The clock struck twelve.
Its echo reverberated through the small arena, sharp and chilling, swallowed only by the low roll of thunder beyond Valdyr's cliffs. The drizzle fell thin and cold, each droplet tapping against steel and stone, rhythmically counting down the moments before blood would spill.
Zayn stood in the center of the pit, his posture calm, his eyes sharp. The armor they'd given him was light—too light. Its plates were spaced out, its joints exposed, every gap a silent invitation for death. Whether it was made that way out of tradition or pity, no one could tell. The metal shimmered faintly under the torches, beads of water trailing along its edges like tears.
Across from him stood Erik. His armor was thicker, heavier, forged in the frost of Valdyr's forges—a glacial blue sheen reflecting every flicker of light. The faint vapor rising from his mouth only deepened the aura of winter that surrounded him.
"How the hell is that fair to Zayn!?"
Charolette's voice cracked through the still air, trembling with fury and fear.
She sat shackled to an iron bar alongside Chauncey and Jasmijn, their wrists raw from the cold bite of the cuffs.
"I'm gonna go off on a limb here," Chauncey muttered, his tone oddly steady, "but I think they made it that way per his request."
He didn't look away from Zayn, even as the rain stung his face.
"For him to move faster," Jasmijn added quietly. Her eyes narrowed, following Zayn's every motion with the intensity of a hawk. "He doesn't plan on getting hit in this duel."
Zayn's hand tightened around the hilt of the longsword at his waist. The blade sang as he drew it—longer, broader, and heavier than the one he was used to. It wasn't his katana. It wasn't balanced for precision or grace. But his stance adjusted anyway, fluid and light, testing the weight, learning the weapon in seconds as the drizzle gathered along its edge.
Opposite him, Erik drew his sword in silence. The frost at his feet spread outward, the air around him growing dense and cold. The audience went quiet. Even the rain seemed to hesitate mid-fall.
Then—
"The rules of a Hjarta Stríð are simple," the war chief's booming voice shattered the silence. He stood tall upon the platform, cloak swaying in the coastal wind.
"Fight until the other isn't able to get up."
A soldier approached, handing him a parchment. The man unfolded it, slipping his reading glasses on the bridge of his nose, the delicate lenses almost comical against his grim warrior's face.
"The will of this duel," he continued, scanning the paper, "states that if Zayn wins, all charges of his and his companions' crimes will be dropped."
The war chief paused. "If Erik wins…" he said slowly, "it will result in the execution of Zayn and his friends."
The air thickened.
Charolette's lips parted slightly, trembling.
"So Zayn just can't lose then?"
"He won't," Chauncey said. His tone was firm, confident—oddly so. His voice carried no tremor. "We've seen Zayn fight tougher blokes than that joke. We've got nothing to worry about."
Jasmijn said nothing, her focus unshaken.
"The use of a heart codex is authorized," the war chief finished, rolling the parchment and setting it aside.
"Let the duel begin."
The arena fell deathly silent.
Erik exhaled. A mist rolled from his lips, cold and pale. The ground beneath his boots cracked with a snap as frost began to crawl outward, coating the sand and stone with glittering veins of ice. The onlookers shivered; their breaths came out white.
The air was no longer air—it was a blade.
Sharp. Thin. Frozen.
"I don't think it's wise to underestimate Zayn's opponent," Jasmijn murmured. "Being part of Valdyr's Great Six must mean something. This'll probably be the fight of his life… literally."
Erik began to walk. Slow. Steady. Each step hissed as ice followed beneath him. Then—he sprinted.
SLASH!
The sound cracked through the arena like thunder.
Zayn moved instinctively, twisting just in time. The blade sliced through where his torso had been a moment ago, the cold so sharp it left a pale streak across his armor. Another swing—Zayn ducked, his breath hitching from the frost that bit at his cheek. Another—a clash of metal, ringing and fierce, sparks bursting between them.
For a heartbeat, they locked blades.
The frost from Erik's weapon crawled up the steel, creeping toward Zayn's hands. His fingers numbed instantly.
Erik's eyes narrowed, emerald and merciless. "I feel it for you, foreigner. You should give up now before things get ugly."
His tone wasn't mocking—it was sincere, almost pitying.
"I'll be sure to ask the war chief to give you and your friends a quick death."
He pressed harder, ice coiling over Zayn's blade.
Zayn said nothing. His face unreadable.
Then—heat.
From deep within him, a pulse. Like an ember awakening after centuries of sleep. The frost hissed and vanished from his sword. Steam rolled from the metal, then from his armor. The drizzle turned to mist around him.
Erik's eyes flickered, startled.
Zayn moved.
He pivoted, using Erik's strength against him, sidestepping with precision and driving his heel into Erik's side. The blow sent the larger man rolling across the frozen ground.
The war chief leaned forward, intrigued, his lips curving into the faintest grin.
Erik caught himself, sliding to a stop. He rose slowly from his knee, the rain now freezing midair around him. His expression was no longer calm—it was glacial.
"So be it then," he said coldly.
Zayn was already advancing.
