….
A great marble table stretched the length of the sanctum, its surface reflecting the pale light of the stained glass above. Crimson sigils of the Plugish Church glowed faintly in the candlelight. Every seat was filled — high-ranking officers, inquisitors, ministers, and the scholars of the Church's secret divisions. The hum of tension was almost tangible.
A man at the far end cleared his throat, breaking the heavy silence. He laid down a bundle of documents on the polished table. The sound echoed like a hammer against the quiet.
"Havelock is dead."
Murmurs rippled through the room. Some looked unsurprised. Others pale. A few, faintly amused.
"So," said one of the ministers, leaning forward, "what's our next course of action?"
Another man, clad in a black officer's coat with the Plugish insignia stitched into his shoulder, slammed his palm against the table.
"I still believe much of this could have been avoided had we just killed the boy before he escaped. All of this—"
He gestured sharply toward the reports,
"—is a consequence of hesitation."
Across the table, a scholar in silver robes raised his voice.
"We don't even know what killing him would cause! The boy is bound to something ancient, something divine. You could spark a calamity!"
"That's the problem, isn't it?"
The officer snapped back.
"None of us know anything! And with Drenmarch making their move—using him as a weapon—we're sitting here debating philosophy while the world shifts around us!"
"Silence."
The single word cut the room in half.
Father Ecleastis had spoken.
The man's white robes gleamed like snow beneath the dim stained-glass glow. His golden staff stood beside him, and his eyes — once kind — now burned with exhaustion. He rose from his seat with deliberate calm, though every motion carried the weight of restrained fury.
"We,"
He began, his voice steady but cold,
"are doing everything in our power to find the forbidden child. He has been priority number one for years now. We will not relent."
"Yet you've failed!"
The accusation came from a portly minister with silver spectacles. His voice cracked slightly from nerves but rose all the same.
"It's still a problem retrieving oneman. You've let him slip through your fingers, Father. And now—now he's found companions. Don't you see what this means? He's forming bonds. Power shared is power multiplied!"
The room erupted into overlapping voices — angry, anxious, desperate.
"He should have been terminated!"
"No, studied! He's the key to sealing Kelios forever!"
"You want to study a vessel of chaos? Are you mad?"
"Ecleastis has grown sentimental. Everyone knows he raised the boy like a son—"
"Enough!"
The table rattled under Ecleastis's fist. His calm, saintly veneer cracked. His voice came out raw and wrathful.
"You think I'm sentimental?"
His tone trembled with barely-contained rage.
"You think I've gone soft?"
No one answered.
"I was the one,"
He continued, his voice dropping lower — quieter, but more dangerous,
"Who sent the first bounty after him. At sixteen. Do you understand what that means?"
His gaze swept the table, daring anyone to speak.
"I sent that child to his death if it meant preserving this world. I sent killers. I sent Havelock."
He took a long breath, then exhaled bitterly.
"And when Havelock going after him wasn't enough, you—"
He pointed toward one of the officials,
"—approved Nora of the Sahran, a murderer and heretic, to aid in the hunt. You brought filth into our ranks out of desperation, and you dare accuse me of losing faith?"
The words struck like blades. The room fell utterly silent.
For a long moment, only the soft hiss of incense filled the void.
When the next voice spoke, it was calm — disturbingly calm. A woman in black velvet leaned forward, fingers laced beneath her chin.
"The Father speaks truth. But we can't deny the problem any longer. The vessel grows older, stronger. If Kelios truly stirs within him, then the balance of the world itself is at stake."
Another minister — the same one who had spoken first — added,
"If we capture him alive, perhaps we can siphon the power. Bind Kelios into a weapon for the Plugish Dominion."
A low hum of agreement circled the table. The tone shifted — from panic to calculation.
A general, his uniform gleaming with medals, smirked faintly.
"World domination… under divine sanction."
"Call it what you will," said another. "We'd simply be bringing order to chaos."
