….
Frost whispered over the temple's walls as the sky dimmed to a soft slate gray, streaked by pale streaks of fading sunlight. Sigurd stood in the courtyard—his cloak tugged by the wind like the breath of a sleeping giant. His expression, usually carved from iron, seemed almost... lighter now, though a shadow of concern remained beneath his eyes.
The war chief turned to face the four adventurers. Zayn, quiet as ever, met his gaze with calm composure. Charolette stood beside him, her arms crossed, hiding whatever emotion simmered under her hardened expression. Chauncey had his hands jammed in his pockets, shifting from foot to foot, while Jasmijn maintained her formal poise, giving a respectful nod.
Flokki had accompanied them to the gates, his blue coat rippling behind him, the faint jingle of metal charms on his belt breaking the silence. His golden-eyed niece stood a step behind him, her sharp eyes flicking between the foreigners and her uncle like a hawk judging prey.
Sigurd exhaled, frost escaping his lips.
"Try not to break too many bones," he said gruffly, his tone aimed mostly at Chauncey.
He smirked faintly. "No promises."
The war chief turned to Flokki, bowing slightly—not out of servitude, but respect.
"Old friend. Watch over them."
Flokki nodded once, a knowing half-smile beneath his stubble. "Valdyr watches over all. But I'll make sure they come out better than they went in."
Sigurd chuckled under his breath, then turned, boots crunching against the frostbitten ground as he made his leave. The wind rose behind him, catching his cloak like wings, until he vanished into the white distance—an echo of a bygone era fading into mist.
The gates closed. The golden-eyed girl—Flokki's niece—clapped her hands together sharply.
"Alright," she said dryly. "Let's get this over with."
She didn't wait for a response, turning briskly and walking down the main courtyard path. The four followed her through the Frost Temple's grounds—past frozen fountains, silent statues carved from glacial stone, and courtyards filled with training warriors.
At first, she said little, but her voice soon carried across the cold air like steel on glass.
"The Frost Temple is Valdyr's oldest standing sanctuary. Built by the first six divine protectors. The Great Six still train here. You'll be staying in the northern quarters. Don't wander. Don't touch the sacred wells. Don't look at the runic mirrors."
"Why?" Chauncey asked, half curious, half sarcastic.
She glanced back, unimpressed. "Because the last foreigner who did isn't around to tell you."
Charolette rolled her eyes.
"You know, for a tour guide, you're doing a real bad job of not sounding like you hate us."
The girl stopped and turned, golden eyes sharp as a blade.
"I didn't ask for this job. But my uncle insists on being hospitable to outsiders who barge into our sanctum."
"Then maybe you should learn how to smile,"
Charolette snapped.
The golden-eyed girl scoffed, turning back around. "Maybe you should learn when to stop talking."
Jasmijn sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose.
"Ladies, please. We're guests here."
Their bickering fell away when a dull thud echoed across the courtyard—followed by a grunt. Another thud, heavier. The rhythmic crack of a wooden blade colliding against training posts.
The group turned to see him.
Erik.
His emerald eyes blazed with focused fury as he trained alone, each swing of his weapon carving arcs through the cold air. His breath came out in bursts of steam. The sheer force behind his movements made the snow tremble from nearby rails. His muscles tensed with the rhythm of a man fighting ghosts only he could see.
"Hey… isn't that—" Charolette began.
"Erik,"
The niece interrupted, her tone clipped.
"He's quiet. Doesn't really interact with others. It'd be best if you stayed out of his way during your stay here."
They exchanged glances but didn't argue. Even from a distance, Erik's presence was… unsettling. His intensity seemed to bend the air itself. Zayn lingered for a moment, his eyes narrowing, sensing something in the man's spirit.
But he said nothing.
Their quarters were simple but comfortable—stone rooms softened by fur bedding and a steady stream of heat from vented firestones in the walls. The air smelled faintly of pine and iron. Charolette flopped onto her bed with an exhausted groan.
