraling thoughts.
"You ready?"
The warrior asked, voice calm but edged with urgency.
Zayn blinked, shaking off the haze of memory and fear. His hands flexed around the hilt of his silver-bladed sword. Doubt still lingered, but the memory of Jasmijn's warnings and advice now crystallized into resolve.
....
The prison cell smelled of wet stone and decay. Jasmijn crouched beside them, her eyes shining with urgency.
"Listen closely. These Whisperers… they don't draw power from Heart Codices the way we do. They draw from the echoes of life itself. The pulse that remains when the heart stops—the shiver in the wind, the vibration in the earth."
Zayn frowned. "So… it's like they're alive in the dead?"
"Worse,"
Jasmijn whispered, leaning closer.
"They're aware. They can sense your intent before you act, not just your movements but your will. Any hesitation, any rhythm they recognize—they twist it, and it becomes a weapon against you. Even your Codices… they'll feel wrong, unbalanced."
Chauncey's jaw clenched.
"How can we beat her without weakness?"
Her gaze flicked between them, careful, hesitant.
"My grandfather mentioned that there's a rhythm to their chaos. If you can disrupt it, force them to read a false pattern, to misjudge a step… you might survive. That's all I know."
Zayn and Chauncey exchanged pensive glances. She pressed something cold and cylindrical into their hands.
"Earplugs. They'll dull the resonance, but only partially. You must move as one, as if you were threads in a single weave. Break that weave, and she'll stumble. Fail, and…"
Her voice trailed off, leaving the weight of unspoken death in the air.
Zayn's fingers tightened around the plugs, feeling the gravity of the unseen world pressing down. Chauncey's eyes narrowed, resolve hardening.
"Please, Zayn...be careful."
Charolette's voice echoed in his mind. The grip on his hilt increased ever more so slightly.
He and Chauncey nodded to each other, plugging their ears simultaneously, a silent pact passing between them. No hesitation. No second-guessing.
Chauncey crouched lower, muscles coiling, then gave a subtle signal—a flick of his fingers—and in a synchronized motion, the two leaped from the ridge. Chauncey led the charge, descending from above with precision, aiming to strike her down before she could react.
But Juniper was faster than either had anticipated. Her gaze hardened, cold and piercing, a terrifying stillness in her posture as she looked up. Chauncey's momentum faltered, a jolt of disorientation throwing him off balance as her eyes burnt into his very soul. His weapon, meant to end the confrontation before it began, clattered harmlessly against her armored forearm as she deflected it with her dagger in effortless precision.
Chauncey hit the mud hard, dirt and debris flying in every direction. Juniper began to advance toward him, each step deliberate, silent, emotionless. Her presence alone seemed to warp the air around her, bending sound and movement to her will. Chauncey's chest rose and fell with panic and exertion, but he could not retreat—he was trapped in the gravity of her stare, the prelude to her curse.
A faint intake of breath. The air thickened. Chauncey's vision blurred. The scream was coming.
"Zayn! NOW!" he bellowed, raw panic slicing through the tension.
Zayn acted instinctively. His legs coiled, his sword swinging into a wide arc, but his attack was more than a strike—it was a controlled shove, a perfectly timed kick aimed at her side. Impact. Juniper's body jerked violently from the blow, thrown meters across the mud and broken terrain, boots skidding against the wet soil. She caught herself, instinctively rolling into a defensive stance, eyes immediately locking onto both of them.
For a heartbeat, silence
The two warriors stood, side by side, breathing hard, muscles taut and senses alert. The forest seemed to shrink around them, every shadow and tree root a potential threat, every movement magnified.
They were no longer the hunted. For the first time, the hunters had the upper hand.
And the hunt was about to begin in earnest.