Father Ecleastis looked away, a faint flicker of disgust in his eyes—but he said nothing. The room was tense, every figure rigid in their seat. Papers rustled softly, a candle flickered, but no one dared speak.
The same government official who had sent Nora cleared his throat, finally breaking the silence.
"Her message…"
He said carefully, glancing down at the letter once more.
"…she states that going head-on into Valdyr would be suicide. The sea monster patrols the coasts, and none get in—or out—undetected. According to her, any fleet that attempts a direct landing will be annihilated. We must travel around the island. That's the only way."
A collective murmur passed through the chamber. Many looked pensive, glances flicking toward one another. Some hands tightened into fists, others tapped nervously against the polished oak table. The gamble was clear: it was necessary, yes—but terrifying.
"We'd be venturing into the unknown,"
Another official muttered, voice low but trembling slightly.
"Every moment of delay, every misstep… Valdyr's defenses are formidable. And their warriors… we know little of their capabilities. How can we risk our men like this?"
The man next to him slammed a hand on the table, eyes blazing.
"We have to. Zayn cannot remain free. Every day he trains, he grows stronger. If we hesitate, we're dooming ourselves—not just the mission, but the entire Plugish strategy for control."
Father Ecleastis' gaze hardened, jaw tight. He said nothing, letting the council debate, but his hands rested tensely atop the table, the faintest sign of unease flickering in his eyes.
Another official, younger and sharper, leaned forward.
"We follow the blind spot Nora indicated. Travel around the island, land where the patrols are weakest. But… even then, the risk is catastrophic. One miscalculation and our fleet—our entire force—could be lost to the sea monster before we even reach shore."
A heavy silence fell, punctuated by the quiet crackling of candle flames. Each face in the room betrayed the same truth: fear. But fear did not stop them; necessity did not allow it.
Finally, the head of the council spoke, voice measured, precise.
"Then we proceed. Edgar and his division will sail under these instructions. They will take the blind path. Capture Zayn. Secure the island. No hesitation. No failure."
Though the words were firm, the uncertainty lingered in the room. The shadow of Valdyr's natural defenses loomed over every plan, every decision. Outside, the harbor remained deceptively calm, the winds gentle. But the council knew the truth: by the time the fleet reached Valdyr, the calm would shatter.
The candlelight flickered again, casting long shadows across the faces of those who dared plot the invasion. Every move was weighed, every risk calculated—but none could shake the knowledge that this mission would either crown them in triumph or drown them in catastrophe.
….
The courtyard was alive with tension. Even the birds seemed to hush, perching in silence as if waiting to witness Zayn's next move. Attempt seven. His body ached in places he hadn't known could hurt. Bruises painted his skin in mottled purple and blue, his armor scuffed, sweat glistening and dripping down his temples. Yet his eyes—crimson flecked with determination—burned brighter than ever.
Flokki's voice cut through the stillness.
"Are you ready?"
Zayn didn't respond. His focus was inward, his mind steeled. He inhaled, slow and deliberate, letting the rhythm of his heartbeat guide him. Then he exhaled, a long, controlled release, as if pushing fear itself out of his body.
With a subtle motion of Flokki's hand, the echo shimmered into existence, coalescing into its familiar, ominous form. Its crimson flames licked the edges of the courtyard stones, reflecting off its blade with a menacing intensity. Kelios' voice hissed briefly in Zayn's mind, sharp and biting—but quieter now, like a fading shadow.
Crimson fire traced every edge of its form, molten and fluid, teeth bared as if it were a predator that could smell weakness.
"Bring it."
Zayn muttered, resolve strengthening as he tightened the grip on his blade.
The echo lunged, faster than he anticipated, its blade a crimson blur. Zayn twisted, narrowly dodging the first strike, feeling the heat of the fire lick past his cheek. He rolled, trying to gain footing, only to have the echo slam its blade down again, forcing him to vault backward as the stone beneath his boots cracked from the force.
