….
The courtyard of the Frost Temple was quiet that morning, painted gold and silver by the breaking sun. Mist crawled along the cobblestones like living breath, curling around the feet of the three adventurers who stood shoulder-to-shoulder—Jasmijn, Zayn, and Charolette. Their shadows stretched long across the stone, their faces stiff with both fatigue and unease. The air smelled faintly of steel, incense, and pine sap drifting from the far mountains.
Chauncey's absence hung over them like a storm cloud.
Flokki stood a few paces away, his fur-lined cloak swaying in the cold wind. He rubbed his stubble in thought, his one eye distant, unreadable. When he finally looked at them, his expression softened—not in pity, but quiet understanding.
"Where's my brother?"
Charolette's voice cut through the wind, sharp but trembling beneath the edge. Her fists were clenched tight enough for her knuckles to pale.
For a moment, Flokki didn't answer. His silence made the courtyard feel heavier, as though the air itself was waiting. Zayn looked down at his boots. Jasmijn's jaw tightened.
Finally, Flokki spoke, his voice low and grave.
"He pushed himself too hard yesterday…"
He paused, searching for the right words.
"The temple's healers are tending to him. That includes Renn. He's eaten, he's resting. I assure you, your brother is in good hands."
Charolette's shoulders sagged slightly. Relief washed through her chest like a slow tide—brief, but not enough to clear her storming thoughts.
Flokki cleared his throat, stepping forward as the wind caught his cloak.
"Worry will not serve you today. Your brother would not want you to lose focus, not when the challenge before you is what determines your worth here."
Zayn frowned.
"Challenge?"
Flokki nodded once, his expression hardening.
"A test of spirit and instinct. The first true step toward mastery of your codex."
He gestured toward the far end of the courtyard, where temple monks were rolling open a set of carved doors that led to the Arena of Reflection—a sprawling circular space made of black stone, its surface polished like a mirror. Frost crept along its edges, mist swirling like ghostly figures waiting to be summoned.
"The challenge is simple to describe,"
Flokki said, his voice carrying across the courtyard.
"But difficult to survive."
He paused for a moment, before continuing.
"You three will face theEchoConstructs. They are fragments of your spiritual selves—your emotions, fears, and habits, given form. They are not truly alive, but they will fight as though they are. They will adapt to you, mirror you, and test your resolve. If you hesitate, if you lose control of your intent, they will overpower you."
Charolette's brow furrowed, her heartbeat quickening.
"You're saying we're fighting… ourselves?"
"Not yourselves,"
Flokki corrected.
"You're fighting the part of you that refuses to grow."
As he spoke, the gate's light spread outward across the courtyard floor, tracing ancient runes that glowed brighter with each passing heartbeat. The cold deepened—mist curling upward, shrouding the three in pale blue haze.
Jasmijn's brows furrowed as she crossed her arms.
"But… what about me? I've already manifested my codex's eminence."
Flokki nodded.
"Yes. You have learned to summon your power. But summoning and understanding are not the same. This test is for all of you—to see how deep that connection runs."
He turned his gaze toward Zayn, who stood motionless. The young man's expression was unreadable, but his hands trembled slightly by his sides.
"And you," Flokki continued, his voice gentler now, "you carry two souls. Your test may not behave as the others do."
Zayn didn't respond. His heart was pounding in his ears, and somewhere deep inside him, he could feel Kelios stir—like a second heartbeat, slow and ancient. The runes pulsed in rhythm with it.
Jasmijn stepped back instinctively, watching Zayn with growing concern.
"Flokki… what if—?"
"Don't ask,"
Flokki interrupted softly. "We'll learn what we must when the time comes."
He lifted his hand, palm open toward the glowing ring. The rune circle responded with a sharp hum, and thin streams of light shot upward like threads, weaving together to form faint silhouettes—shapes of people, blurred and incomplete, flickering in and out like half-remembered dreams.
"Before any of you 3 begin your fight with the echo constructs, you must first face them in stillness."
