A low rumble rolled across the coast before Zayn's eyes snapped open. The sky above him was a pale, bruised gray — neither night nor morning — and the taste of salt stung his lips. He lay sprawled on coarse sand, chest heaving, seaweed tangled in his hair. For a moment, he simply breathed, the rhythmic crash of the tide drumming in his ears.
Then it came back to him — the rain, the thunder, the impossible shadow rising from the sea. The Seraphim's shattering cry.
He sat up with a sharp inhale, one hand pressed to his head.
"How long…?"
His voice came out hoarse. Hours? More? He couldn't tell. His clothes were soaked, stiff with salt. Every muscle screamed protest as he pushed himself to his feet.
His heart quickened.
The others.
"Chauncey! Charolette!"
His voice carried across the fog-heavy shore.
"Jasmijn!!….—Nora!"
Only gulls answered.
The beach stretched in both directions, littered with driftwood and splintered planks — what was left of the Seraphim.Shattered barrels, half-sunken crates, and a lone cannon buried in the sand told the story of their fall. The wind carried the scent of ash and iron.
He kept moving. Every few steps, his eyes flicked through the mist, scanning the horizon for movement. Anxiety crawled up his spine with every unanswered call.
And then—
"It's Zayn!"
Charolette's voice cut through the mist like a bell. She broke into a run, sand scattering beneath her boots. Before Zayn could steady himself, she threw her arms around him. For a brief, trembling moment, the world felt stable again.
"You're alive," she breathed.
"Barely," he managed, half-laughing as Chauncey jogged up behind her, soaked to the bone but grinning like he'd just seen the sun for the first time in days.
"Good to see you in one piece, lad,"
Chauncey said, clapping his shoulder.
Jasmijn stood a few feet away, counting soldiers who were still dragging themselves ashore. Her usual composure was cracked — 15 soldiers. That was all that remained. Nearly half gone. She looked up at Zayn and gave a tired but warm nod.
"Looks like we made it," Zayn said softly.
"Yeah," Charolette sighed, brushing sand from her sleeves. "At the expense of everything. food, weapons, the map—gone. Even the scroll Daliah's father gave us."
That hit harder than the sea ever could. Silence fell heavy around them, broken only by the distant crash of waves.
"Well," Chauncey said at last, "at least the book survived."
"Yeah," Charolette said, forcing a smirk. "Dad's knowledge is the only thing that brought us here in the first place."
"Guys, we another big problem."
Jasmijn turned toward them, her expression sharpening.
"We might've lost more than we think. I can't find Nora."
The words landed like lead.
"Which means 2 things," Jasmijn continued, muttering grimly, "either she's dead—
"Or she was washed up on the beach and woke up before us." Charolette finished. The four exchanged concerned glances.
No one had the chance to respond. The mist parted, revealing dark figures scaling the jagged rocks ahead. At first it looked like shadows, until armor caught the faint light—sleek, obsidian-gray, engraved with curling runes that shimmered faint blue.
"Are those….soliders?" Chauncey whispered, his tone tense.
Twenty-five men advanced in disciplined formation, every step silent despite the stones beneath their boots. Their commander—broad-shouldered, face hidden beneath a wolf-shaped helm—raised his spear.
Zayn instinctively assumed a fighting stance, but a dozen crossbows leveled at his chest.
"Easy," Chauncey muttered, slowly raising his hands.
One by one, they all did the same.
Within seconds, they were surrounded, what remained of their weapons confiscated. Words they couldn't understand were barked in harsh, rhythmic tones. The Valdyrians moved with precision — no wasted motion, no hesitation.
They were marched inland through winding stone streets, lined with watchful eyes. The people of Valdyr whispered in their strange tongue, some hurling curses, others clutching charms as if warding off evil.
The group was brought to a towering hall carved from black basalt, its walls veined with glowing blue minerals that pulsed faintly like a heartbeat.
Inside, a man sat upon a high chair carved from whale bone — the judge. His robe was rough-spun, yet his presence demanded reverence.
"It is quite unusual,"
He began, voice deep and coarse,
"for a band of thieves to slip past the divine judgment of Valdyr's Warden." His piercing eyes swept over them. "And yet… here you kneel."
"Thieves?" Chauncey whispered, incredulous. "The hell's he talking about?"
The crowd jeered, spitting venom in a language none of them could understand. The judge struck his mallet against the desk. Silence.
