….
Two weeks at sea had dulled the mind.
The horizon never changed—just an endless silver line where the sky met water, where day and night felt the same.
The Seraphine groaned beneath the weight of salt and wind, her black hull slicing through the grey waters like a knife through silk. Seagulls followed her for a time, but even they disappeared once the horizon swallowed everything into blue monotony.
For the crew, it was a slow march through boredom.
They rose with the dawn bell, their routines as repetitive as the tide—pulling ropes slick with salt, mopping decks already clean, maintaining order in a place where time seemed to hold its breath. The sea was vast and mercilessly dull.
Charolette filled the silence with vice.
She won Drenmarch coin from restless soldiers in card games that dragged late into the night, her smirk widening with each victory. When the cards lost their appeal, she turned to maps and charts instead, spreading them across the captain's desk to recalculate Valdyr's position beside Jasmijn. The two of them spent hours poring over every line and current, their quiet disagreements turning to soft laughter as the tension between commander and stowaway began to erode.
Chauncey made the deck his arena.
Each morning, before the sun burned through the mist, his laughter echoed as he sparred with Drenmarch soldiers—steel clashing, boots thudding against wet planks. Sweat and salt clung to his skin like badges of honor. He thrived under repetition, finding meaning in muscle and motion where others found only monotony.
Zayn kept apart from them all.
He spent his days near the ship's bow, seated cross-legged, eyes closed, the rhythm of the waves his only companion. He meditated for hours, trying—and failing—to silence the whisper of Kelios that lingered at the back of his mind. It was like trying to drown a voice that could breathe underwater.
Even Nora, locked in the brig below deck, found a way to haunt the days.
Sometimes she hummed softly to herself, the same old tune winding through the floorboards like a chill. It was neither happy nor sad, yet it made the hairs on the back of everyone's neck rise. By the end of the first week, no one dared to hum on the ship again.
By the thirteenth dawn, the winds had turned colder.
A pale fog had crept over the water, swallowing the horizon whole. The air hung heavy, tasting faintly of metal and rain. The crew's chatter dulled to murmurs; even the laughter died.
The Seraphine sailed on through a world stripped of color.
Only Chauncey seemed immune to the creeping unease. He stood by the railing, arms folded, breath misting in the cold. Everyone else had retreated to their bunks or quarters, seeking warmth and walls between themselves and the shapeless gray.
Inside the captain's quarters, the lanterns swayed gently as Charolette and Jasmijn pored over a set of maps once more. The air between them was thick—not with tension now, but with thought. Charolette leaned over the desk, her finger tracing the jagged outline of an island.
"If the currents pulled us half a knot westward overnight, we'll miss Valdyr entirely," she murmured.
Jasmijn didn't look up. "I've accounted for that."
They fell quiet again. The ship creaked. The mist pressed at the windows. Finally, Jasmijn exhaled, the words escaping before she could catch them.
"It… pains me to admit this, but I was wrong about you."
Charolette blinked, startled by the softness in her tone.
"You're actually smarter than you let on,"
Jasmijn continued, her lips curving into something faintly resembling a smile.
Charolette's grin returned, brighter this time, warm despite the chill that lingered in the cabin.
"Careful, Commander. You almost sound like you're complimenting me."
Before Jasmijn could answer—
A shout cut through the mist.
"Guys!"
Chauncey's voice. Urgent.
Both women bolted for the deck. Zayn was already there, his hand shielding his eyes from the glare. Chauncey pointed toward the horizon, where a dark shape ghosted through the fog.
"This ship's been following us since yesterday," he said, his voice low. "I thought I imagined it, but it's still there."
Charolette rolled her eyes.
"You've been staring at clouds too long. It's just a shadow."
But then Jasmijn took the spyglass from a soldier's hand. One look through it, and her expression changed—gone was the calm mask of command. Her jaw tightened. Her eyes darkened.
The banner that fluttered faintly above the distant ship were of familiar colors, ones that striked fear even in patriots.
Plugish.
Jasmijn nearly shoved the spyglass back into the soldier's chest.
"You three—below deck. Now."
"What? Why?"
Charolette demanded.
Zayn didn't argue. The look in Jasmijn's eyes said enough. Chauncey's face hardened—he understood before anyone else did.
Two soldiers escorted them down into the hold, the air growing colder as they descended. The faint hum of Nora's song drifted through the wooden walls.
Charolette groaned.
"You've got to be kidding me. We're staying with her?"