He came in fast—his sword flashing with speed and precision, each swing stronger, more deliberate, his movements sharper than before. A faint shimmer, a ghostly white fire, began to flicker along the edge of his blade, so subtle it could've been mistaken for a trick of the light.
Chauncey's grin returned.
Every step Zayn took melted away Erik's frost, replacing the tundra cold with a blistering, invisible heat. The stone beneath him steamed. Every parry from Erik was met with pain—a heat so fierce it scalded through the gaps in his armor, burning his flesh like open coals.
Then—
SHHHLK!
Zayn's sword carved through Erik's plate, molten metal splattering the ground as the wound sizzled red and white. The smell of burnt steel filled the air. Erik stumbled back, gripping his side.
But his emerald eyes didn't flicker with fear. They hardened—frost forming in his pupils.
He swung again, this time faster. Zayn blocked, but the ice retaliated. The very air screamed as two elements collided—ice and ghostfire.
Steam billowed around them, veiling their figures. Only the flashes of their blades cut through the mist—silver and white, clashing like lightning in a storm.
Erik drove his sword down, freezing the ground beneath Zayn's feet. Zayn's boots slipped—but before Erik could take advantage, Zayn's blade ignited with another surge of invisible heat. He slashed upward. The frost shattered beneath him, vapor erupting in waves.
Erik's next swing met molten resistance—his blade melting slightly at the edge from the sheer heat radiating off Zayn's sword.
The clash continued, relentless.
Each of Erik's calculated swings was answered with something faster, sharper—Zayn weaving through the cold like he had danced with it before. His body moved on instinct alone, each strike echoing through the heart of the arena.
By now, the air was chaos—steam and ice battling in equal measure. The drizzle had turned to snow and then to rain again, cycling with every pulse of energy from the two warriors.
Zayn slashed once—sparks. Twice—steam. Third—blood.
Erik's shoulder tore open, hissing as heat met cold.
He staggered, chest heaving. His breath came out in clouds, but his resolve never faltered.
And Zayn… Zayn looked like something unearthly. The rain slid off his armor in sheets, evaporating before it could even touch the ground. The white fire on his blade flared—steady now, alive.
Each time Erik tried to triumph, he was met by that same scorching resistance—each failed strike answered by a blow that melted through his guard, singed his armor, and forced him back, again and again.
Until finally—
Erik dropped to one knee.
Steam rose between them, and the world seemed to hold its breath.
Zayn stood tall, blade lowered but ready, eyes locked on Erik's.
The frost had melted. The air was heavy with the scent of iron, ash, and rain.
And for the first time, even the war chief said nothing.
Only the rain spoke, hissing quietly as it met the steaming ground where two forces—one of fire, one of ice—had collided in perfect, brutal balance.
"Shit."
The sound of metal striking stone still echoed faintly in the air long after the duel had ended. The arena was quiet now—eerily quiet.
Erik was on one knee, head bowed, breath visible in the cool air. The frost he had conjured had all but melted, leaving only faint puddles of water and blackened scorch marks where Zayn's heat had touched the ground. The steam drifted lazily upward, mixing with the drizzle that still fell from the gray skies.
Zayn stood before him, exhausted but resolute, his chest rising and falling with slow, steady breaths. His armor steamed gently, the ghostly heat fading from his sword's edge.
From the stands, Nora bit her thumb. Hard.
A streak of crimson blossomed where her teeth broke skin, running down her knuckle. Her face was unreadable at first—an icy stillness masking something raw, boiling beneath. Then her eyes flickered—anger, disbelief, frustration, all twisting into a storm she didn't want anyone to see.
Her thumb trembled, blood dripping down to her wrist.
She turned sharply, her cloak sweeping behind her as she strode up the stone steps of the arena. Her footsteps echoed—brisk, purposeful, furious. The drizzle dampened her hair, her boots kicking up fine dirt as she left without looking back.
From below, Chauncey caught a glimpse of her silhouette—stiff shoulders, clenched fists. His eyes lingered for a moment before turning away. He said nothing.
The crowd was beginning to move again. A low murmur spread among them, the sound of disbelief and quiet dissent. Some cheered half-heartedly; others muttered under their breath, clearly dissatisfied with the result. The duel hadn't gone the way they expected—or wanted.
Hoods went up. Footsteps shuffled. One by one, they filed out of the arena in tight bundles, their voices fading into the droning rain.
The 3—Charolette, Chauncey, and Jasmijn—remained seated, still bound by their iron cuffs. Then, the rasp of metal sounded close behind them.
A Valdyr soldier approached—his armor dented and wet, his face worn but relieved. Without a word, he unlocked the shackles one by one. The sound of the metal releasing was sharp, almost symbolic.
When the last cuff fell to the ground, the three just sat there for a moment, rubbing their sore wrists, exchanging silent glances.
Their despair—the weight that had held them for so long—was slowly replaced by something gentler. It wasn't joy exactly, but something close to it. Something warmer.
Hope.
They were free. They were alive.
