….
Heat wavered over the jungle canopy, smoke clinging to the trees like a second skin. The air tasted of ash and metal. Leaves cracked under distant shells, each impact rolling through the earth like a slow heartbeat
Jasmijn crouched behind a broken stone wall, dirt sifting beneath her fingertips. Her breath came sharp, controlled. The stones trembled again—another blast, closer this time—sending startled birds spiraling upward through the haze.
"Jas."
A whisper.
Soft, but cutting through the noise as if the jungle itself parted for it.
Jasmijn turned.
A figure slid into cover beside her in a single fluid motion. Ash streaked her bronze cheekbones. Sweat clung to her temples. Hair tied back hastily, strands catching the fading light like dusted gold. Leather straps hugged her arms, frayed and scratched. Her knife rested at her hip, fingers brushing the hilt the way one might touch a pulse.
"Artillery's shifting north," the woman murmured, eyes flicking over the wall. "If we move through the grove, we'll cut them off."
Jasmijn didn't answer.
She was too close.
Close enough to hear the hitch in Jasmijn's breathing she tried to hide.
The woman's brows knit together.
"What?" she asked, quiet but sharp. Not angry—defensive, almost afraid of the answer.
"Nothing," Jasmijn said, too quickly.
She scoffed. "You're a terrible liar."
She nudged Jasmijn's shoulder with her own. Light, reassuring. The woman had a way of lightening the mood— even they crouched in a burning forest while troops marched through their homeland.
Jasmijn tried to smile. It didn't quite reach her eyes.
"Stick close," Jasmijn murmured.
Another rumble shook loose branches overhead. Embers drifted down like lazy fireflies. The woman reached out on instinct, fingers closing around Jasmijn's wrist.
"Stay with me," she said under her breath.
It wasn't strategy.
Before Jasmijn could speak, a new sound tore through the jungle—a command barked with authority, too clear, too disciplined to belong to any rebel group.
"Lady Doutzen! Stand down!"
The woman went still.
Jasmijn's blood iced.
Lady…Doutzen?
Why were they calling her that?
The undergrowth split as armored figures emerged from the shadows—silent, orderly, rifles raised not in confusion but certainty. Their boots sank into the mud with heavy finality.
One soldier stepped forward. His gaze locked onto Jasmijn with recognition he didn't bother hiding.
"You're to come with us," he said.
The woman didn't look at the rifles pointed her way.
She looked only at Jasmijn.
Confusion flickered first.
Then something colder.
Jasmijn opened her mouth, but her breath wouldn't steady long enough to form words.
The soldier continued, tone firm but strangely respectful.
"Your grandfather is waiting."
The woman's breath hitched sharply.
Jasmijn felt sick.
Her companion backed up a step—
then another—
like she'd been struck.
"Your grandfather?" The woman repeated, voice breaking. "You said you barely knew him."
Jasmijn didn't move. Couldn't.
Soldiers moved between them, forming a line. Rifles pointed toward the people. Toward the woman.
"No," Jasmijn breathed. "Wait—"
"The sooner you comply, the more people of this island are spared. Didn't you already make your choice?"
She was already staring at her differently.
As if seeing a stranger wearing Jasmijn's skin.
"So you made plans with these people without telling me, huh?"
Smoke curled through the clearing. Sweat stung Jasmijn's eyes. The world seemed too bright, too loud, too real.
The woman's final words hit harder than any explosion.
"You chose them. Remember that."
A whisper.
A wound.
Before Jasmijn could reach for her—
before she could deny it, explain it, scream it—
She turned.
Smoke swallowed her silhouette.
And she was gone.
?!?!?
Jasmijn jerked awake.
Breath ragged.
Sheets clinging to sweat-damp skin.
Heart pounding like distant artillery.
She pressed a hand over her face.
The room was dim. Quiet. Safe— the faint ripple of a large Drenmarch banner infront of her in muted light.
Her chest felt hollow.
And the echo of Nora's voice lingered like smoke in her lungs.
"Damn it all,"
Jasmijn muttered, rubbing a palm over her face.
Her gaze slid to the nightstand.
The half-empty bottle of ale sat there like an accusation.
She reached for it without thinking—fingers curling around cool glass, lifting it halfway to her lips. The sharp sting of alcohol hit her nose before the first drop ever touched her tongue.
It jolted her awake more than any drink could.
What was she doing?
With a slow inhale, she lowered the bottle back onto the wood. The clink—gentle as it was—felt too loud in the quiet of her quarters.
Not now. Not like this.
She had duties. A crew depending on her. A city waiting.
And ghosts she didn't have the luxury to drown.
She dressed quickly. Boots, coat, the standard Drenmarch clasp at her collar—a badge that never quite sat comfortably against her throat. As she fastened it, the muffled sound of waves pressing against the hull slipped through her window.
It wasn't soothing.
Not today.
The door creaked open, and she stepped into the morning air.
The deck was already alive.
Morning light clung to the horizon in a thin, pale line—just enough to cast long shadows across the planks as Drenmarch soldiers marched, shouted orders, hauled rope, polished gear. Their discipline had a rhythm, a metallic harmony that always felt too rehearsed, too stiff compared to the wild heartbeat of her island.
Her companions stood out like mismatched notes in the formation.
Chauncey was animated as ever, gesturing wildly with a sheathed dagger as he tried—without much success—to show Charlotte how not to cut her own fingers off. Her laughter rang across the deck, bright against the soldiers' stoic routines.
