A dozen representatives of the Weissland bloodline stood in a rigid, intimidating line—every one of them clothed in immaculate white robes, their hair as pale as fresh snow. Eyes of every cool shade—ice–blue, frost–silver, storm–gray—glared toward the small cluster of Plugish church officials seated across the marble chamber.
The air was suffocatingly still.
Then—
CRACK.
An elder Weissland slammed his hand on the polished desk, the sharp sound ricocheting off the cathedral stone.
"WHY wasn't the boy killed?"
His voice thundered with barely–contained fury.
Father Ecleastis did not lift his head. A shadow veiled his eyes, dimming the sanctified lanternlight that flickered above him. His jaw worked, but no answer came.
A church representative—the youngest among them—swallowed hard and stepped forward.
"W–We judged it too risky to kill the child," he stammered. "With Kelios' soul dormant inside him—if we struck him down, the spirit could awaken uncontrolled. It— it might have consumed the entire sanctuary."
Gasps. A choked sob.
Eyes widened across the Weissland line.
A woman with long white hair staggered, tears spilling instantly down her face. She clutched her brother, burying her sobs in his robes as he held her tightly.
The elder's knuckles whitened around the edge of the table. His voice dropped to a low, trembling rumble.
"So," he began, voice trembling with cold fury,
"you DID make him the vessel. You forced Kelios into that child."
His eyes sharpened into glacial knives.
"And you thought we KNEW? You thought we would ever sanction something so deranged?"
Ecleastis flinched—his lips parting slightly, as if the truth fought to escape.
But he remained silent.
The elder's fury sharpened.
"Do you have any idea what you've created? How much more of a threat that forbidden boy is now? Not just to the Weissland bloodline—"
He leaned forward, eyes cold as a glacier,
"—but to the entire world?"
Ecleastis' hands curled, knuckles bone–white, but he still did not lift his gaze.
"SAY SOMETHING, DAMN YOU!"
The shout came from a man at the back—young, perhaps mid–twenties, but unmistakably Weissland by his stark hair and piercing silver eyes. His voice cracked with emotion, with fear.
One of the church representatives spoke again—this time a woman, her voice trembling.
"We… didn't have a choice. It was either place Kelios within the child or let the soul roam free. If not contained, the spirit would have… would have torn through Plugand. It would have burned everything."
She didn't sound like she believed her own words.
The elder turned sharply and nodded.
A man beside him stepped forward, unfurling a long, ancient scroll. Dust fluttered into the air as the parchment stretched open, covered in jagged prophetic script.
"Hundreds of years ago," the elder said, his voice now low and dangerous, "a temple seer—driven half-mad by visions—recorded a prophecy. One our bloodline has protected for generations."
He pointed to the inked lines, his voice echoing as he spoke:
"The Obsidian Scion."
"Born of white snow, a child of black night will rise.
Eyes of crimson. Hair of shadow.
He will carry the devouring flame of ages.
His birth shall fracture the line,
but from the fracture comes a power that rends gods."
Silence smothered the chamber.
No one breathed.
The elder's gaze swept across the church officials like a blade.
"If you don't fix what you've done…"
A pause.
He leaned forward, voice dripping with dread.
"…it won't be Plugand alone that burns."
His eyes narrowed.
"The whole world will."
….
4:43 pm.
The sea air should have been refreshing.
Instead, it pressed down like a suffocating blanket—thick, warm, and stubborn. The wind barely pushed the sails, teasing the ship along with a lazy, frustrating drift.
Chauncey lay sprawled flat on the sun-scorched deck.
"Gods—!" he groaned, punching upward at the empty air as if he could strike the heat itself.
"Why is it so… damn… HOT?"
His voice cracked with desperation.
A few soldiers laughed weakly. Most simply groaned.
Even below deck, the chambers were worse—humid, stale, oven-like. Everyone knew it.
Zayn sat with his back against a pillar, sword beside him, eyes shut in a futile attempt at sleep.
Futile—because Chauncey's complaints came every sixty seconds like clockwork.
He exhaled slowly.
Literal hell.
Around them, Jasmijn's squadron—once just twelve, now a full complement—moved sluggishly about the deck, exhausted and irritable beneath the relentless sun.