The 3 remained silent. Zayn trembled, knuckles whitening, his breath hitching ever so slightly. Charolette recognized, a concerned expression for her friend growing on her face.
"A warrior's first enemy is not the blade before them, but the chaos within. Sit. Breathe. Do not move. Look at what your spirit has created—and learn."
Zayn hesitated. His pulse raced. The flickering silhouette across from him was changing, colors bleeding through its outline—a flash of his own golden aura, and something else darker beneath it.
Kelios.
He could feel the ancient presence behind that shape, pressing against the walls of his mind, curious, watching. The same presence that once saved him. The same one that could consume him if it wished.
"Flokki,"
Zayn said quietly,
"I don't think I can…"
Flokki raised a hand, not unkindly.
"Then do not force it. To look at yourself honestly is not a small task."
Charolette, heart thudding, sat down first. Her echo was forming clearer than the others—a near-perfect mirror of herself, calm and still, yet its eyes glowed faintly violet. She shivered.
Jasmijn followed, hesitant but composed. She folded her legs beneath her, closing her eyes briefly before opening them to meet her own reflection. The air around her shimmered faintly with moisture, the echo's body rippling like water.
Zayn remained standing for a moment longer before lowering himself down, keeping his gaze fixed on his reflection. Its chest glowed with two opposing lights—one gold, one deep crimson—and both pulsed in time with his heartbeat.
For a long moment, none of them spoke. The courtyard was utterly silent except for the soft hum of the runes and the slow, rhythmic sound of three hearts beating in uncertainty.
Even Flokki, standing a few paces away, felt the weight in the air—the sharp, electric tension of spiritual contact.
He crossed his arms, his tone quieter now, almost reverent.
"This is where the real training begins. No swords. No movement. Only truth. When you can face what stands before you—when you can look into the eyes of your own spirit without turning away—then, and only then, will you be ready to fight."
The mist thickened around them, the faint outlines of their echoes flickering brighter, mirroring each breath they took.
Jasmijn's reflection tilted its head as though studying her.
Charolette's blinked slowly, calm and unblinking.
Zayn's leaned forward ever so slightly, its two-toned aura pulsing harder now—its golden eye dimming while the crimson one began to glow.
Zayn swallowed hard, his throat dry. As he continued to look at the construct, he felt his resolve slowly increasing. The promise he made to himself on isle Fareth pulsing in his mind, doing its best to erase the eminent fear.
The air trembled. The runes pulsed once more.
The line between self and spirit began to blur.
And the stillness before the storm deepened.
….
SQUAWK! SQUAWK !
The morning haze hung low over Plugand's harbor, the scent of salt and oil thick in the air. From high above, a lone hawk carved a sharp silhouette against the pale sun. Its wings beat with measured precision, each powerful flap cutting through the mist, a lone sentinel of urgent news. A navy soldier stationed at the docks squinted through a brass spyglass, the lens fogging slightly from the early chill.
He froze. One golden-brown eye widened as he tracked the bird's approach.
"It's a messenger hawk…"
He murmured, voice low, almost reverent. The bird's talons clutched a small scroll, wrapped tightly, unmistakably official. The soldier's fingers trembled slightly as he lowered the spyglass, alerting the headquarters.
Inside the Plugish Inquisition's headquarters, the corridors echoed with the clatter of boots and faint murmurs of clerks. The heavy wooden doors to an office creaked as a subordinate pushed them open. The room smelled of smoke and metal. Sunlight slanted through high windows, dust motes floating lazily through the air.
A man lounged in his chair behind a massive oak desk, one leg lazily crossed over the other. The cigar clutched between his 2 golden teeth glowed faintly, a curl of smoke drifting to the ceiling. His broad shoulders and scarred arms spoke of countless battles, each mark a story of survival. His metallic left hand gleamed ominously in the morning light, the polished surface reflecting a cruel, unyielding determination.
Edgar the Immortal.
"Uhm… Sir?"
The soldier began, voice cautious.
The man exhaled a lazy plume of smoke, eyes narrowing.
"What?"
"One of the bounty hunters… sent a message back. The one the church dispatched."