Zayn leaned against the altar near the mast, arms crossed, eyes fixed on the bleeding horizon. His expression unreadable, as if he were waiting for the sun to confess something.
Erik sat cross-legged in the far corner, eyes closed, breath steady.
Meditating.
Centered.
Flokki's influence clinging to him like morning frost.
They'd been at sea for more than a few days now—long enough for routine to settle in, long enough for silence to ferment into thought, for memory to pry open old wounds.
The sight of her companions—scattered but alive—dragged a soft exhale from her chest.
They'd survived Valdyr.
Barely.
Some scars were still too fresh to touch.
Her thoughts drifted. The smell of smoke. Nora's voice. The words she could never outrun.
Her breath hitched—
A hand tapped her shoulder.
Jasmijn turned sharply.
Her grandfather stood behind her, hands folded behind his back, the rising sun catching the edges of his admiral's coat. His expression was warm, steady—yet something in his gaze always looked like it was measuring her. Weighing her.
"Well," he said, with the faintest lift at the corner of his mouth, "you look like you had a good night's rest."
Jasmijn didn't answer immediately.
His face—calm, composed—pulled the edges of her dream back into clarity. Nora's silhouette dissolving into smoke. Her voice cracking in the heat.
You made your choice.
Jasmijn swallowed.
She forced a breath, then mirrored his tone with practiced ease.
"Not looking too bad yourself, Admiral."
"We're close," He said. "A few hours, and we'll reach the capital."
A genuine smile tugged at her lips—tired, but real.
She was ready to be off this ship.
Ready for whatever Drenmarch held for her.
Or so she told herself.
Her grandfather smiled in response, but his eyes lingered on her longer than necessary—as if he could sense the storm in her chest, even if she refused to show it.
"Good," She said quietly. "Then we prepare."
The wind picked up, snapping the banners overhead.
The sun broke fully over the horizon.
And Jasmijn felt the warmth hit her face—warmth she wasn't sure she deserved.
….
Hours slipped by.
The sun had climbed from pale gold to a hard, white gleam upon the sea. Wind thickened. The ship carved through the water with increasing urgency.
Then—
"Oi! Up here!"
Chauncey's voice cracked across the deck like a cannon shot. He sprinted to the starboard rail, nearly slipping on a coil of rope in his haste. His eyes were wide—childishly wide—glued to the horizon.
Charolette was the first to react, emerging from the lower hold with half-tied hair and irritation already forming on her face.
"What now—"
She froze.
Her breath caught.
Her annoyance evaporated.
"Gods above…"
"Thought Varnhold was something?"
Zayn opened one eye where he rested near the mast—then slowly pushed himself upright. His hand brushed dust from his coat as he rose, gaze sharpening with growing interest.
Even the Drenmarch soldiers—lined along the deck with their usual rigid posture—shifted ever so slightly. Numbered helmets tilted. Backs straightened. They didn't gasp, but a shared, subtle pride settled over them like iron.
Farther aft, Erik stopped mid-swing. Sweat dripped down his jaw. His blade hovered in the air, frozen in the motion Flokki drilled into him since childhood. He turned—quiet, breath steady—but his green eyes widened, unable to hide the flicker of awe.
Jasmijn didn't step out immediately.
She felt the ship slow, the sails adjust, the murmur ripple across the deck. Her grandfather's words faded behind her as she moved, pulled toward the light like something inevitable.
She stepped through the doorway…
And the world opened before her.
Rising from the coastline like a titan of stone and steel.
A city carved into cliffs and sky, its white battlements gleaming under the sun. Tiered fortresses spiraled upward, connected by sweeping bridges that arched across the city like ribs of a colossal beast. The harbor was alive—dozens of ships gliding in precise formation, their sails embroidered with the imperial crest.
Bronze watchtowers crowned the shoreline, each humming with arcane machinery that churned with pale-blue light. Behind them, the capital unfurled in immaculate layers—markets, academies, training yards, gardens cultivated in strict geometric patterns. And above all—
The Citadel of Twelve.
A monolith of polished stone and hammered gold, its banners unfurled in the wind like the wings of some ancient, sleeping dragon.
Majestic.
Intimidating.
Unapologetically imperial.
Zayn's eyes narrowed, gaze cutting through the glamour to the machinery beneath.
Erik felt his pulse thrum. This was the world he wanted to measure himself against.
Charolette's jaw slackened in awe. Even she couldn't pretend to be unimpressed.
Chauncey let out a low whistle that was swallowed by the wind.
And Jasmijn…
She felt something twist inside her chest.
Homesickness.
Pride.
Guilt.
All tangled into a knot she couldn't breathe around.
Her grandfather stepped beside her, hands clasped behind his back.
"No matter how many times you see it," he murmured, voice softened by memory, "Drenmarch never enters quietly."
No—
it didn't.
Because beneath the splendor, there was tension.
A city bracing for conflict.
The ship slipped between two titanic seawalls as bells rang out across the harbor. Trumpets answered. Soldiers lined the receiving docks in perfect formation.
The capital was watching them.
Zayn's fingers brushed the hilt of his sword.
Chauncey straightened, tensing.
Erik exhaled slowly, grounding himself.
Charolette's eyes flicked from soldier to soldier.
Jasmijn's heartbeat crawled up her throat.
Drenmarch rose before them—vast, gleaming, and utterly indifferent.
A place that swallowed the unprepared whole.