Neither Zayn nor Chauncey answered. They both knew the answer already.
When they stepped into the brig, Nora was sitting cross-legged on the floor, chains draped loosely around her wrists like jewelry. She smiled as the soldiers locked the door behind them.
"Company? How sweet,"
She purred.
"Something tells me it's not for tea."
The soldiers left without a word. The silence that followed was heavy enough to feel like pressure on their chests. Above them, the steady rhythm of boots echoed—the crew moving fast.
Then the Seraphine slowed.
Outside, the fog parted like a curtain, revealing a vast Plugish warship gliding alongside them, its hull dark and ornate, cannons lined like teeth. The ship adjusted its speed until it matched the Seraphine's perfectly, sailing parallel—close enough that Jasmijn could see figures watching from the other deck.
One of them stepped forward. A broad-shouldered man in crimson-plated armor, auburn hair streaked with silver, a thick mustache framing his mouth. His voice carried easily across the water.
"Greetings, commander!"
Jasmijn straightened, her soldiers parting around her.
The man smiled, though it didn't reach his eyes.
"Didn't expect to see a Drenmarch vessel this far from home. You've been quite the sight in this fog."
Jasmijn's tone was flat.
"We're on sanctioned business, Sir. That's all you need to know."
He raised a brow.
"A shame. I do so love good stories." He paused, then added, "We're a bit short on supplies. Bread's gone stale, and men grow restless without fresh tea. You wouldn't deny a friend in these waters, would you?"
Her fingers twitched at her side. "You're far from friendly waters, Sir."
His grin widened. "Then let's make them friendlier."
With a creak of wood and a thud of chains, the Plugish ship's boarding plank dropped onto the Seraphine's deck.
Jasmijn's heart sank.
The Plugish man stepped across, his soldiers close behind. The scent of brine and polished steel followed them.
INHALE….
He sniffed the air once, his eyes flicking toward the captain's quarters.
"Is that Drenmarch tea I smell?" he asked lightly. "That's my favorite."
Jasmijn knew at once he wasn't talking about tea.
"Sir Havelock," he said finally, offering a gloved hand. "Knight of the Plugish inquisiton. At your service."
She took his hand stiffly. "Commander Jasmijn Doutzen."
The handshake lingered longer than it should have. When they released, his smile didn't falter—but the air shifted.
Plugish and Drenmarch soldiers avoided each other, exchanging no greeting, no nod. The space between them bristled with centuries of enmity barely restrained by protocol.
Moments later, Havelock was seated across from Jasmijn in her quarters, tea set between them. The silence was suffocating. He sipped politely, never breaking eye contact.
"It's been a lovely chat," he said at last, setting his cup down with a soft clink. "Almost felt welcome, for a moment."
Before Jasmijn could speak—
SNAP!
Chains of glowing gold erupted around her, wrapping her arms, chest, and legs in blinding light. The cup shattered, tea spilling across the table as the hot liquid poured onto her thighs. Jasmijn gasped, teeth gritted against the force that kept her bound to a chair.
"But my patience," Havelock said, his voice suddenly cold, "is wearing thin."
His eyes burned with righteous purpose.
"Where's the boy?"
Drenmarch soldiers drew their blades, but the moment they lunged, golden links burst from the air around them, snapping tight. Their cries were cut short as the bindings dragged them to the floor.
Havelock didn't even look at them. "Search the ship," he ordered. "Top to bottom. I'm not leaving without the boy—and his crew—bound in chains."
His men saluted, the sound of their armor ringing out like distant thunder.
Above, the Seraphine rocked in silence as the mist thickened once more, swallowing the sea whole.
———————————————————
WORLD INFO>>
The Heart Codex Paradox of Plugand.
In Plugish law, the use of a Codex—a divine contract binding the soul to an ancient source of power coming from their emotions and self identity—has long been deemed heretical. Centuries of religious edicts from the Church of the Holy Spire denounced it as "the art of false gods."
Yet, the hypocrisy runs deep.
Special knights of the Plugish Inquisition, such as Sir Havelock, are granted sanctioned codices—gifts from the very institution that condemns them. Their justification: "Faith sanctifies the weapon."
So long as the wielder's loyalty lies with the Crown and Church, the sin of heresy is absolved.
In truth, these knights are not blessed—they are feared. Their codices are not divine boons, but tools of domination, meant to keep the colonies and the faithless in line. Each one bears marks of celestial script, chains forged from both light and deceit.
