Boots met the stone pier with a heavy finality.
The moment Jasmijn stepped off the gangplank, the noise of the harbor dimmed—swallowed by the rigid order waiting for them.
Two lines of Drenmarch soldiers stretched down the docks in perfect symmetry, armor gleaming, rifles and spears angled with mechanical precision. Eyes forward. Spines straight as spear shafts. Not a single twitch or breath out of place.
Her grandfather—the admiral—walked first.
With each step he took, soldiers on either side snapped into a crisp salute, hands striking chestplates in synchronized metallic thuds that echoed across the water. The sound rolled outward like controlled thunder.
Jasmijn followed at his heels.
Her pulse beat harder with every salute, every stare, every reminder of the world she'd chosen…and the one she'd left behind.
Zayn walked at her flank, silent and unreadable. His gaze swept the lines of soldiers with unsettling calm—measuring, cataloging, already reading the city's power structure without a word.
Charolette couldn't keep her awe quiet. Her head tilted up, then left, then sharply right as towers, banners, and armored battalions drew her attention in rapid succession. The girl nearly tripped twice.
Chauncey strolled behind her with his hands laced behind his head, as if this were a morning walk through a meadow rather than the heart of an imperial stronghold. A grin tugged lazily at his mouth—though Jasmijn saw his eyes dart, quick and observant beneath the mask.
Erik trailed them all, shoulders squared, posture disciplined. Not nervous—just grounded. His gaze was steady, absorbing the atmosphere, assessing threats, breathing slow and even.
This place didn't intimidate him.
But he respected it.
The admiral came to a stop at the end of the dock. The soldiers froze, salutes held. Wind snapped the colossal Drenmarch banners behind them, casting long shadows across the pier.
He turned, facing the 5, including Jasmijn with the poise of a man carved from the same stone as the capital's walls.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he announced, voice carrying easily over the hush.
He let the moment breathe.
"Welcome to the Drenmarch capital."
The words hung in the air—heavy as a decree, sharp as a blade.
Around them, the city grew bigger and bigger as they walked— as if rising like a challenge.
….
The massive doors of the Citadel groaned open, revealing a hall that seemed impossibly vast. Sunlight streamed through towering stained-glass windows, scattering shards of color across polished marble floors. Chandeliers hung like frozen waterfalls, their crystals catching the light and flinging it in a thousand directions.
Dust motes floated in the shafts of light, catching the colors of the stained glass and scattering them across the polished marble. Every reflection seemed alive, shimmering in the quiet hum of distant movement. The faint scent of waxed stone and aged timber hung in the air, mixed with the distant tang of smoke from the city beyond.
Chauncey's jaw dropped. "This…this is bigger than—than Jasmijn's mansion!"
A sharp smack against the back of his head shut him up immediately. Charolette's glare could have cut steel. "We're not here for vacation, genius."
Jasmijn's voice rang clear, steady and commanding. "Charolette's right. In just a few days—less, even—we'll be meeting with high-ranking officials and council members for discussions about the upcoming war."
"I don't get it," Chauncey began . "What's the point of us going? We're just friends of yours. Can't we stay just like…stay here and relax?" His voice, light and teasing— earned a sharp glance from Charolette.
"You three," Jasmijn said, her tone steady but carrying the weight of command, "hold the names of both defenders of Valdyr… and heroes of Isle Fareth. Almost rivaling folklores, especially here."
Her eyes scanned them, lingering just long enough for the meaning to sink in.
Chauncey's grin widened, a flicker of pride lighting his features. Zayn's lips twitched—an almost imperceptible acknowledgment. Charolette's eyes widened, a gasp held back at the implication: their deeds, their survival, their names—they had already traveled ahead of them. Their journey hadn't gone unnoticed.
Jasmijn leaned closer, her voice low but deliberate, echoing slightly against the vast hallway. "Which is why your words—and your names—carry weight in that room. What you say there… matters."
The echoes of her words stretched down the hall, bouncing off marble and crystal alike. The grandeur suddenly felt heavier, more oppressive, reminding them that comfort had no place here.
Her gaze shifted to Zayn. "They're especially interested in meeting you."
All eyes landed on him. Zayn said nothing, but his fists clenched at his sides, the tension in his posture speaking louder than words.
"They see you as one of the most imperative keys to winning this war," Jasmijn continued, the sound of her boots clicking against the floor punctuating each word.
Zayn's jaw tightened, dark eyes glinting. Hesitation had once lingered in his mind at the thought of being used as a weapon. But after Valdyr…after seeing the destruction Plugand could unleash…he knew there was no other choice. He would stop them. Whatever it took.
Charolette's gaze flicked to him, noting the hard-set line of his jaw, the shadowed determination in his eyes, before shifting back to Jasmijn, who was already moving down the hall with her grandfather.
"Is it me…or has she been distant lately?"
Charolette whispered, voice low enough that only Chauncey could hear.
"She's a commander," he murmured, eyes sweeping the hall as though measuring its length, its weight. "Training with her at Valdyr just made us forget that."
