At first light, Valdyr looked almost merciful.
The horizon burned faint gold as the waves whispered against the cliffs, and gulls screamed over the half-buried remnants of their fire. The smell of brine and char lingered in the air. Zayn stirred first — eyes snapping open, breath catching in his chest. The night before still lived in the back of his mind like a fading bruise: the chase, the fall, the endless roar of the sea.
Jasmijn was already awake, crouched by the fire's remains, tracing lines in the damp sand with a sharp stone — her version of thinking. Her face looked carved from resolve.
Charolette, still half-asleep, lay curled under her cloak, while Chauncey stood by the shore, kicking pebbles into the surf. His usually lighthearted demeanor was gone.
When Jasmijn spoke, her tone was all business.
"We won't be able to find Nora all together. Valdyr's bigger than we think — sprawling, layered, and crawling with guards. Our best chance is to split into two groups."
She folded her arms, sharp eyes moving between them.
Chauncey ground his heel against the coals, snuffing them out.
"Great. I'll go with Zayn," Charolette cut in almost too quickly, latching onto Zayn's arm.
"I think it's best if I go with Zayn."
The boy stiffened, caught between surprise and discomfort, his cheeks tinged faintly red. Jasmijn didn't comment, though the faintest hint of amusement tugged at her lips.
"Then that leaves me with Jasmijn,"
Chauncey said dryly, hands slipping into his pockets.
"It's settled, then,"
Jasmijn confirmed, rising to her feet. "If there's no sign of her, we regroup here — two hours past noon."
They shared glances, each one lingering with silent understanding. No words — just a mutual thought written on all their faces: Don't die. Then they turned their backs to the shore and began their separate paths into the city of Valdyr.
….
Valdyr's interior was alive — a thunderous pulse of trade and life that seemed to exist entirely ignorant of the storm that had raged the night before.
Stone buildings towered close, the air thick with the scents of fish oil, spices, and salt. Narrow canals cut between the streets, and bridges of blackened wood arched overhead. Vendors shouted over one another, peddling fruits, metal trinkets, and fabrics dyed in deep oceanic blues.
Chauncey's eyes darted from stall to stall, drinking in everything with the excitement of a traveler seeing civilization for the first time.
"It's actually… kinda beautiful," he muttered under his breath. "The air's so clean, the food smells—"
"Chauncey." Jasmijn's tone sliced through his wandering awe. "Focus."
"I am focusing!" he said defensively—then froze. "Wait… is that—?"
They stopped before a stone wall. Pinned to it were wanted posters — their faces sketched in rough charcoal. Foreign intruders. Dangerous. High alert. The details were wrong, but close enough to sting.
Jasmijn frowned. "Those Valdyrian soldiers work fast."
Chauncey ripped his own poster down, glaring at the paper.
"This is not what I look like! Look at this chin! And my eyes aren't—"
His voice was nearly loud enough to draw stares. Jasmijn stifled a laugh behind her hand, shaking her head.
Then — time slowed. Her amusement faded as her eyes locked on a familiar figure across the marketplace. A cloak half draped over her head, dark-skinned, her locs tied loosely behind her head. Nora.
The fugitive's gaze flicked up — and for one frozen instant, recognition flashed between them.
The cloaked figure turned and ran.
"Chauncey!" Jasmijn barked.
He didn't need another word. The two broke into a sprint, weaving through the thick crowd. Barrels toppled, crates splintered, and startled vendors cursed as the pair tore through the market.
"Damn foreigners!" one man shouted, as Jasmijn vaulted over his cart.
"Sorry!"
she called back, not breaking stride.
Nora's cloak flared as she rounded a corner, darting into the maze-like alleys between the merchant stalls. The chase had begun.
On the other side of the city, Zayn and Charolette moved quietly through a market square that pulsed with life. Sea mist clung to the air, coating the stone underfoot. The smell of freshly baked bread mixed with tar and iron.
They had been silent for some time — Zayn's eyes sharp, scanning every shadow for a glimpse of dark hair and violet energy.
Charolette, though she tried to look focused, couldn't stop sneaking glances at him.
Finally, she broke the quiet.
"So… been a crazy few days, huh?"
"Yeah," he said absently, his tone clipped and distracted.
She continued, trying to bridge the gap. "You know, with the shipwreck, the fight with Havelock, Nora betraying us—"
Before she could finish, a cloaked figure barreled between them.
Charolette gasped as she was shoved to the ground. Her palms scraped against the stone. Zayn reached to pull her up, but before he could, two more figures appeared—running full tilt through the street. Zayn and Charolette recognized their faces as they edged closer. Jasmijn and Chauncey.