"Who? Havelock?"
His voice was gruff, almost dismissive.
"No,"
the soldier corrected, swallowing hard.
"Nora."
Edgar motioned for him to step closer, curiosity breaking through his casual demeanor. The soldier handed over the small parchment, the texture rough against his gloved fingers. The man's eyes scanned the contents quickly, a thin line forming between his brows. He leaned back slightly, exhaling smoke in a long, deliberate stream.
"Huh,"
He muttered, a trace of disbelief in his gravelly voice.
"Havelock… is dead. Can you believe it?"
On a couch diagonal, a figure stirred, her red hair cascading like a waterfall of blood down her shoulders. The dark red lipstick and piercing eyes gave her an aura of lethal elegance. She leaned forward slightly, elbows on her knees, studying her fingernails with a practiced coldness.
"That man was a fool,"
She spat, voice sharp and precise.
"And the church… an even bigger fool, for ever thinking he was competent enough to be sent after a bounty."
His gaze flicked to her, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.
"What's one kid, am I right? Let alone 3?"
Edgar's metallic fingers tapped the edge of the desk, the echo sharp in the smoke-filled office. Around him, the other figures stirred, each a study in menace and refinement, their postures and gazes hinting at danger that had been sharpened through years of cruelty and strategy.
On a tall stool near the fireplace, a slender man with silver hair cascading to his shoulders, a mechanical monocle over one eye, leaned forward, studying the parchment paper even from so far with a surgeon's intensity. His thin lips curled in a faint, sinister smile.
"Written a day ago,"
he murmured.
"This wasn't supposed to come so quickly. Valdyr's hawks are pretty nifty, I'd say."
Across the room, a woman with hair as black as midnight, braided tightly into intricate knots, adjusted the straps of her light, flexible armor, each movement precise, calculating. Her dark eyes glimmered like onyx.
"Valdyr,"
She said softly, voice smooth as silk yet edged with steel,
"is a fortress. No wonder the children are proving to be troublesome. But even their walls won't save them from what's coming."
"Our targets are in Valdyr then,"
Edgar said, voice deep and cold.
"And apparently Drenmarch still isn't able to mind their own business. What the hell are they playing at?"
The red haired woman, almost eerily composed, smiled, the light glinting off the subtle curve of her cheekbones.
"Perhaps they want a war, but it could be dangerous If that boy Zayn is involved…"
Her voice trailed off, though the implication was clear. She tapped a polished dagger against her palm, the metal ringing softly, deliberately.
Edgar leaned back, exhaling a long trail of smoke.
"The church has wasted enough manpower on that singular boy. They've underestimated, waited too long to subdue him with their hidden big canons."
He silenced the sizzle of his cigar into an ash tray.
The silver-haired man tilted his head, thin lips parting in a quiet chuckle.
"Valdyr may be strong, but their strength is a beacon. And the church… they have a way of snuffing out beacons. This conquest…is long over due."
Edgar sighed.
"You."
He gestured to a soldier standing at the doorway.
"Take this to the head of the church so they may determine the next move."
With that, the soldier obliged. Danger was in the air. Blood was going to be shed, and everyone involved was going to be affected.
"Looks like Plugand has a war on their hands."
….
"Are you ready?"
Flokki's voice cut through the air, calm yet commanding, carrying the weight of authority that made the hairs on their arms stand.
Zayn's hands hovered over his weapon. His muscles tensed like coiled steel. His mind, however, was a battlefield of its own.
Kelios… let me show you who's in charge, he thought—but the voice in his mind was relentless.
"You think you're ready? You've barely scratched the surface of what I could do. You're weak, Zayn. You can't control this."
Each one mirrored the fighters perfectly: the same movements, the same weapons, the same aura, only sharper, more brutal in form.
Jasmijn's eyes widened for a fraction of a second before narrowing.
"Remember what Flokki said,"
She muttered.
"They'll mimic our styles perfectly. Every move we make… every flaw will be exploited. We need to be faster than them."
