….
The climb had been merciless.
By the time they reached the temple gates, wind tore across the mountain like a living beast — howling, shrieking, clawing through layers of furs and steel alike. Above them, the FrostTemple loomed: a monolithic fortress carved directly from the mountain's heart. Its towers gleamed in the gray light, frosted in white and blue, and the runes that adorned its walls shimmered faintly like veins of light pulsing through the ice.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
Chauncey's fist hit the gate. Once. Twice. Then again. Each knock echoed like a hammer in the frozen air.
"Come on!" he shouted over the storm. "We know someone's in there!"
The heavy wooden gates shuddered under Chauncey's fist. The sound echoed through the icy air, unsettling a flock of ravens perched on a nearby spire. The group stood huddled in their cloaks, breath forming clouds in the frigid air. The war chief stood just behind them, arms folded, his blue eyes stern and watchful.
After what felt like an age, the gates creaked open just enough for a single figure to emerge. A hiss of frosted air was released.
Standing there was a girl.
No older than sixteen, small in stature, yet there was something arresting about her. Golden eyes, bright and cold as coins under the moonlight, regarded them with open disdain. Her black hair fell to her back like an ink spill against snow. She wore a silken white dress, too fine for a servant, too simple for a noble — and entirely impractical for this weather. Yet, she didn't shiver once.
"Uh, no."
Her tone was flat, dismissive.
Jasmijn blinked. "No as in he's not here? Or no as in—"
"No," the girl's reply sliced through the commander's words like frostbite. "as in he will not see any of you four."
The bluntness stunned them for a second. Jasmijn blinked, thrown off by the hostility.
"Wow. Okay."
"Why don't you tell Flokki that the war chief is here to see him?" The war chief countered, regaining composure.
At that, the girl's golden eyes flicked past them—landing on the war chief, towering and grim. She tilted her head, gaze unimpressed.
"With all due respect, war chief, your authority holds no weight here. This is the Frost Temple."
Her words dripped with polite venom, and the way she said "war chief" sounded almost like an insult.
The air tightened. Even the wind went quiet. The war chief's jaw flexed, his calm demeanor tested.
As she turned to close the gate, Chauncey stepped forward, catching it with one hand. The wood groaned under the strain of his grip as he glared down at her.
"Listen, kid— we're kinda desperate here," he said, voice tense. "We've traveled a long time to get here, alright? We really need to see—"
She didn't flinch. Her voice was cold, final.
"Makes you no different from the other 'chosen ones' who travel across the world just to learn Valdyr's secrets. The answer is still no."
That was the last straw for Charolette.
She pushed past her brother, grabbed the girl by the collar, and lifted her off the ground with startling ease. The silk of the girl's dress bunched in Charolette's fist as the younger woman dangled with a composed, almost bored expression.
"Look, you little brat," Charolette hissed, eyes flashing. "You're gonna drop that attitude of yours, and you're gonna take us to Flokki, understand? We've come a long way to get here and we're not leaving until we see him."
The golden-eyed girl didn't even blink.
"Go back to whatever colony or empire you came from. Valdyr has no place for dirty foreigners like you."
Those words hit like a blade to the chest. For a second, even the wind sounded shocked.
Charolette snapped.
In a single motion, she dragged the girl forward by the ear, shoving through the gate with such force it slammed open against the walls.
The war chief sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose in quiet exasperation.
The four stormed into the Frost Temple courtyard—the war chief following with a cautious step. Guards around the courtyard immediately tensed, raising halberds and frostblades—until they recognized the war chief. Their expressions flickered between confusion and panic. One soldier stepped forward, bewildered.
"Sir—what in the frozen hell is going on?"
The war chief only sighed, shrugging his shoulders. He couldn't even give a proper answer.
This was beyond unprofessional.
The group stormed forward through the wide, icy halls. Every footstep echoed against the marble floor, every breath visible in the chill. The walls were lined with ancient runes glowing faintly blue—some of them pulsing in reaction to their presence.
