The room dimmed as the hearth's flame dwindled, shadows stretching like weary spirits across the walls. The air hung thick with a silence that hummed of uncertain tomorrows. Chauncey rose from his seat, rolling his shoulders and grabbing his cloak from the back of a chair.
"Then it's settled," he said, half a grin pulling at his mouth. "Before we go gallivantin' across the countryside, there's one place we need to visit."
Charolette's eyes flickered up at him knowingly. "You mean there?"
He nodded once. "If anyone left behind a clue on what it means to have a true warrior's heart… it'd be him."
Zayn arched a brow, his tone half-curious, half-weary. "And who's him?"
"Our father," Chauncey said simply. "The one man mad enough to chase that ideal until it consumed him."
Without another word, the siblings grabbed their cloaks, the flickering firelight catching the brief glint of something metallic around Charolette's neck. She slipped the small key from beneath her shirt, the string worn thin from years of keeping it close. Her expression softened for the first time that night — nostalgic, almost fragile — before she tucked it into her palm and led the way out into the mist-veiled dawn.
The road wound downhill through the sleeping countryside, the dirt slick from last night's rain. The sun hadn't yet broken through the clouds, and the world around them seemed washed in hues of gray and silver. The wind stirred the tall grass, whispering secrets through the fields.
They came upon an old structure built into the side of a low hill — half-buried, forgotten. Its roof sagged under the weight of moss and time, and vines crept greedily up its stone walls. The faint emblem of a quill crossed with a sword was carved above the wooden door, the old symbol of the scholar-warriors, long faded by weather.
"The book keep,"
Charolette murmured. "Haven't been here since…"
Her voice trailed off.
Chauncey stepped forward, brushing his fingers against the door's frame.
"Since before he left,"
he finished quietly.
Zayn said nothing, only observed — his crimson eyes scanning the carvings, the air, the faint aura of age that clung to this place like cobwebs.
Charolette pulled the key from its string, its silver surface dulled by time. She hesitated, glancing at her brother. They didn't need words — the nod they shared said enough.
The lock clicked.
As the door creaked open, a storm of dust exploded outward, filling the air with a dry, choking haze. The siblings coughed violently, waving their hands to clear the air. Zayn, however, stood unbothered — his breathing calm, unbroken, as if the years of decay meant nothing to him.
When the dust settled, they stepped inside.
The book keep was larger than Zayn expected. Towering shelves of ancient wood lined the walls, packed tight with scrolls, tomes, and relics of forgotten lore. Lanterns hung from the rafters, their wicks long dead, while the faint glow of daylight slipped through cracks in the ceiling like silver blades. The scent of old parchment and mildew was heavy in the air.
"Looks like a bloody crypt," Chauncey muttered, brushing cobwebs from his shoulder.
Charolette's eyes, though, shimmered with awe.
"It's beautiful…" she whispered.
Chauncey ran his hand along a nearby shelf, his fingers tracing the spines of hundreds of books before pulling one free and flipping it open — only to scoff and toss it aside.
"Herbal remedies,"
he said. "Not exactly the secret to inner strength."
He began rifling through shelf after shelf, dust flying everywhere as he pulled volumes out by the handful. Parchment scattered across the floor like brittle leaves. Zayn and Charolette joined in, searching methodically, though Chauncey's version of "methodical" leaned more toward chaotic.
"There's got to be something here," he muttered between coughs. "If Father was half the man the stories said he was, he'd have written it down. The key to understanding what makes a warrior more than flesh and bone… what gives them spirit. It has to be here."
Charolette added softly, "And maybe… something about where he went. 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 Alder 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 ten years ago."
Chauncey leaned in beside her, scanning the pages over her shoulder. 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 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.
And perhaps — toward the truth.