Jasmijn's footsteps echoed through the narrow, spiral descent into the mansion's lower depths — the air down here was cold, thick with the smell of rusted metal and damp stone. The flicker of her oil lamp cast long, crooked shadows that danced across the walls, twisting like memories she wished would stay buried. Each creak of the steps beneath her boots was a reminder that she was walking willingly into discomfort — both emotional and physical.
The cellar was carved from the oldest part of the mansion, a remnant from when Drenmarch was still a fortress rather than a colony. Iron-barred cells lined the corridor, their interiors swallowed by shadow. But even from a distance, Jasmijn could feel her presence — calm, smug, dangerous.
The light met Nora's face. She didn't flinch. She sat cross-legged behind the bars, wrists still bound in the dull gray of restraint cuffs that suppressed her Codex Heart's power. Her armor was torn, burned, and splattered with dirt, yet somehow, she still looked powerful. The glint in her dark eyes never dulled.
"Well, well,"
Nora murmured, her voice dripping with sarcasm.
"The mighty Commander Jasmijn Doutzen, gracing me with her presence. I was beginning to think you'd send one of your little pets to do the questioning."
Jasmijn tightened her grip on the lamp's handle, her jaw locked.
"I'm not here for games, Nora."
"Oh, but you always say that,"
Nora said with a quiet chuckle, shifting her weight lazily. "And yet, every time, you can't help but play."
Jasmijn exhaled sharply, forcing herself not to take the bait. She stepped closer, the lamp's glow illuminating Nora's taunting smile.
"Why did you come, Nora?"
The bounty hunter tilted her head, that same eerie smile softening into something almost nostalgic.
"I told you already,"
She said. "The Church paid me well. And—" Her voice faltered for the briefest second, then softened.
"I really did miss you, Jas."
The words hit Jasmijn like a hammer to the chest. Her knuckles whitened around the lamp's handle, trembling. She fought the sting behind her eyes.
"Then why did you leave?!"
The shout came before she could stop it, echoing down the corridor like a gunshot.
Nora sat up, her face no longer mocking, but hardened — defensive.
"I never left. You did."
Her voice carried a deep hurt beneath the anger.
"You think I could just walk away from everything? Forget what we fought for? You defected, Jas! You joined the very people we swore to stand against."
Jasmijn's voice cracked, but she didn't hold back.
"I could've given you a way out!"
Nora hesitated, her expression faltering for a moment.
"I never had a choice," she said quietly, her tone half-hearted now, as if the words had long lost their conviction.
"I did it for my people."
"Keep telling yourself that,"
Nora shot back, venom coating each word.
The tension thickened between them — unspoken memories hanging heavy in the air. Moments of laughter, shared scars, betrayal. They stared at each other through the bars — two women who had once been sisters-in-arms, now standing on opposite sides of a war neither wanted to admit they'd lost.
Finally, Jasmijn broke eye contact. She turned away, the light of the lamp flickering violently with her motion.
"You're not worth the breath,"
she muttered.
Nora's voice followed her up the stairs, low and dangerous.
"You'll see soon enough, Jas. The Church didnt send me for nothing."
Jasmijn ignored her. The basement door slammed shut behind her, leaving Nora in the dark.
By the time Jasmijn reached the upper floor, her face was tight with anger and exhaustion. The oil lamp flickered weakly in her grip as she handed it off to a servant waiting at the stairwell.
Chauncey appeared from the corridor, half-chewing on a piece of bread, his axe strapped to his back.
"You spoke to the crazy lady?" he asked with an unsure grin. "What'd she say?"
Jasmijn brushed past him, her silence sharp enough to cut. Chauncey froze, holding up his hands.
"Alright, alright, I get it. Bad mood. I'll shut up."
Her pace quickened down the marble hall, boots echoing with impatience. But she froze the second she caught a glimpse of blonde hair from the corner of her eye — Charolette, standing at the far end of the corridor, her arms folded.
"HEY!"
Charolette called, quickening her pace. Jasmijn sighed, visibly deflating, but kept walking.
"Hey, I'm talking to you!"
Jasmijn stopped. Her shoulders tensed before she turned around, expression sharp.
"What?"
"Who the hell was your friend?" Charolette demanded.
"Nobody."
The word came fast — too fast.
Charolette's brow furrowed, her frustration spilling over.
"Don't give me that! You've been keeping things from us since we got here! Every decision, every damn secret puts us in more danger!"
Her voice trembled, not with fear, but anger.
"That bounty hunter nearly killed us, and it's because of you!"
Jasmijn's lips parted, but no words came. Finally, she sighed — a long, defeated exhale.
"I'm sorry, okay?"
she muttered, voice hollow. It sounded more like appeasement than apology. She turned to walk away, but Charolette's next words stopped her cold.
"We're leaving. Tomorrow. We're setting sail for Valdyr."
Jasmijn's head snapped back, eyes narrowing.
"What? Don't be absurd! My mansion is the safest place for you three right now!"
"Well clearly not!" Charolette's retort cracked through the hall like thunder. "A bounty hunter broke in and nearly killed Zayn on the first day! You call that safe?"
Jasmijn faltered. For once, her commanding tone dimmed.