"Charolette, I think we're pretty much trespassing,"
Zayn muttered, voice low as his optics flickered to the Frost Temple's guests who looked at them in quiet disapproval.
"There's… probably a better way to go about this."
"If Flokki doesn't wanna greet us, we're gonna take the greet to him," she shot back, tugging the golden-eyed girl harder.
Eventually, the corridor opened into a vastchamber—a dome-shaped hall of ice and marble. Intricate carvings of dragons and waves adorned the pillars, and a massive skylight overhead spilled pale light onto the polished floor.
But it wasn't the architecture that froze them.
It was who was inside.
Five figures stood in the center of the hall, each radiating their own unmistakable aura.
The Valdyr's Great 6—or rather, five of them, save for Erik.
The woman at their mercy had smiled to herself.
"Yup, they definitely messed up now."
Each turned toward the intruders, expressions ranging from curiosity to annoyance.
Kael, "The Winter Fang" — The Hothead
A tall, broad-shouldered young man leaned against a frost pillar, twirling a jagged axe carved from pure ice. His reddish brown hair was cut short and uneven, his face marred by a small scar across his nose. Emerald veins of cold energy pulsed under his skin. His temper was almost tangible, like a storm about to break.
"Who let the foreigners waltz into the temple?" he snarled.
"You lost or stupid?"
Mira, "The Still Snow" — The Calm One
Standing beside him was a woman wrapped in white fur robes. Her black hair was bound neatly, and her pale eyes looked more like glass than flesh. She carried herself with quiet, unmoving poise. When she spoke, her voice was gentle, but carried the weight of command.
"Kael. Stand down."
Renn, "The Bloom in Winter" — The Kind One
Near the temple's pool knelt a slender young man tending to an injured bird. The faint aura of green mist surrounded him as the creature's wing mended before their eyes. He looked up at the group and smiled, soft and genuine.
"You've come a long way. I can see it in your steps. You're trembling from the cold."
Lyra, "The Dreaming Gale" — The Creative One
At the far end of the hall, a young woman sat cross-legged, sketching symbols into the frost with a piece of glowing chalk. Her hair was silver-blue, wild and wind-tossed, her eyes distant like she was somewhere else entirely. She muttered to herself,
"Foreigners… interesting colors. Their auras flicker strangely…"
Solas, "The Divine Balance" — The Leader
And finally, at the center—tall, composed, radiating calm authority—stood Solas. His hair was golden white, his posture impossibly straight, his eyes silver like moonlit steel. Even without moving, his presence filled the room, as though the air bent to his will.
"Enough." His voice was neither loud nor soft—it simply carried.
At that, everyone fell silent. Even Charolette's grip loosened slightly on the girl's ear.
The golden-eyed woman stepped free, brushing herself off with an air of annoyance.
"Thank you, Solas. I was about to handle them myself."
"By antagonizing them?" Renn asked kindly, smiling faintly.
"They broke into the temple," she countered.
"And you probably provoked them," Mira added quietly.
Kael snorted. "I say we toss them back out into the snow."
But Solas had already stepped forward, his gaze passing from the war chief to Zayn, then to the siblings.
"Foreigners seldom come this far without purpose," he said evenly. "So, tell us—what drives you through our storm?"
The chamber fell silent again, the question hanging heavy in the cold.
The four exchanged glances, the frost breath leaving their lips in quiet clouds.
This was it—the moment everything had led to.
They had found Valdyr's Great 6.
And Flokki… couldn't be far behind.
….
Explanations had been cut short.
The silence in the great chamber stretched, heavy and cold.
Every pair of eyes, from the defiant Kael to the cautious Zayn, flicked toward the grand stairway at the far end of the hall as the sound of a door creaked open.
Footsteps echoed — slow, deliberate, each one carrying weight and history. The air shifted, almost reverent. Even the ethereal blue flames that lit the frost temple seemed to soften their glow.
From the shadowed corridor, he emerged.
Flokki.