The group followed, their footsteps echoing rhythmically against the marble. The air carried the soft whisper of distant doors closing, of servants moving silently behind tapestries, of torches flaring faintly along the walls. Every step reminded them: this Citadel was more than a home. It was a fortress, a stage, and a chessboard. Here, every glance, every word, every decision mattered.
Zayn's shoulders squared. The hall seemed to narrow around him, the grandiosity fading into purpose. The war was coming. And they were all standing at its edge.
….
The sun bled low over the horizon, painting the sky in molten oranges and deep crimsons. Its light scattered across the waters surrounding the small island, glinting against the ripples and casting the beach in molten fire. From the cove, the palace loomed like a silent guardian: curved eaves curling gracefully upward, whitewashed walls catching the last light, tiled rooftops shimmering like scales. Every balcony, every carved lattice, seemed poised to observe the restless sea, a silent audience to the tides. Lanterns swayed faintly from the eaves, their soft glow yet to awaken, promising a night of measured ritual.
On the beach, a lone woman knelt, fingers tracing over the sand with an almost obsessive care. Her hands, calloused yet delicate, brushed stones into precise alignments, smoothed ridges, and pressed the grains to erase every imperfection. Mid-forties, her eyes slanted, etched with wrinkles like old parchment, she worked with the rhythm of the waves, letting the gentle crash of water guide her motions. Salt stung her nostrils, and the faint tang of seaweed clung to her skin. The world was calm, but in her heart, a quiet tension hummed beneath the monotony of her task.
Her fingers grazed a sharp edge. Pain bit through her callouses, and she recoiled, a hiss of breath escaping her lips. But curiosity gnawed at her. Digging, sifting, brushing the sand away, the truth emerged: gleaming metal, almost alive in her hands, reflecting the dying sun.
A katana.
The blade shimmered like liquid fire, yet imperfections marred its perfection. Scorch marks traced along its steel like veins of ash. Her eyes traveled to the hilt, where a faded emblem—a revered crest—stared back, burned into memory and history.
A shiver clawed up her spine, not from wind or water, but from a creeping, silent dread that settled in her bones. Her throat tightened. Her pulse thundered in her ears.
Her breath hitched, lips quivering like fragil glass. Wrapping the blade carefully in cloth, she hugged it to her chest, mindful of its subtle heat. Even through the fabric, she could feel it—something dangerous, restless.
Her feet kicked up sand as she ran, heart hammering in her chest. The palace gates grew larger, and guards in eastern armor—curved breastplates, segmented shoulder guards, lacquered helms—turned, their hands tightening around spear shafts. Their eyes narrowed with professional suspicion but did not move to intervene, as if respecting some unspoken protocol.
"I need to see the master!!"
She shouted, desperation shaking her voice. The sword pressed against her ribcage, almost biting her through its wrappings. Sweat and blood mingled across her palms.
Inside, the halls opened like the throat of a great beast. White marble floors reflected torchlight, lacquered beams stretched overhead, carved with dragons and phoenixes in exquisite relief. The scent of incense hung thick, almost choking, curling around pillars carved with sacred motifs. Guards in ornate eastern armor, helms polished like mirrors, stood rigid as statues, their spears vertical, unyielding. Attendants in flowing white robes moved with perfect symmetry, yet their eyes flickered with curiosity and caution.
At the heart of the palace, she was escorted before a chamber that radiated cold, deliberate opulence. White silk drapes fell from ceiling to floor, embroidered with golden symbols of reverence and conquest. The floors gleamed so perfectly that every footstep sounded like a drum in the echoing stillness.
Seated at the center, a man of snow-white hair and silver eyes reclined. He fed one concubine grapes, moving with languid precision, each gesture deliberate and languorous. Another rested against his side, fingers tracing idle patterns along his arm. His attendants moved in silent choreography, eyes lowered, every breath measured. Even the servants seemed to flow around him like water, careful not to disturb the weightless authority of the room.
The woman's hands trembled as she bowed, presenting the weapon wrapped with cloth with both hands.
"Your lordship Weissland,"
She began, voice small but urgent, cracking slightly under the magnitude of the moment.
"I found this… on the shore. The blade is scorched… the emblem is faded… but it belongs here. It is of utmost importance that this be brought to your attention."
His silver eyes narrowed. The giggles from the women faded.
"Bring it here."
He gestured without another word. One of the guards stepped forward, taking the wrapped katana from the woman's hands, steady despite the tension. The cloth was peeled back. The katana gleamed, scorch marks catching the torchlight, hilt worn but recognizable.
His hand hovered above the hilt before closing, fingers trembling ever so slightly. Every micro-movement—his tightening jaw, the faint hitch in his breathing—spoke of a dread he did not yet voice.
"The Obsidian Scion…is alive," he whispered, barely audible, the words sinking into the chamber like stones. Silence fell so thick it seemed to press against the walls. Every attendant, guard, and concubine froze in place, as if the air itself held its breath.
Outside, the last light of the sun vanished, leaving the palace bathed in silver and shadow. The katana rested between them, a silent herald of chaos yet to come.