Zayn's breath hitched. His construct, an uncanny shadow of himself, smirked back, eyes glowing with a dark, unnatural intensity. His grip on his sword tightened.
"You can't beat me,"
Kelios whispered, voice dripping venom.
"I am your shadow… your weakness. You'll be flung before you even know why."
The echo constructs lunged. The ground shook under the force of their strikes.
Before Zayn could respond, his echo had entered his gaurd, moving with a terrifying fluidity. He barely managed to twist aside, the echo's blade slicing through the air where his head had been moments ago. Kelios hissed in his mind, sharp and biting:
"You can't even dodge me. How will you survive this?"
The next blow came faster than thought. The crimson blade collided with his guard, exploding in a shower of sparks. Zayn's sword had slipped from his trembling hand and clattered to the ground. His white fire—his supposed strength—flickered weakly at the edges of his form, as though even it doubted his resolve.
The echo's heel slammed into his chest. Air fled his lungs. Zayn hit the ground hard, skidding across the polished stone until his back met one of the courtyard pillars with a crack.
"Zayn!"
Jasmijn cried out, turning just in time to block a vicious slash from her own construct. The collision sent a tremor through her arm. Her eyes darted to him, wide with worry, even as she fought to keep her balance.
"Focus!"
Charolette shouted from her end, barely ducking beneath her echo's twin daggers. Her braid snapped over her shoulder like a whip as she turned to glance at Zayn.
"Don't let it get in your head!"
But Zayn could hardly hear her. His echo was already on him again, relentless. It moved with a brutal precision that was almost human—each motion purposeful, efficient, cruel. It was Kelios made manifest, every strike landing where it would hurt most, every movement designed to remind Zayn that he was the weaker half.
The echo grabbed him by the collar, yanking him up and slamming him against a pillar. Crimson fire crawled up its blade, searing through the air with a hiss. Zayn's reflection looked down at him with something like contempt before driving a knee into his gut. He gasped, vision tunneling, tasting blood.
"See?"
Kelios' voice was almost soft now, a whisper curling in the back of his mind.
"This is power. My power. And it's not even half of it. You could end this in an instant, if you'd just stop pretending you're something you're not. Something that we're not."
Zayn's trembling hand reached for his sword, but the echo kicked it away, the blade skittering across the courtyard and stopping near Jasmijn's boots.
She caught sight of it, eyes wide.
"Zayn's down!"
Charolette spun, barely catching a dagger strike before kicking her echo back.
"Then we need to get to him—"
"No!"
Jasmijn barked, slamming her palm into the ground. A pulse of silver-blue energy radiated outward, knocking her own echo off balance.
"If we interfere, we break focus. This is his fight."
Her words were firm, but her eyes told a different story—fear. She could feel the imbalance in his energy, could see the way his aura flickered in distress.
Zayn coughed, forcing air back into his lungs. The world swayed. The echo loomed over him, crimson flame roaring now, casting its long shadow across his fallen form. Its sword rose, gleaming with murderous intent.
And for the briefest moment, Zayn saw himself in it—the part of him that was afraid, angry, and chained by Kelios' whispers. The monster he was trying so hard not to become.
"I am not you,"
He whispered.
But the echo's blade came down.
He threw up his arm on instinct, and the world ignited—white fire erupting like lightning, meeting crimson flame in a cataclysmic explosion that tore through the courtyard. The ground cracked beneath their feet, a blinding flash swallowing them both as Jasmijn and Charolette shielded their eyes.
"Zayn!"
Charolette cried again.
As the smoke thinned, Zayn stood—barely. His arm trembled, his blade held low but still burning faintly. His echo's form flickered in and out of coherence, distorted, unstable.
Jasmijn's lips parted.
"He's fighting it."
Flokki's voice echoed from the balcony above, calm but laced with weight.
"No… he's confronting it."
The courtyard went still except for the low hum of energy between them—the white fire fighting to stay alive against the crimson inferno. Zayn's body shook, his expression caught between fear and fury. But even through the pain, through the trembling exhaustion, there was defiance.
For the first time, he wasn't running from Kelios' voice.
He was facing it head-on.