He looked… ageless. Not young, not frail — a man who had survived the impossible and wore time like another layer of armor. His bluecoat draped loosely over his broad shoulders, the fabric frayed at the edges but still regal, lined with faint silver threadwork that shimmered when it caught the light. A leather eyepatch covered his left eye, but the other — a storm-blue gaze sharp as a blade — held a quiet, commanding power. Faint gray stubble roughened his jawline, giving him the look of someone who had once been wild, now tempered by wisdom.
The golden-eyed girl, who had glared at the intruders just moments ago, froze for a heartbeat — then her face softened.
"Uncle!"
She exclaimed, her voice losing its frost as she ran across the chamber.
Her silk dress flared behind her as she threw herself at him, wrapping her arms around his waist.
Flokki chuckled softly, a deep, weathered sound.
"Careful now," he said, resting a hand gently on her head. "You'll bruise my old ribs."
When he finally looked up, the entire room had bowed.
Members of Valdyr's Great 6 had dropped to one knee, heads low. The war chief, standing tall mere moments ago, inclined his head deeply. Even the four foreigners — Chauncey, Charolette, Zayn, and Jasmijn — followed suit, instinctively understanding whose presence they were in.
Flokki's single visible eye scanned the room, calm and deliberate. Then, it stopped.
"Sigurd," he said, his voice rich with quiet amusement. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"
The war chief, still bowed, raised his head slightly. "Flokki," he began. "I come not for myself, but for them."
Before he could continue, Kael stepped forward, his tone sharp and impatient.
"Master, with all due respect—these foreigners forced their way in! The girl—"
he pointed accusingly at Charolette—
"laid hands on your niece! They disrespected the Frost Temple and your name!"
His outburst echoed across the frozen chamber. The tension in the air spiked.
But Flokki simply raised a hand. The motion was small — yet the entire room went still. Kael's words died in his throat as if snuffed out by invisible force.
"I can see that, Kael," Flokki said mildly. "And yet, you forget yourself. You speak out of turn."
Kael stepped back, jaw clenched, fists trembling, his pride clearly burning under his mentor's steady gaze.
The war chief cleared his throat and straightened.
"They are… unconventional, yes," he admitted, glancing toward the four. "But they've proven themselves worthy of Valdyr's respect. They seek you, Flokki — not to steal your secrets, but to learn. To continue what Alden Wraithfield began."
At that name, something flickered behind Flokki's eye. A memory. A weight.
He looked at the group again — at the siblings who carried their father's spirit, at the disciplined commander, and finally at the quiet swordsman with the calm fire in his eyes.
Zayn bowed his head slightly in respect.
Chauncey shifted, suddenly self-conscious under that gaze.
Charolette's earlier fire had vanished; shame flickered across her face.
Jasmijn stood tall, though her clenched fists betrayed her nerves.
Flokki exhaled, then nodded once.
"I see."
His tone was measured, unreadable.
Kael stepped forward again, unable to stay silent.
"Master—surely you're not actually considering training these fools! You said years ago—"
"I know what I said, Kael."
Flokki's voice was quiet, but it carried the force of thunder. Even the wind outside seemed to pause.
He turned his head slightly, gazing back at the four strangers.
"I don't see why not, though," he said, almost casually. "These four seem… competent enough."
The words hit them like sunlight breaking through the storm. The four looked at one another — disbelief and joy warring on their faces. Even the war chief's stern composure softened at the corners.
But then—
Flokki stroked his stubbled chin, his eye half-lidded in thought.
"However,"
He said slowly,
"to be fair to my students — to Valdyr's Great 6 — I cannot simply train outsiders without… justification."
Kael's smirk returned instantly. Mira sighed beside him, as if she already knew where this was going.
The four foreigners glanced at one another, wary, curious.
Flokki finally looked up, the faintest spark of mischief dancing behind his calm demeanor.
"How about…" he said, pausing as he adjusted the coat over his shoulders, "a sparring match?"
Kael's grin widened.
Flokki continued, voice echoing through the hall,
"One of you — any one of you — against one of Valdyr's Great 6."