"It's Nora!" Chauncey shouted, his voice echoing down the alley.
Zayn's eyes went wide. Without a word, he hauled Charolette to her feet, and together they bolted after them.
The streets of Valdyr became a blur of motion.
Nora darted through narrow corridors, her cloak snapping behind her like a banner of smoke. Every move was instinctual — vaulting low walls, sliding beneath hanging laundry, twisting between startled citizens.
Behind her, the four pursued — Jasmijn with focused precision, Chauncey with raw athleticism, Zayn with quiet speed, and Charolette struggling to keep pace, her breath short and uneven.
"Left!" Jasmijn called, cutting sharply through a spice market. Clouds of paprika and cumin burst into the air, coloring the chase in fiery hues.
Nora, desperate to slow them down, spun mid-run — her fingers flickering faintly with Codex energy. A gust of violet energy erupted from her palm, sending baskets and barrels flying into their path.
Zayn ducked, rolling beneath a crashing crate. Jasmijn leapt over it entirely, landing lightly on her feet.
Chauncey wasn't so graceful — he crashed through the debris, fruit and splinters exploding around him.
"Damn her!" he yelled mid-run.
"Keep running!" Jasmijn snapped back, still sprinting.
The chase spilled into a tighter, shadowed street — the light thinning between the overhanging balconies. Rain from the earlier storm dripped from rooftops, slicking the stones.
Nora skidded around a corner — only to find herself in a dead end.
She spun, back hitting the wall, breath sharp and rapid. The echo of boots grew louder.
Moments later, the four emerged from the mist, blocking the only exit.
Jasmijn first, eyes locked like a predator's. Zayn beside her, his hand twitching as if reaching for a sword that wasn't there. Chauncey panted, ready for anything.
Charolette stood just behind, gaze uncertain — torn between anger and relief.
Nora looked between them, defiant but cornered.
The silence crackled, rain whispering against stone.
"Well," Nora said finally, a grin cutting through her exhaustion as her hands rose in surrender. "Took you long enough."
….
The alley was narrow, choked in shadow. The air carried the sting of rain-soaked iron and salt. The dripping water from the rooftops pooled at their boots. Jasmijn stood tall, shoulders squared, her eyes fixed on Nora. Behind her, the others fanned out—Zayn silent but brimming with restrained energy, Chauncey visibly tense, and Charolette's breathing shallow, her wide eyes reflecting both hurt and disbelief.
For a long moment, none of them spoke. Only the rain dared to whisper.
Then, Nora broke the silence.
"You guys worked up a sweat, huh?"
Her tone was casual, teasing, almost musical. She brushed a strand of damp hair from her face, her cloak heavy with moisture.
The words hung in the air like smoke—uninvited, mocking.
No one responded. The atmosphere was dry, brittle.
Nora's smirk widened. "And I see you guys got new hairdos? It looks good."
Her eyes flickered to the Plugish man.
"Chauncey, the short hair fits you."
Her voice dipped into a sultry cadence when she said his name, her eyes glinting mischievously in the faint morning light.
Chauncey tried not to react. His jaw flexed, his hands curling into fists. He refused to look at her—but even then, his expression softened just slightly, betraying a hint of fluster beneath his hardened exterior.
Nora caught it. Of course she did. That was her talent—slipping through defenses no blade could pierce.
Silence again. Heavy, suffocating silence. The sound of distant waves crashing against the cliffs was the only thing grounding them.
Finally, Jasmijn spoke. Her voice cracked like tempered steel.
"Why did you do it, Nora?" she asked, every word deliberate. "Why betray us?"
Nora tilted her head, feigning thoughtfulness. Then a grin curled on her lips—sharp and cruel.
"I wanted to see Valdyr's execution methods up close," she said, shrugging with mock innocence. "You know, for inspiration."
Chauncey's nostrils flared. Zayn's eyes darkened. Charolette's lips trembled.
"But it seems Valdyr's more merciful than I thought," Nora continued, stepping forward slightly, the shadows bending with her.
"When did they let you go? Last night? Or this morning?"
Still, none of them answered.
"Oh, wait!" she added suddenly, pretending to gasp. "Don't tell me… you escaped?"
She clasped her hands in exaggerated awe.
"Jasmijn, perhaps I was wrong about you. That was pretty badass on your part."
Jasmijn's lips parted, but the words refused to come. The ache in her chest felt heavier than the storm itself.
Then—
A voice boomed behind them.