It is said that the greatest of these Codex bearers can bend truth itself—binding not just bodies, but wills.
And among them, Sir Havelock's name is whispered most often.
The man who hunts saints and sinners alike.
————————————————————
….
The air in the lower deck was tense—so tight that even the flicker of the lantern seemed to burn quieter.
Above them, the faint thud of boots and the muffled shouts of men rattled through the planks like the heartbeat of the ship itself.
Nora's head tilted, the corners of her lips curling upward.
"Sounds like something serious is going on up there," she whispered, her voice a low, poisonous hum that slithered through the silence. She glanced at Charolette with mock sympathy.
"Looks like your time is up. You guys had a good run."
Charolette said nothing, her jaw tightening as she sat against the wall, eyes fixed on the trembling lantern flame.
But then—another crash. Closer this time. The sound of steel clashing.
Zayn stood up slowly, his expression unreadable. Chauncey followed, his knuckles whitening as his eyes grew cold and wintry.
Their eyes met. No words. Just a silent exchange that spoke volumes.
A nod. Agreement. Understanding.
They started toward the stairs.
Charolette rose to follow—but Chauncey stopped, his voice suddenly cold and heavy.
"You're staying here."
It wasn't a suggestion.
Charolette froze, caught off guard by the rare steel in his tone. Even Zayn looked back, surprised. But the glare in Chauncey's eyes silenced any protest before it could form.
He turned his gaze to Nora. That look—sharp as a blade—needed no translation.
If she so much as breathed wrong, he'd kill her.
Nora's smirk widened, eyes gleaming in the lantern's dim light.
"Oh, I wouldn't dream of it."
Then the two disappeared up the narrow stairwell.
The wood creaked beneath their boots as they ascended, the sounds of chaos above growing louder with every step—metal scraping, distant shouting, the faint crackle of something burning. By the time they pushed open the hatch, the scene that greeted them was nothing short of hell breaking loose.
Two Plugish soldiers stood by the mast—armor glinting dark and slick under the overcast sky. They turned in unison at the sound of the hatch.
Chauncey didn't hesitate. He broke into a sprint, shoulder lowered like a battering ram.
The first soldier barely had time to react before Chauncey's full weight slammed into him—an explosion of force that sent the man flying clean over the railing. The distant splash was muffled by the wind.
The second soldier lunged, halberd arcing toward Chauncey's neck — but the strike was intercepted by a flash of silver. Zayn's katana met the halberd mid-swing, sparks exploding like fireflies in the mist. The soldier staggered as Zayn twisted his wrist, redirecting the weapon and stepping inside the man's guard. A swift kick to the ribs dropped the soldier to one knee — and Chauncey's gauntlet finished the job with a brutal punch that cracked through his helm.
The two warriors paused. Zayn's breath misted in the cold air; Chauncey lifted a finger to his lips. Silent.
They moved together now — shadows against fog.
Zayn's steps were precise, almost soundless, his blade gliding through the air like a whisper. Chauncey was the storm behind him — the hammer to Zayn's scalpel. They swept across the deck in perfect rhythm. One Plugish soldier barely had time to turn before Zayn's blade cut through the leather straps of his armor — a clean, silent takedown. Another raised his pike; Chauncey caught the haft mid-thrust, twisted, and slammed the soldier into the mast. Wood splintered. The man went limp.
It was brutal. Efficient. Beautiful in its precision.
By the time the last body fell, the deck was littered with groaning soldiers — but as they neared the captain's quarters, the sound of struggling voices leaked through the door.
"…I asked nicely, Commander. Don't make me repeat myself."
The voice was smooth, controlled—but there was venom beneath it.
Chauncey pushed the door open—and froze.
Jasmijn was on her knees, bound in glowing chainsoflight, her tea still steaming beside the spilled cup. The man standing before her was massive—his auburn hair damp from sea mist, his ornate Plugish armor catching the light in golden edges. A heavy lance rested across his shoulder, its tip faintly humming with power.
Havelock turned his head slightly, his gaze finding the intruders without even looking surprised.
"So you finally show yourself," he said with a menacing grin— his mouthstache parting.
Sir Havelock stood by the captain's desk, his voice calm, almost amused. The golden sigils of his Codex shimmered faintly across his arms, pulsing like veins of sunlight. His eyes glowed with something between faith and madness.
Before Zayn could react, Havelock raised his hand —
SNAP!