Chauncey's jaw tightened. Jasmijn's eyes flicked toward him. Charolette swallowed hard. Zayn remained still, watching.
"Best of six clean hits," Flokki went on. "If you foreigners win, I'll allow you to train here — alongside my pupils. If you lose…"
He paused, then smiled faintly.
"Well. You'll at least be welcome to stay for breakfast."
The tension broke slightly. Charolette almost laughed — almost. Even Zayn's lips twitched with the faintest smile. Just like yesterday, there was a spark of hope — fragile, but real.
Valdyr's 6, however, remained stoic. Their faces unreadable. All except Kael, whose grin deepened, pride gleaming in his ice-blue eyes.
He rested his weapon on his shoulder, turning his gaze toward the foreigners.
"Then let's get started," he said, voice low with anticipation. "I've been itching for a warm-up."
The frost under his boots began to crackle — faint trails of mist curling upward as if the temple itself responded to his energy.
Flokki's single eye gleamed with quiet amusement.
He took a seat near the icy dais, folding his arms, his niece settling beside him obediently.
"Well then," he said softly, as if addressing no one in particular, "let's see if Wraithfield's flesh and blood knows how to fight."
————————————————————
WORLD INFO>>>
The Frost temple.
Hidden deep within the northern peaks of Valdyr, the Frost Temple stands as both a sanctuary and a trial ground for the kingdom's most gifted warriors. Said to have been carved directly into the mountain by ancient gods, the temple's walls hum faintly with divine energy — remnants of an age when mortals and spirits once walked side by side.
It is here that Valdyr's Great 6 train under the legendary master Flokki Frostbane, protector of the realm and keeper of its deepest martial secrets. The temple is considered sacred ground — its cold halls not just for combat, but for spiritual refinement. To trespass here without invitation is seen as a grave act of disrespect.
Despite its sanctity, many have risked the journey north to seek training or wisdom within the Frost Temple. Few are ever permitted to enter. Fewer still survive the trials within.
….
The sparring hall was vast and cold, built from pale stone veined with frost that glowed faintly beneath the torches. Every sound echoed — the distant creak of armor, the faint breath of the audience. It was as if the walls themselves were holding their breath.
Chauncey stood in the center of the training floor, his broad frame tense and ready. The faint torchlight shimmered against the thin sheen of sweat on his skin. His eyes, sharp as glacier glass, fixed on his opponent: Kael — the proud hothead of Valdyr's Great 6.
Kael twirled his wooden training blade lazily between his fingers, lips curled in that smug grin that could cut stone. He had the easy confidence of a man who had never once been defeated inside these walls.
Between them stood Mira, still and composed, her eyes flicking from one to the other. When she spoke, her voice carried through the entire chamber — soft yet commanding.
"Listen carefully," she said, hands clasped behind her back. "This sparring match will be judged by precision, control, and intent. The rules are as follows: six clean strikes to the body or head determine victory. No cheap shots. No magic. The use of a Heart Codex—"
she turned her gaze on Kael, who was already smirking — "is strictly forbidden."
Kael raised both hands in mock surrender.
"Wouldn't dream of it."
"Between each round," Mira continued, "you will have a fifteen-second interval. Use it to breathe, not boast."
Lyra, seated along the edge of the hall, giggled. "Good luck getting that through Kael's head."
Mira's eyes narrowed. "Begin."
The sound of impact thundered instantly through the room.
Kael was fast — faster than anyone had expected. His first strike came down diagonally, sharp and precise. Chauncey barely brought his weapon up in time, the block rattling through his arms. The next came even quicker, an overhead slash that forced him back a step.
Wood cracked. Sparks of friction leapt from the collision.
Chauncey gritted his teeth, holding ground against the barrage. Kael wasn't just strong; he was measured, every movement honed by years of elite training. His grin only grew wider with each deflected blow.
"Don't blink, foreigner!" Kael barked, spinning into a low sweeping slash. Chauncey jumped back — too slow — the edge of the wooden blade nicking his thigh. Mira raised a hand.