Jasmijn stepped forward as far as her chains allowed. "With respect, sir—we are not thieves. I am Commander Jasmijn Doutzen of Drenmarch. We were shipwrecked—"
"That is not," the judge interrupted, leaning forward, "what your friend told us."
The name didn't need to be said. Every head turned at once.
Nora.
The silence was deafening.
The judge continued, "Still, the fact you survived the Storm Isle's wrath is… remarkable. Perhaps the winds of Valdyr favor you. Or curse you."
He banged the mallet again. "Take them to the cells. Their fate will be decided at dawn."
….
The air inside Valdyr's prison was stale and cold, heavy with the scent of rust and seawater. Chains clinked with every step the captives took — each echo carrying down the narrow stone corridor lined with torches that burned low and blue.
The Wardens marched them single file, spears gleaming faintly in the dim light. The prisoners had been stripped of their weapons and most of their gear, their wrists bound in iron cuffs etched with faint runes that pulsed whenever they tried to move too fast.
Charolette stumbled as one guard shoved her from behind. "I said I'm walking!" she barked, twisting slightly to glare at the man. Her silver hair caught the torchlight — defiant even in chains.
"Are you people always this charming, or am I getting special treatment?"
The soldier ignored her entirely, his grip firm as he forced her forward.
Zayn walked a few paces ahead, silent as ever. His eyes flicked between the guards, the archways, the turns — measuring distance, memorizing routes, noting where the torches were dimmest. He'd been doing it since they entered the fortress. Calculating. Preparing. He didn't miss the subtle way the guards tensed at his presence — nor the way their fingers lingered near their weapon grips. His heartbeat was steady, his breath controlled, but every fiber of him was coiled tight — like a bowstring on the verge of release.
Behind them, Jasmijn moved with a quiet, deliberate grace. Her uniform was torn, her hair damp with seawater, yet her posture remained unbroken. Her soldiers had been separated from her; she could hear their boots scuffling behind the moving line. The commander's eyes, sharp and calm, swept the hall.
Chauncey, of course, was another story.
It took four guards to push him down the corridor. The man refused to make it easy.
"Careful now, that's the good shoulder," he grunted as one soldier tried to shove him harder. "You're gonna bruise it before the whipping starts."
"Enough talking," one of the soldiers growled, accent thick and gruff, ramming the haft of his spear into Chauncey's side.
He laughed — a low, taunting sound that echoed down the hall. "You hit softer than a child."
That earned him another strike, this time to the ribs. Even as he gritted his teeth, his grin never faded. It wasn't bravado. It was defiance.
When they reached the cells, the guards began separating them one by one.
Charolette was the first thrown inside, the door slamming behind her with a deafening clang. She stumbled, caught herself against the cold wall, and exhaled sharply.
"Bastards…" she muttered, brushing dust from her sleeve.
They didn't need to shove Zayn — he stepped into his cell willingly, his eyes never leaving the guards until the iron door shut between them.
Chauncey was dragged, half-laughing, half-fighting. It took two Wardens to pin him to the wall while another locked the door.
"Told you,"
he breathed, smirking through the pain. "You should've brought five."
And finally, Jasmijn. The commander entered her cell quietly, eyes cold and unreadable. The door closed with a metallic finality, sealing her off from the others.
The Wardens' footsteps faded into the distance, leaving behind only the dripping of water, the hiss of torches, and the distant roar of waves against stone.
For a long time, no one spoke. The silence of the dungeon felt endless.
Each of them alone.
Each lost in their own thoughts — of the crash, of Nora, of the island that had swallowed them whole.
….
The hours crawled.
Night had long since settled over the island. Through the narrow slit of his cell's window, Zayn could see nothing but the gray smear of mist that seemed to swallow even the stars. The fortress hummed faintly — the distant crash of waves beneath it, the soft groan of old stone straining against the cold.
Every now and then, a Warden's footsteps echoed down the hall — rhythmic, armored, unrelenting. But even that faded eventually, leaving behind only silence.
It was Jasmijn who broke it.
She sat motionless on the small cot that passed for a bed, her hands clasped loosely in her lap. The thin light of a torch flickered across her face, drawing sharp edges over her features — calm, but calculating.
Her breathing slowed. Her eyes closed.
And then—
WHOOSH!!