Deep, cold, and commanding.
"I appreciate the help, foreigner. You'll be rewarded handsomely for your troubles."
Nora's grin spread wider. The group froze as realization hit like lightning.
They'd been played.
From the mouth of the alley emerged the war chief of Valdyr—his presence consuming the space like a stormfront. His pale-blond hair was cropped close to his scalp, his blue eyes colder than glacier stone. A dozen soldiers flanked him, armor wet with rain, spears glinting.
Nora brushed past the four as though they were dust, coming to stand behind him. Her smirk was venomous.
Chauncey's body tensed, fury burning behind his eyes. A familiar soldier stepped forward from the group—one of the guards who had dragged him through the prison halls, the one who had struck him for speaking out. Their eyes met. Hatred flickered between them like flint and steel.
The war chief stopped a few paces away, towering over them like a monument of wrath. His expression was unreadable, yet his voice dripped with disdain.
"It is an incredible feat to have breached through my… almost impenetrable fortress,"
he said slowly, each word deliberate. "It would warrant applause—if you weren't fugitives."
His gaze swept over them all—but it lingered on Zayn. The young warrior stiffened under the weight of it, feeling the man's scrutiny like a blade across his skin.
Soldiers shifted, readying themselves to move. But the war chief raised a hand, halting them.
"See, the thing is…" His tone lowered, calm but dangerous. "I don't appreciate when people cross me. Or make a fool out of me."
A ripple of unease spread through the air. Even the soldiers seemed uneasy. The rain had begun to fall harder now, pattering against the stone like distant drums.
"So," he continued, pacing slightly, "we'll work with a punishment—one that will either make or break my thoughts of you… criminals."
From behind the line of soldiers, a figure stepped forward. Young—perhaps Zayn's age. Tall, with lean, sharp muscle and eyes like polished emeralds. His hair was ghost-white, tied loosely behind him, and a long sword hung at his hip, its sheath etched with runes that faintly glimmered under the rain.
He didn't wear standard Valdyrian armor. His presence was singular, commanding, and cold.
"You there," the war chief said, pointing. "Man bun."
Zayn blinked, startled. "Me?"
The chief nodded, his pale eyes narrowing.
"You will challenge Erik, member of Valdyr's Great Six, to a Hjarta Stríð."
Gasps rippled through the soldiers. Even Erik looked mildly surprised, though his expression quickly settled into calm confidence.
Zayn's brows furrowed.
"You mind telling us what the hell that means?" Chauncey interjected, defiant as ever.
That earned him a frown—but not anger. If anything, the war chief looked… intrigued.
Few dared speak to him so directly.
"A duel," he said, the word falling like a hammer. "Simple. If your friend wins, your charges will be absolved."
He let the silence stretch, savoring it.
"Otherwise…"
He didn't finish. He didn't have to. The implication hung heavy in the air.
Nora's grin gleamed like a dagger from behind him. Rain cascaded off her hood, her voice soft but cutting as she added, "Guess Valdyr's not so merciful after all."
Zayn's fists clenched. His pulse thundered in his ears. Erik's emerald eyes glinted with a cold kind of excitement—predatory, focused, waiting for the signal to begin.
The sound of steel being drawn broke the silence.
The storm had truly begun.
————————————————————
WORLD INFO>>>
Hjarta Stríð.
The Hjarta Stríð, translated literally as Heart standoff, is one of Valdyr's oldest and most sacred martial traditions—an ancient ritual of judgment, blood, and honor.
In Valdyrian culture, justice and valor are intertwined; to them, a man's worth is measured not by his words, but by the strength of his hjarta—his heart, his will to fight. The Hjarta Stríð serves as both a punishment and a test of that will.
Traditionally, it is a duel between two Valdyr warriors: one a criminal, most often charged with murder, theft, or treason, and the other a renowned fighter—a champion whose skill and reputation embody Valdyr's martial ideals. Though presented as a "chance at redemption," the duel is, in truth, a brutal execution by combat. Most Hjarta Stríðs are one-sided, ending swiftly and violently in the death of the condemned.
However, the ritual is not confined to criminals. Among Valdyrian nobles and warriors, the Hjarta Stríð is also used to absolve personal or political conflict—a legal and honorable means to settle disputes that words cannot resolve. In royal bloodlines, it has often determined succession, marriage rights, or even loyalty to the crown.
Each duel is overseen by witnesses—sometimes the War Chief himself—and held under strict ceremonial law. Once the blades cross, there is no retreat, no mercy, and no interference. The duel only ends when one combatant can no longer rise.