"Point — Kael. 1–0."
The crowd of Valdyrian temple guests murmured softly, their voices carrying hints of pride and pity.
Chauncey exhaled through his nose, rolling his shoulders. He wasn't angry — not yet — but there was heat building behind those blue eyes.
Kael tilted his head, smirking. "You swing like a man who's never fought on ice."
Chauncey planted his foot. "And you talk like one who's never been hit hard enough to shut up."
Mira lifted her hand again. "Round two. Begin."
Kael lunged, lightning fast, his strikes a blur of practiced motion. Chauncey blocked high, then low, sparks of sweat flying. He shifted, adapting — no longer trying to match Kael's finesse, but reading him, hunting for rhythm.
CRACK!
Chauncey parried, then twisted his weapon, driving his elbow into Kael's ribs. The Valdyrian grunted — surprised, if not impressed — and stepped back, but Chauncey pressed forward, using that raw, brutal strength that was his signature.
Two more heavy swings — Kael blocked both, but the third came through, slamming into his shoulder.
"Point — Chauncey. 1–1."
Kael's grin faltered. The crowd hummed in approval, the war chief watching from the upper ledge, arms crossed, expression unreadable.
The fifteen-second bell chimed — a soft metallic tone that echoed like a heartbeat. Mira's voice followed.
"Reset. Breathe."
Both men circled, inhaling the chilled air, wood grips slick with sweat.
Round three began before the echoes even faded.
Kael attacked high — fake — then lunged low. Chauncey fell for it, just barely dodging, his foot slipping on frost. Kael pivoted, bringing his blade up and landing a clean strike across Chauncey's back.
"Point — Kael. 2–1."
Chauncey growled under his breath. He stood again, his muscles tightening like cables beneath his skin. He hated that grin Kael wore — the kind of grin that said I've already won.
"Damn it!"
Chauncey spat, the words cutting through the cold air. His fingers twitched like he was seconds away from throwing the sword aside. The frustration, the doubt, the weight of everyone watching — it all pressed on his shoulders like iron.
From the edge of the sparring floor, Charolette's eyes widened. She recognized that look instantly.
"Wait!" Charolette called, stepping forward quickly. "Can we take 5?? We need a moment!"
Mira raised a brow, glancing between them. Kael rolled his eyes dramatically, scoffing.
"What, he needs his sister to fight for him now?" Kael taunted, leaning on his wooden blade. "Maybe she should be the one holding the sword."
Laughter rippled from a few of Valdyr's soldiers along the wall. Charolette ignored them.
Mira sighed, crossing her arms. "You have ten seconds. Make them count."
Charolette was already at her brother's side. She grabbed his wrist — the one gripping the blade — forcing him to look at her. His knuckles were white. His breathing ragged.
"Chauncey," she said quietly, her tone sharp but soft enough to pierce through his haze. "We didn't come all this way just for you to loose. Don't you dare lose your head now."
He kept his gaze down. "He's faster than me. Every time I think I've got him—"
"You do have him," she cut in, voice rising slightly. "You're stronger. You just let your anger do the thinking for you."
He didn't answer.
"Look…I saw the way you fight when we were at Varnhold. How precise with your hits you were. I was proud."
She paused.
"I…don't think I tell you enough."
She stepped closer, lowering her voice to a whisper that only he could hear.
"Remember what Dad said? About the ice fields?"
His jaw flexed. He said nothing.
Charolette continued anyway.
"He said the strong don't survive because they hit the hardest. They survive because they don't crack under pressure." Her grip tightened on his wrist.
"You're cracking, Chauncey. Stop it."
Chauncey finally looked at her. Her gaze was fierce — determined, unwavering. For a moment, he saw not his sister, but a reflection of their father's fire in her eyes.
Kael's voice cut through the moment, sharp and mocking.
"What's the matter? Need a bedtime story too, foreigner? Or maybe a lullaby before I finish this?"
Charolette's head snapped toward him, glare sharp as glass.