"This'll do,"
She muttered, sinking into the warmth. For a rare moment, her expression softened. They'd made it. Finally. Valdyr. Training with the legendary Flokki himself.
But as her smile faded, her thoughts drifted to her father's old book—the one she carried everywhere, worn from years of thumbing through its pages. She picked it up, brushing the dust off its spine, and opened it halfway. The faded ink and sketches inside made her chest tighten.
What would you say now, old man?
Before she could lose herself in the words, a knock came.
"Charolette? You coming for lunch?" Zayn's voice—quiet, steady.
She hesitated. "Yeah. Just a minute."
She set the book on the nightstand and followed him out.
The dining hall was warm and alive, its walls lined with banners of blue and silver. Massive chandeliers of frost glass hung overhead, scattering refracted light across the room like shards of diamond.
Flokki sat at the head of the table, posture relaxed but eyes ever-watchful. Around him were Valdyr's Six—or rather, four of them.
Mira, serene and sharp-eyed, quietly poured tea.
Renn, gentle-faced and smiling, greeted them with an almost brotherly warmth.
Lyra doodled idly on a napkin with charcoal, her imagination clearly wandering even as food was served.
And Solas—a seemingly calm, ethereal, and poised figure—spoke softly to Flokki about upcoming training schedules.
"Come,"
Flokki said, gesturing toward two empty seats.
"We've been waiting for you."
Zayn and Charolette sat, the air between the two groups charged but not hostile. Flokki leaned forward slightly.
"With your training to begin tomorrow, you should become acquainted with Valdyr's Six."
His gaze swept the table.
"Of course, Erik and Kael are… absent today."
Lyra snorted softly.
"Absent is one word for it."
Flokki gave her a patient look, then continued,
"If any of you need guidance and I am unavailable, Solas will serve as your point of contact. He leads my Six when I am not present."
Solas nodded respectfully. "We'll see to it that you are prepared."
….
The sound of a bell chimed faintly in the distance. The bitter wind of Valdyr's streets were colder this morning, where snow drifts lazily in the sunlight.
A cloaked woman—steps into a small shop. The bell above the door jingles weakly as she enters, her boots leaving shallow prints on the wooden floor.
The shopkeeper eyes her warily. "What do you need, foreigner?"
The woman doesn't answer immediately. Instead, she flicks two pieces of Plugish silver across the counter. They land with a soft clink.
"Writing paper,"
She says flatly.
"Ink. And a message hawk, if you have one."
The shopkeeper studies her, suspicion narrowing his eyes. But the coin is good. Eventually, he nods, gathering her supplies.
When the woman steps back into the cold, her cloak flutters behind her like a dark flame. She makes her way along the frozen coastline until she reaches a lonely tent—her tent. A place no one knew existed. She looked around, as if to check if anyone had been foolish enough to follow her, before removing her cloak in one swift motion.
It was Nora.
Her locs, tied to the back of her head had a few loose— falling onto her forehead. She looked….disoriented, if the word fit. She brushed the locs from her face and made her way inside.
Inside, a single lantern flickers. She puts the caged animal on the ground, before she sets the paper down on a stool before her. She dips her quill into ink, before beginning to write.
Each stroke is deliberate. Measured. Dangerous.
The letter's seal bears a sigil not of Valdyr, but of something else. The Plugish inquisiton.
….
Jasmijn sits in her room, door ajar, quill scratching over parchment in rhythmic strokes. Her handwriting is elegant but efficient—military, almost.
Chauncey leans over her shoulder, curiosity thick in his voice.
"What are you writing?"
She doesn't look up.
"A status report. To Drenmarch. They need to know where we are."
He raises a brow.
"Hopefully they send us a new ship. Or we'll be stuck here after training's done."
Jasmijn smirks faintly, but her eyes don't leave the page.
"Then let's make sure it's worth the wait."
Outside, the snow begins to fall again—quiet and heavy.
The frost temple sleeps. But secrets are already awake.