Golden chains burst forth like lightning, spiraling around Chauncey before he could move. The force hurled him backward through the doorway and out onto the deck, his massive frame rolling across the planks before coming to rest, bound in luminous shackles.
"GO!"
Jasmijn's voice tore through the air, her tone desperate.
Zayn barely had time to duck — Havelock's lance cut through the air, grazing his temple, slicing off a lock of dark hair as it embedded itself in the wall. The impact split a Drenmarch banner clean in half.
Zayn retreated, sliding across the slick floor and bursting onto the deck, Havelock close behind.
The bounty hunter was on him in seconds. His armor groaning with every motion, every swing of his lance sending waves of pressure through the air. When steel met steel, the sound was deafening — a clash that rattled bones.
Zayn barely managed to deflect the first blow. The sheer force sent him sliding backward across the deck, boots scraping against wet wood. Havelock advanced relentlessly, each step heavy, deliberate, predatory.
"I expected this fight to be more intense!"
Havelock bellowed, his voice like rolling thunder.
Zayn exhaled, centering himself. He waited — and when Havelock lunged, Zayn sidestepped, the lance missing his ribs by an inch. He countered with a slash to the knight's flank, but the blade skidded off enchanted plate, sending a jarring vibration up his arm.
Havelock grinned, his teeth flashing in the mist.
"You're disappointing me, boy."
Chains of golden light snapped through the air like whips. Zayn ducked beneath one, vaulted over another, his katana singing as he cut through a third. Every breath felt borrowed. Every movement, a heartbeat away from death.
A swing came for his neck — he dropped, rolled, and came up slashing. Sparks flew. Havelock's strength was monstrous. Every blow shook the deck beneath them, sending loose ropes and splinters flying.
Zayn's lungs burned. His arms ached. He couldn't keep this up.
….
Down below, the lantern swung violently with each distant impact. Nora leaned forward on her knees, her grin returning.
"How long do you think it'll take for your friends to draw their last breath?"
Charolette ignored her, jaw locked tight.
"Their opponents seem… formidable."
Silence.
Then, softly—almost sing-song—
"I could help. If you'd just let me out of here."
Charolette turned sharply, her eyes burning.
"You think I'm stupid?" she hissed. "And how are you going to help?"
Nora's gaze drifted to the table beside them—where a silver key gleamed under the lantern light.
She didn't even look back at Charolette when she spoke.
"Doesn't sound like you have much of a choice."
Another crash from above. The sound of Zayn's strained grunt. The creak of wood. The sharp clang of metal.
Charolette hesitated. Just for a moment.
Then—she cursed under her breath, grabbed the key, and unlocked the cell. The heavy chain around Nora's wrists fell away with a sharp clang.
"No funny business,"
She warned. However, even Charolette knew that she was signing away the upper hand that they had against Nora. Just like that, she was free to do anything she wanted and thoughts of stopping her grew shrouded in doubt.
Nora stood, stretching with a groan of satisfaction, a wicked grin curling her lips.
"No promises."
She brushed past Charolette and ascended the stairwell without another word. Charolette followed, pulse hammering in her ears. This could either end with tides turning, or with a deeper, messier situation on their hands.
As they emerged from the stairwell, the deck turned battlefield had unfurled infront of them.
"Stop running and fight me!"
Havelock's voice bellowed, thunderous. His golden chains lashed through the air, cutting deep grooves into the wood. Zayn barely dodged one, the next snapping inches from his throat.
He was tiring. Fast.
His resolve chipped away slowly as the seconds went by. Yet, before thoughts of giving up came across his mind—
BOOM!
A concussive blast ripped through the mist, shaking the deck like a cannon strike. Havelock was flung backward, his armor screeching as he slammed into an altar, the wood splintering beneath the impact.
Smoke and shimmering reddish violet light filled the air.
At the top of the stairs stood Nora—her eminence sizzling the air, her eyes glowing faintly in the gloom.
"You let her free?!"
Chauncey shouted from where he lay bound, struggling against the glowing chains.
Charolette winced, shame flickering across her face.
"We didn't exactly have options…"
Havelock groaned, pushing himself up, the golden chains snapping free from his armor with sparks. His glare locked on the new arrival, eyes narrowing.
"Another heretic," he muttered, gripping his lance. "Perfect."
Nora's grin was feral.
"Let's dance, shall we?"
And as the storm gathered above them, lightning split the mist—illuminating the chaos that was only just beginning.