"Keep talking," she said coldly. "You'll need something to distract yourself when he knocks that smug grin off your face."
That earned a low hum of surprise from the onlookers.
Mira glanced at the clock. "Five seconds," she called.
Charolette turned back to her brother, lowering her voice again. "He's overconfident, Chauncey. That's your opening. Don't fight him to match him — fight him to outlast him. Hes gonna burn himself out."
Chauncey nodded, slow at first, then firmer. His breath steadied. The tension in his arms eased just enough for control to return.
He looked up at her, a small, crooked grin breaking through.
"You really are bossy, you know that?"
"Only when you're being stupid," she shot back, stepping away.
Mira raised her hand. "Break's over. Fighters, ready!"
Kael cracked his neck, spinning his wooden weapon. "You done with your little pep talk, or should I grab a chair?"
Chauncey exhaled once, deep and slow. Then — for the first time — he smiled. Not in arrogance, but calm resolve.
Eyes steady. Shoulders squared.
"Yeah," he said, lowering into stance. "Let's finish this."
Mira's voice rang out like a blade striking stone.
"Round four. Begin!"
The bell rang again.
Kael came in first — mistake. Chauncey met him halfway, his parry bursting with power. Their weapons locked. The air between them hummed with effort as Kael pushed down, Chauncey pushed up — sweat dripping, muscles trembling. Then, in one brutal motion, Chauncey broke the lock, pivoted, and slammed the side of his weapon into Kael's ribs.
The sound was like a hammer to an anvil.
Kael stumbled, clutching his side as Mira raised her hand.
"Point — Chauncey. 2–2."
The audience murmured again — this time, louder. The foreigner was holding his own.
Kael spat blood to the side. His grin returned, but this time it was strained.
"You think you can match me? Me??" His voice rose, echoing through the hall. "You're nothing but a shadow in my home."
The fifth round began — and that's when the temperature shifted.
Mira's eyes narrowed instantly. "Kael…"
Frost gathered on the floor. His weapon began to glow faintly, blue light crawling up the wood's length like veins of living flame. The air cracked — not cold, but burning cold — as Kael's Codex flared alive, coating the blade in azure fire.
Chauncey flinched back, heat brushing his face.
"Kael!" Mira barked. "The use of a Codex is forbidden!"
Kael ignored her. His pupils thinned,
eyes glinting with fury. "Then disqualify me after I'm done."
He swung.
The impact exploded in light. Blue fire trailed through the air, scorching the edge of Chauncey's tunic as he barely ducked. The floor cracked beneath the pressure. Another swing — Chauncey blocked, but the force launched him backward, sliding across the icy ground.
Mira shouted again. "Cease—!"
But Chauncey wasn't done. He gritted his teeth, forcing himself upright. The blue fire reflected in his eyes — fury mirrored in frost. Kael charged, roaring, blade raised for another burning strike.
At the last second, Chauncey dropped his weapon low, twisted, and drove the hilt straight into Kael's stomach.
The sound tore through the hall. Kael's breath left him in a violent cough as the blue fire flickered out.
Mira's voice rang clear, cutting through the chaos.
"Point — Chauncey! Violation acknowledged. 3–2."
Kael fell to one knee, gasping for air. The audience sat frozen — stunned.
Chauncey stood above him, breathing hard, his blue eyes like cold lightning.
"Guess you can't fight without your magic,"
he said quietly.
Kael glared up, fury in his eyes. Mira stepped between them, signaling the fifteen-second interval.
The war chief leaned forward, murmuring to Flokki from the balcony above.
The old man only smiled, slow and approving. "He fights with heart," Flokki said. "Just like his father."
The silence hung heavy, broken only by the sound of wooden swords scraping the frost-slicked floor and Chauncey's rough breathing. Kael's knuckles dug into the ground as he rose, shoulders trembling—not from pain, but from humiliation. The faint scorch marks on the floor still flickered blue where his codex flame had erupted moments ago, before Mira's sharp command snuffed it out.