Jasmijn's eyes softened as she looked toward the arena's center, where Zayn now helped Erik to his feet, the two men exchanging a silent nod of respect. Charolette exhaled shakily, a hand pressed to her chest. Chauncey grinned faintly, his first real one in what felt like days.
But their relief was short-lived.
The murmur of soldiers quieted. The atmosphere changed again—tightening, drawing the air from their lungs.
The war chief was coming toward them.
His heavy boots struck the ground with slow, deliberate weight, the rain sizzling against the plates of his armor. His expression was unreadable—neither anger nor admiration, but something caught in between.
Chauncey's voice was the first to cut through the tension. "I don't get it," he said, his tone half-demanding, half-bewildered. "Why didn't you just execute us? Why go through all this trouble!?"
The war chief stopped in front of them. His presence alone felt like a wall.
"The people of this island believe in giving criminals a fighting chance to prove themselves," he said evenly. His voice carried authority, but not cruelty.
"Your father proved himself the same way—only twelve years ago, Chauncey Wraithfield."
Chauncey froze.
The sound of rain filled the silence that followed. Jasmijn's jaw went slack as her eyes darted between the two siblings.
"Wait— you know Dad?? How'd you know we were—" Charolette began, voice rising.
"You have your father's eyes," the war chief interrupted, his gaze softening slightly as it moved between the two. Then to Chauncey:
"And your brother has his vigor."
Charolette blinked, disbelief and anger flashing across her features.
"Wait… so let me get this straight. You knew that this whole time—and still ran the risk of us getting executed??"
The war chief's answer was calm, measured, almost heavy. "I had to see if the rumors were true."
Chauncey frowned. "What rumors??"
The war chief's gaze shifted past them—past the crowd, past the soldiers—to the arena floor.
Zayn stood there still, steadying Erik on his feet, speaking quietly with him.
The chief's eyes hardened. "That the devil from five hundred years ago found itself a vessel."
The words fell like thunder.
Jasmijn's breath hitched. The siblings turned to Zayn instinctively, confusion and unease washing over them.
Zayn, feeling their eyes on him, looked up. The steam had nearly faded, leaving only the rain falling gently against his skin. His expression was unreadable.
"Well," Charolette began slowly, folding her arms, "you found out. So what now?"
The war chief didn't answer immediately. His gaze lingered on Zayn for a long moment before shifting back to the group.
"What is it that you seek on this island?" he asked instead, his tone deliberate, almost testing.
"To find Flokki," Chauncey said quickly. His voice was firm again. "We read about him in Dad's book. Is he dead?"
The war chief's expression changed, just slightly. His tone softened.
"Flokki is very much alive."
All three exhaled at once, relief flooding their faces. The tension eased for just a heartbeat.
But then the war chief continued.
"However, Alden Wraithfield was the last foreigner he ever trained. He vowed to mentor only members of Valdyr's Great Six from that day on."
Their hope faltered again. Jasmijn's face fell.
"So you're saying there's no chance?" she asked, her voice low.
"There might be," the war chief replied. "You four are… an interesting group."
He looked between them—the siblings' quiet defiance, Jasmijn's sharp awareness, and Zayn, still standing in the rain, silent and distant.
"Flokki likes interesting," the chief continued. "I'm sure he wouldn't pass up an opportunity like this."
His words were reassuring—but his tone wasn't. There was something in his eyes, something uncertain.
The rain continued to fall. The arena was almost empty now, the torches burning low.
Zayn finally looked toward the group, his hair plastered to his face, his armor still faintly steaming. Their eyes met across the distance—relieved, uncertain, but connected again.
Whatever awaited them beyond this moment, the path was already laid.
And for the first time in what felt like forever, the faintest spark of hope burned against the cold of Valdyr's afternoon.
….
WORLD INFO>>>
Valdyr's Great 6.
The Great 6 of Valdyr are not merely warriors—they are living symbols of the island's pride, power, and divine favor. Every generation, six children are chosen from across the island, each displaying extraordinary spiritual potential from a young age. These children—known as Promise Children—are selected at the age of eight, after rigorous spiritual and combat evaluations conducted by the War Council and the Seers of the Frost Temple.
Once chosen, they are taken from their homes and trained in isolation under Valdyr's most sacred masters, molded through years of brutal combat regimens, meditation, and exposure to the island's raw spiritual forces. Each is bound to a Heart Codex, a manifestation of their inner strength and soul essence, forged through a ritual that often decides whether they survive or perish.
The Great 6 are revered as Valdyr's divine protectors, "handpicked by the gods to defend the island from both mortal and spiritual threats."
Their duty is absolute—protect the sovereignty of Valdyr, uphold the will of its ancestors, and ensure that no foreign corruption stains its lands.
When one of the Great 6 falls in battle, their title and spiritual burden do not die with them. Instead, the Seers of Valdyr perform a ritual to identify the next Promise Child—someone whose spirit "echoes" with similar power to the fallen. That child inherits the number, and the responsibility, continuing the eternal lineage of the Six.
They are both respected and feared by Valdyr's people. To see one is an honor. To fight one is a death sentence.