Every strike was precise. Every swing a threat meant to punish hesitation. Zayn barely kept up. His muscles were screaming, his body trembling, his ribs threatening to crack under the force of a parry. He swung once—and missed. The echo's next slash drove him to the edge of the courtyard, his back nearly hitting the cold stone wall.
"Come on…"
He muttered under his breath, jaw tight, teeth clenched. Every nerve in his body was on fire. He pivoted, just enough to deflect the echo's strike with the flat of his blade, sparks dancing off the metal like embers in the wind. His chest heaved; the sound of his own breathing was loud enough to drown the echo's subtle movements.
The echo circled him, watching, testing, reading his defenses. Zayn's legs burned, shaking beneath him. Sweat slicked his grip. Every instinct screamed retreat, but he refused. One misstep would be death—or worse, humiliation in front of Flokki and Valdyr's 6.
As the moments flickered by, he saw it.
A tiny opening, almost imperceptible. The echo had shifted its weight too far forward. Just a fraction. His body moved before thought.
SLASH!
A single, desperate arc of steel, shallow but real, cutting across the echo's chest. Crimson embers spilled to the floor, sizzling and scattering, but the echo didn't falter beyond the briefest stagger.
Flokki's voice cut through the tension.
"Too shallow!"
Zayn's lungs burned. He dropped into a crouch, sweat dripping from his brow into his eyes, teeth gritted. His body ached in every possible place, his arms heavy, legs trembling. He hadn't even bested his echo, not really. That single strike had been the culmination of sheer effort, timing, and sheer force of will—but he hadnt done it. Not yet.
From the edge of the courtyard, Jasmijn and Charolette watched in quiet awe. They had already overcome their own echoes, but even they felt the gravity of this moment. Zayn wasn't just surviving; he was adapting, learning, forcing his body and mind to respond to something that mimicked his every thought, anticipating his every move.
The echo remained, unbroken, crimson fire licking hungrily, almost laughing at him. But Zayn remained on his toes, chest heaving, every muscle primed for the next move. One slash was all he had landed—but it was a start.
Flokki remained silent, watching closely. The courtyard seemed smaller somehow, the air heavier, as if the struggle itself had thickened it. He knew the boy's spirit had just taken its first real step against a shadow of his own making.
Zayn's hands tightened around his hilt. He hadn't beaten it. He hadn't won. But for the first time, fear was no longer the only thing guiding his limbs. Determination—raw, blinding, and relentless—was now in control.
A faint glimmer of gold and blue.
it was subtle at first, like sunlight catching on a frost line. Zayn felt it pulse beneath his skin, a quiet resonance in the bones, a whisper of power that wasn't Kelios, but something him. It stirred, urging him to move, to act, to strike—but he suppressed it, knowing better than to rush. The echo's crimson fire flared violently, seeming to sense the shift in Zayn's aura. It lunged again, faster than before, a streak of scarlet light that cut through the morning mist.
Stone cracked beneath his boots as he vaulted backward, landing in a crouch. Dust and embers spiraled around him like a miniature storm.
The echo pressed, pivoting fluidly, almost floating, its movements too precise to be human. Zayn spun on his heel, blade cutting a defensive arc, sparks scattering like molten stars as steel met steel. The clang rang sharply, echoing off the courtyard walls. He ducked low as the echo swept a wide strike, barely dodging the crimson flame that sizzled along the stone where his head had been moments before. He rolled, momentum carrying him forward, and launched a desperate riposte—but the echo's weapon twisted at the last instant, the strike deflected, barely grazing his arm and sending a shock of pain up his shoulder.
Every strike of the echo was a test of instinct. Every feint a lesson in precision. Zayn's body burned with exertion—muscles quivering, lungs gasping, hands slick with sweat. His eyes, sharp and calculating, scanned the figure before him.
He darted to the side as the echo feinted, and in that fraction of a heartbeat, he noticed it: the weight was ever so slightly forward, the left shoulder drooping under its own momentum. The opening was minuscule, almost imperceptible. His pulse raced, the gold-and-blue shimmer flickering faintly in response as if to whisper— this is your moment.