"Enough magic tricks," Mira said flatly. "Final round."
Kael spat to the side, jaw tight. "Don't think you've won anything, foreigner."
Chauncey didn't respond. He rolled his shoulders once, steadying his stance. His chest burned, every muscle aching—but somewhere beneath the exhaustion, there was that spark again. The vice commander of Varnhold's voice echoed in his mind:
"Remember—don't fight your opponent. Listen to them. Every swing tells a story."
It was so random, yet he needed it in the moment.
From the balcony, Flokki's single eye gleamed with interest. Even the Great Six, who had lounged like disinterested gods earlier, leaned forward.
"Begin," Mira commanded.
They exploded into motion.
Kael came in first—feral, fast, slashing down in a storm of strikes. The wooden blades cracked against one another like clashing thunderbolts. Each blow carried the ghost of his codex's heat, even restrained; every swing threatened to drive Chauncey back into the wall.
Chauncey blocked high, pivoted, ducked low. The force rattled his arms, but his footwork held. He wasn't meeting Kael's strength this time—he was redirecting it. Kael's attacks grew sharper, faster… but also sloppier. His frustration was leaking through.
A parry. A sidestep. A strike across Kael's ribs—clean.
Mira raised a hand. "4–2."
A murmur rippled through the watching soldiers.
Kael snarled, spinning with a wild backhand. Chauncey caught it on the flat of his weapon, sparks of friction flying. Their faces were inches apart now, breath mixing in the cold air.
"You think this means anything?" Kael hissed. "You're still nothing compared to us."
"Maybe," Chauncey said, pressing forward, "but I've still gotten you worked up, haven't I?"
He shoved hard, breaking Kael's balance. The wooden blade came down once, twice—Kael barely blocked the first and missed the second entirely.
Mira's hand cut the air like a judge's gavel.
"Final point—Chauncey! Match complete!"
For a heartbeat, there was nothing—no cheers, no movement, just disbelief. The silence was deafening.
Then, slowly, Kael dropped his weapon. It hit the ground with a dull clatter. His chest heaved, his eyes burning with something halfway between rage and reluctant respect.
Chauncey stood over him again—sweat dripping, chest rising and falling, the faintest grin curving his lips.
"Good fight," he said simply, offering a hand.
Kael stared at it for a long moment before slapping it away and staggering to his feet on his own.
"Don't get cocky, moron."
Mira exhaled, lowering her clipboard.
"Winner: Chauncey Wraithfield of the foreigners."
A wave of murmurs spread through the crowd. Lyra smiled faintly from where she sat, whispering something to Renn, who gave a single approving nod. Even Solas' expression softened, though only slightly.
Flokki's laughter echoed from above—deep, weathered, genuine. He leaned forward over the railing, his one visible eye gleaming like a glacier catching sunlight.
"Remarkable," he said. "Raw, reckless, but remarkable."
The war chief—Sigurd—crossed his arms, a rare smile tugging at his scarred mouth.
"He's got his father's fire," he said quietly.
Flokki nodded. "Aye. And maybe his stubbornness, too."
Down below, Chauncey turned to his friends. Jasmijn's face split into a wide grin,
Charolette gave a proud, knowing smirk, and Zayn clapped him on the shoulder.
The cold air in the sparring hall seemed to lighten, the tension melting away.
Mira approached the group, her eyes unreadable. "Flokki will decide what happens next," she said. "But if I were you… I'd rest while you can."
The others looked up just in time to see Flokki stand, cloak swaying behind him as he turned toward the exit. His voice carried across the chamber.
"Prepare them quarters," he said. "They'll begin training at dawn."
A rush of shock and relief rippled through the four travelers.
Flokki paused at the door, glancing back over his shoulder, his eyepatch glinting in the torchlight.
"And Chauncey," he said.
Chauncey straightened. "Sir?"
"That heart of yours," Flokki said with a faint smile. "Don't lose it. It's rarer than any codex."
Then he was gone, leaving only the echo of his boots fading into the frost-lit hall.