A sudden, whispering gale rippled through the corridor — subtle at first, like the sigh of something ancient waking up. The torch outside her cell flickered violently, its flame bending sideways as if bowing. Then, in a single fluid motion, Jasmijn raised her palm and exhaled sharply.
The air obeyed.
A crescent of compressed wind burst from her hand, invisible until it struck
— SHHHHHRANG!
Bars snapped clean, metal shrieking as they were sheared apart. The gust reverberated through the dungeon, scattering dust and extinguishing torches in its wake.
"—Hvat var það!?"
A guard's voice echoed from somewhere down the hall.
Jasmijn was already moving.
The first Warden rounded the corner, spear drawn, eyes wide — and was met with a sudden rush of air that threw him from his feet. He hit the ceiling with a crack before slamming down onto the stone floor. The wind still hummed faintly in the air, alive and angry.
Another guard lunged from the shadows, blade drawn. Jasmijn sidestepped — her movements precise, almost mechanical. A twist of her wrist and a short gust caught him square in the chest, lifting him off his feet and sending him skidding down the corridor. His sword clattered uselessly beside him.
In the cell across from hers, Chauncey had been watching with wide, gleaming eyes.
"Now that's what I call a jailbreak."
Before he could say more, she turned her hand toward his cell. Another sharp gust — THWANG! — the iron door screeched open, flying off its hinges.
Chauncey stepped out, rubbing his wrists where the shackles had dug deep.
"Finally. Was getting tired of the decor."
"Keep your voice down," Jasmijn warned. Her tone was low but firm, her focus razor-sharp. "We move quietly."
Together, they crept toward the other cells. The corridor was dim now, lit only by the dying glow of torches flickering along the walls. The faint hum of wind magic clung to the air, stirring dust motes like drifting embers.
Jasmijn stopped at Zayn's cell. His eyes met hers through the bars — calm, steady, ready.
"Step back," she whispered.
He obliged.
The air shimmered, pressure building like the inhale of a storm. Then came the release — a near-silent crack as the locks split apart. Zayn caught the falling bars before they hit the ground, easing them aside with a fluid motion. Not a sound.
"Smart," Jasmijn murmured.
They moved on to Charolette next — her voice a muffled whisper of disbelief. "Took you long enough."
"Blame your mouth," Chauncey muttered as he pulled her out. "They probably reinforced the bars just to keep you quiet."
"Both of you—enough." Jasmijn's voice cut through their whispers like a blade. "We're not clear yet."
The group moved down the hall, bare feet silent on the cold stone. The fortress groaned above them — the sea wind pressing against its walls, the distant crash of thunder far away.
They reached a corner — and froze.
Two soldiers stood guard at the end of the hall, their backs turned, faint light from a nearby lantern casting long shadows across their armor.
Jasmijn gestured with two fingers. Zayn understood instantly.
He slipped away from the group, hugging the shadows. A guard shifted his weight — then suddenly stiffened as a hand clamped over his mouth, dragging him into darkness. A single muffled grunt, and he was down.
The second turned—
Chauncey was already there.
A quiet crack of knuckles — then his fist collided with the guard's helmet, the sound dull and heavy. The man slumped instantly, armor ringing as he hit the ground.
Jasmijn gave a small nod. They continued on.
The stairwell ahead opened up, leading toward a heavy iron door faintly illuminated by moonlight bleeding through the cracks above. The wind howled faintly, carrying the scent of salt and rain.
But just as they reached it —
CLANG. CLANG. CLANG.
A bell rang out, echoing through the fortress. An alarm.
"Shit," Charolette hissed. "How—?"
"No time!" Jasmijn snapped. "Go!"
Boots thundered above — shouts echoing down the stairwell. Dozens of guards.
Maybe more.
Jasmijn thrust her hands forward, and a massive gust of air erupted from her palms, slamming into the staircase. The stone trembled as the wind became a wall, buying them precious seconds.
Zayn grabbed Chauncey by the shoulder and pulled him through the door. "Move!"
The group burst into the open air of Valdyr's cliffs — the night alive with rain and distant lightning. The fortress loomed behind them, black and jagged against the storm-tossed sky.
Jasmijn turned, eyes glowing faintly with azure light.
The Wardens surged through the doorway moments later, shouting in their strange tongue — but the escapees were already gone, swallowed by the mist and wind.