Zayn adjusted his grip, flexing fingers until the pain flared from calloused knuckles. He lunged—not recklessly, but with every sinew coiled. His blade cut another shallow, desperate arc across the echo's chest.
Yet, it was deeper this time.
Crimson embers scattered into the courtyard like dying fireflies, sparking against the stone, twisting in the morning light. The echo faltered, staggering a bit longer than it had before, but recovered nonetheless, spinning to slash with an almost sadistic grace.
Zayn felt the burn in his calves as he pivoted, narrowly avoiding the arc that could have cleaved him in two. Sparks flew, ricocheting from blade to stone. He ducked under a swing, countering with a horizontal slash that the echo deflected barely an inch from his shoulder, the vibrations rattling up his arms like a hammer strike. Pain and adrenaline interlaced, teeth grinding, sweat stinging his eyes. Every motion was a battle, every breath a risk.
Jasmijn leaned forward slightly at the edge of the courtyard, eyes tracking every micro-movement. Charolette's fingers twitched as she silently counted the strikes, heart hammering. Even with their own echoes long defeated, the spectacle—the raw, physical poetry of Zayn's fight—kept them on edge.
The echo's crimson blaze surged, flicking along its blade like wildfire. Zayn ducked a high slash, rolling forward and springing onto the balls of his feet. He drove a low thrust, aiming for the knee, but the echo leapt backward, the air between them crackling with the heat of its flame. Sparks showered down, some embedding in Zayn's sleeve, burning but shallow. He pressed, swinging, striking—a glancing blow along the echo's torso. The faint gold and blue shimmer rippled along his own blade, teasing, almost coaxing him.
Every strike required thought and instinct fused, a symphony of calculated movements: a feint, a step to the right, a parry, a low sweep, a staggered backward pivot. The echo tested him relentlessly, a blur of crimson fire and steel, each movement designed to strip him of hope, to punish overconfidence.
Zayn's chest heaved, knees quivering, arms trembling, but he didn't yield. He let his instincts meld with that flicker of gold-and-blue energy, every movement a dialogue with the echo, every step a negotiation with death.
Then, at the perfect apex—the singular, heartbeat-perfect moment—he saw yet another opening: the echo overextended by a fraction, shoulders misaligned, blade just an inch too low. Zayn's pulse synchronized with the shimmer in his aura. Gold and blue, fragile and radiant, flared along the edge of his sword like a sliver of dawn breaking through storm clouds.
Muscles coiled, body trembling but unrelenting. The courtyard seemed to hold its breath. Zayn lunged.
TSSHK!
Steel sang against ember. Crimson collided with gold and blue. It's subtle shimmers had manifested into something more with his final attack. It surged outward, a ribbon of pureenergy clinging to the edge of his blade, crawling up the hilt and licking the air around him. Gold threads wove with streaks of sapphire, sparkling like molten starlight, tracing patterns that pulsed with his heartbeat. It wasn't Kelios' fire anymore—it was Zayn's codex, a raw, unrefined, radiant manifestation of his own spirit.
This was his fire.
Sparks leapt high into the morning mist, illuminating every sweat-streaked line on his face. Zayn's blade bit deep, carving through the echo's chest, and in a final, unbroken motion, he cleaved the figure cleanly in half. Crimson embers scattered in a brilliant cascade, drifting to the ground like dying fireflies.
Silence fell. Dust and sparks settled. The courtyard seemed impossibly still, broken only by Zayn's ragged breathing and the faint flicker of gold-and-blue energy along his blade. Flokki stepped forward, slow, deliberate, jaw tight, eyes wide—not a word at first, only the weight of witness.
Finally, he spoke.
"That…was no figment of my imagination. That was real. That was yours."
Zayn sank to one knee, chest heaving, muscles quivering, sweat and blood mingling on his skin. He had fought for every inch of that victory. Every motion, every breath, every beat of his heart had been earned.
For the first time, he wasn't merely surviving.
He was rising.