The fire in the hearth sputtered and shrank, casting long ribbons of shadow across the siblings' small home. The earlier chaos—the attempted bounty killing, the unwanted dinner, the soldiers hammering on the front door—hung over them like a storm cloud waiting to burst.
They'd escaped through the back alley only minutes prior, slipping into the shrouded countryside before the inquisitors could force entry. Now, with the house far behind them and dawn threatening the horizon, the three of them stood in the chill of early morning, catching their breath.
Chauncey rolled his shoulders and pulled his cloak tighter around himself.
"Well," he exhaled, a crooked grin tugging at his mouth, "if we're really doin' this—helping a vessel of a sealed monster escape the Inquisition—then we've got one stop to make first."
Charolette shot him a sharp look.
"Chauncey… you don't mean—"
He nodded. A rare seriousness cut through his features.
"Yeah. There."
Zayn looked between them, weariness etched into his face. "And what exactly are we talking about?"
Chauncey didn't hesitate.
"Our father's library. He was the only man mad enough to chase the idea of a 'true warrior's heart' until it swallowed him whole."
Charolette's expression softened—not with warmth, but with something heavy and unspoken. She tucked a small silver key into her palm, the chain that held it thin and frayed from years of wear.
Without another word, she led the way.
Mist clung to the countryside as the three descended a winding dirt path slick with last night's rain. The clouds blotted out the morning sun, washing the world in muted grays and silvers. Wind brushed through the tall grass, whispering secrets that only the fields remembered.
The structure waited for them near the base of a hill—the siblings slowed, and Zayn realized it wasn't just a house.
It was a relic.
Half-buried in the earth. Roof sagging under moss and years. Stone walls strangled by vines. And above the old wooden door, etched faintly into the stone:
A quill crossed with a sword.
The symbol of the Scholar-Warriors—long extinct.
Charolette breathed the words rather than spoke them.
"It hasn't been burnt down…"
Chauncey touched the doorframe, his expression briefly somber.
"Didn't think I'd see this place again. Not since before he left."
Zayn's crimson eyes swept the carvings, the lingering aura, the sense of age that clung to the doors like dust on an untouched tomb.
"So this is the place?" he asked quietly.
"Yup. Our father's sanctuary," Charolette answered. "Where he studied. Trained. Wrote. Obsessed."
She raised the silver key. For a heartbeat, her hand simply hovered there—hesitating.
Chauncey gave a silent nod.
The key turned.
The lock clicked.
The door groaned open as if waking from a century of sleep, screaming dust into the cold morning air. The siblings coughed. Zayn didn't bother—his body barely seemed to notice.
Inside lay a world frozen in time.
Towering shelves sagged under the weight of scrolls, tomes, relics, and odd artifacts. Dead lanterns swung gently from beams overhead. Daylight pierced through cracks in thin silver lines.
It felt less like a library and more like a crypt of knowledge.
Chauncey brushed cobwebs off his shoulder.
"Looks like he didn't clean before disappearing…"
Charolette ignored him entirely, stepping forward with something close to reverence.
"It's beautiful."
Zayn drifted behind them, silent, eyes scanning titles and symbols—fragments of history, forgotten lore, echoes of long-dead minds.
They split up—Chauncey tearing through shelves with reckless urgency, Charolette far more careful, Zayn somewhere in between.
"Father had to leave something behind,"
Chauncey muttered, opening and discarding books with rising frustration.
"Notes. Journals. Hell—even instructions on how not to end up haunted by a monster spirit."
Charolette added softly,
"Or at least… a clue. About why he left. Why he never came back."
The hours seemed to fold into the dust-filled air. Then, as Chauncey shoved aside a stack of cracked scrolls, his hand brushed against a leather-bound book, thicker than the rest. Its cover was dark and worn, embossed with a faint symbol — a circle split by lightning. The title, though faded, was still legible:
"The Secrets to a True Warrior's Potential — by Alden Wraithfield."
Chauncey's breath caught. His voice broke through the silence, half-disbelieving, half-thrilled.
"It's his. It's his!"
Charolette turned sharply, eyes wide.
"What—? Let me see that!"
Before her brother could protest, she snatched the book from his hands, brushing dust from its surface. Her fingers trembled as she flipped it open. The handwriting was unmistakably familiar — strong, slanted, the same as the letters he used to leave them when they were children.
"I didn't know he was…" Her voice faltered as she flipped through the early pages.
"…a writer..."
Zayn's head tilted slightly, curiosity flickering in his eyes. Charolette's tone grew almost reverent.
"He wrote about his travels… his training… everything up until a couple years ago."
Chauncey leaned in beside her, scanning the pages over her shoulder. He slowly stole the book from her hands, eyes scanning the content. The first chapter was marked by an illustration — a storm-lashed island beneath roaring clouds, the sea crashing violently against black stone cliffs. Beneath it, their father's words read:
"To seek the truth of the warrior's heart, one must first confront the storm within. I began my path upon the Isles of Valdyr, where the thunder never ceases, and the soul is forged by wind and wrath. There, I met the one who showed me the baseline — the man known only as Flokki."
Charolette's lips parted slightly as she read the name aloud.
"Flokki…"
"No last name?" Zayn asked quietly.
"None," Chauncey replied, eyes still fixed on the page.
"Just…Flokki."
The room fell silent again, save for the distant groan of the old building settling. Then, without warning, Chauncey snapped the book shut, a plume of dust erupting into the air. His eyes burned with determination.
"Then that's where we're going. Valdyr — the Storm Isles. That's where we'll probably find him… and maybe the truth behind this 'warrior's heart' nonsense."
Zayn blinked.
"You're serious?" "
As the gods are cruel,"
Chauncey said, already striding toward the door. "First light tomorrow — we sail."
Charolette exhaled sharply, her voice caught between disbelief and protest.
"Chauncey, that's halfway across the damned world! We can't just—" He cut her off with a grin, tossing the old book into her hands.
"You said you wanted to find Father, didn't you? Well, he's waiting in a storm. Best not to keep him too long."
Zayn looked between the two of them — the impulsive fire in Chauncey's eyes, the reluctant wonder in Charolette's. He gave a quiet, resigned sigh.
"You really don't do anything halfway, do you?"
Chauncey laughed, already halfway down the path.
"Where's the fun in that?"
Charolette lingered a moment longer, gazing down at the book — at the words her father had written, the life he'd left behind. Then she tucked it under her arm and followed, her heart pounding with something between dread and hope.
Zayn stood for a moment longer, glancing back at the dark, ancient library one last time. The air still hummed with old energy — secrets buried in ink and time. Then he turned and followed them into the fog.
Tomorrow, they would set sail.
Toward Valdyr.
Toward the storm.
Toward whatever truth waited in lightning and fury.
And fate—reluctant, dangerous, inevitable—walked with them.