"Your ship isn't even fixed yet," she said softly. "It'll take a week at least—"
"Then we'll take yours."
She cut her off. Her words hit like a slap. Charolette's arms were crossed, her expression unwavering.
"You said you'd protect us. So do it."
For a moment, Jasmijn stood frozen — all the steel in her posture melting into weary resignation. Her eyes lowered.
"Fine."
She brushed past Charolette, her boots thudding against the marble. The sound faded into the distance, leaving only silence and the lingering scent of oil and storm on her trail.
….
The clinking of cutlery and the low hum of soldiers' chatter were the only sounds that filled the grand dining hall of the mansion. Golden rays from the late afternoon sun filtered through the tall arched windows, painting streaks of light across the marble floors and the long oaken table. Silver platters of roasted fowl, buttered potatoes, and honeyed bread sat untouched for the most part, steam curling lazily into the silence. Despite the lavish spread, tension hung thick in the air, pressing down on every breath.
Jasmijn Doutzen sat at the head of the table, her posture immaculate but her expression distant, her fork barely grazing the food before her. Across from her, Zayn and Charolette sat shoulder to shoulder, while Chauncey hunched over his plate, tearing into his meal with more vigor than grace. The faint aroma of spice and roasted herbs mingled with the quiet weight of unspoken words.
Moments passed before Charolette finally broke the silence.
"Little brother,"
She began, her tone deceptively casual,
"Are you packed for our sail to Valdyr tomorrow?"
The words struck like a cannon blast.
Chauncey choked on a mouthful of meat, coughing violently as Zayn froze mid-bite, the spoon halfway to his lips. Both boys turned to her in disbelief.
"We're leaving tomorrow? It hasn't even been a week yet!"
Chauncey sputtered, thumping his chest as if trying to knock the shock loose.
His wide eyes darted toward Jasmijn, waiting for her to object—to say no, of course not, we're staying longer. But she didn't. Her gaze remained lowered, eyes fixed on her plate, the gold trim of her utensils reflecting the dim light.
Nothing came.
Charolette's lips curved into a faint, triumphant smile, leaning back slightly as if she'd just won a silent battle.
Before she could speak again, Jasmijn's calm voice sliced through the air.
"Before we leave," she said softly, "there is something you must know about Valdyr."
The trio turned their attention to her
immediately. The commander's tone was even—neither threatening nor warm—but carried the gravity of experience.
"The weather there is not kind," Jasmijn continued. "Storms are near constant. The skies above Valdyr are thick with clouds so dark, they blot out the sun. The sea churns with such violence, it devours ships whole before the crew can scream."
Her eyes rose from her plate, meeting each of theirs.
"And that's not even the worst of it. There are…things beneath those waves. Old sailors call them the Wardens of the Isle.Sea monsters said to protect Valdyr's coasts. Few who have seen them lived to describe what they saw."
Her voice dropped slightly, almost to a whisper.
"There's a reason why Valdyr doesn't appear among the top destinations on Edacia's trade charts."
Charolette blinked, her confident smirk faltering, though she quickly tried to recover it.
"Guys," she said, forcing a laugh, "she's bluffing! She's just trying to scare us into staying—"
"It's true."
The deep, commanding voice came from behind them.
Everyone turned.
Jasmijn's expression shifted instantly from cold composure to something softer—relief, maybe even surprise. A heavy hand rested on her shoulder, rough and scarred from years of battle. Standing behind her was an older man, broad-shouldered and proud despite the weight of age. His silver hair was tied back into a tight bun, though a few unruly strands fell across his weathered face. A crimson admiral's coat hung loosely around his frame, its gold embroidery dulled by time and salt.
"Grandfather," Jasmijn breathed, almost rising from her seat.
"Thought I'd come check on you,"
The man rumbled, his voice carrying the thunder of the open sea.
"Word reached me about the attack on your mansion. Took the first ship to Varnhorn as soon as I heard."
His gaze drifted around the table, inspecting every corner, every face. Finally, his eyes settled on the trio—Charolette, Zayn, and Chauncey.
"It seems you've got it mostly under control,"
he said dryly. Then, with a sharp look at the siblings,
"So. You three plan on heading to Valdyr?"
Charolette hesitated, then nodded cautiously.
The old man's expression hardened. "Then take heed of my grand daughter's warning."
He raised his left arm—strong, but marred by a deep scar that ran from elbow to wrist.
"Only the strongest survive those waters. The storm is alive. And what lurks beneath it hungers for more than ships."
He reached into his coat, producing his right hand—healed, but forearm missing.
"Got this fighting one of 'em. You'd best be careful."
The room fell silent again. The three young travelers stared in disbelief, their appetite gone entirely.
Jasmijn's grandfather gave her shoulder a firm, reassuring squeeze.
"I'll be around,"
He murmured quietly, before turning to leave, his boots echoing against the marble as he disappeared down the corridor.
A moment later, Chauncey abruptly stood, the legs of his chair scraping harshly against the floor.
"Well," he muttered, brushing crumbs from his shirt, "I'm gonna pack. You three should probably rest. We've got a long day ahead of us."
The echo of his footsteps followed him out, leaving the others in a lingering silence broken only by the faint hum of the distant sea wind—ominous, whispering of the storm isle that awaited them.