Thessa, seated on a crate near the stern, didn't spare a glance. Her nose was buried in parchment, a quill tucked behind her ear. The pages fluttered with every weak gust of wind.
Jasmijn watched her from across the deck, a faint crease of disdain forming between her brows.
Erik, leaning beside her against the railing, followed her gaze. He hated her too.
Charolette approached, wearing cropped clothing tied up at the waist, hair sticking slightly to her neck from sweat.
"Are you sure these are the fastest winds to Enuyi?" she asked, fanning herself.
Jasmijn nodded miserably.
"Unfortunately. They say it should pick up around six or seven tonight."
Charolette looked torn between sighing and passing out on the spot.
The crew continued their bickering and halfhearted work until Chauncey's sudden, sharp voice cut through:
"Hey—something's coming!"
He squinted into the glare of the sun.
A small craft—a dinghy—was drifting toward them, slowly and desperately. As it neared, shapes became figures: thin, ragged, waving frantically.
Alarm rippled across the deck.
Jasmijn, Charolette, Erik, and several soldiers gathered at the railing.
Even Zayn stood, hand on his sword out of instinct.
Thessa lifted her eyes for only a moment before returning to her parchments, dismissive.
The shouts became clear.
"Please! Travelers!"
A man on the dinghy cupped his hands around his mouth.
"If you have any medical supplies—anything—please, we beg of you!"
Their clothes were worn, sun-bleached, torn at the hems.
Their faces were gaunt, eyes ringed with desperation.
"Our village isn't far," another called out, voice cracking. "Our people… they're getting sick. Some kind of fever—none of us know how to cure it—"
Jasmijn stepped forward, opening her mouth—
But Thessa rose sharply from her crate.
"Absolutely not."
Her voice cut across the deck like a blade.
"We have no time for meddling with villagers or whatever inconvenience this is." She snapped her parchment closed.
"We are to reach Enuyi with post haste. We will not be dealing with side issues—"
Jasmijn raised a hand, silencing her.
Thessa's eyes widened—outrage blooming instantly.
"Where is your village?" Jasmijn called down to the boatsmen.
Thessa nearly choked.
"The council will hear of your insubordination!"
Jasmijn turned, eyes sharp, voice steady.
"And Drenmarch's motto is to instill hope, is it not?"
Thessa froze.
Her fingers tightened until the papers crumpled in her grip.
She said nothing.
Instead, she turned away, muttering under her breath—
"Insufferable child…"
Down below, the villagers' faces shifted—
from despair to a fragile, glowing spark of hope.
….
The small dinghy led their ship through shallow waters until the hull scraped gently against worn wooden docks.
The moment the gangplank lowered, the smell hit them.
Stale.
Old.
A humid mixture of rotting fish, damp wood, and something sour beneath it—like sickness clinging to the air.
Only Jasmijn, Zayn, Charolette, Chauncey, and Erik stepped off first.
Thessa followed several paces behind, the corners of her mouth turned down as if the very act of walking onto the village soil offended her.
But she followed.
Because she had to watch them.
Every step Zayn took, every move the others made—Drenmarch required oversight.
The village was… wrong.
Gloom hung heavy.
Shutters were cracked.
Old nets lay untouched.
Smoke rose weakly from a few chimneys, drifting like tired ghosts.
"Here," said one of the boatsmen, walking beside them. "This way. We'll show you the worst of it."
His voice trembled as he began to explain.
"It started… maybe three weeks ago," he began. "At first it was just fevers. Nothing too alarming—people thought it was the heat or a passing chill. But then…"
He swallowed, glancing at a cluster of children huddled beneath a torn awning.
"Then it spread. Fast. By the second day most can't even stand. Their bodies weaken, the strength just… drains out of them. And the marks—those blue patches on their skin—they start appearing on the legs first, then the arms."
He paused, as if the next part pained him.
"And the cough," he whispered. "Gods, the cough. Deep and wet and painful. Some cough until they bleed. We don't know how to treat it. We don't even know what it is."
Charolette slowed, her hand moving to her mouth.
Children sat slumped outside doorways—skin pale, sweating, small arms marked with ominous blue-stained patches like frostbite. Elderly villagers leaned against walls, breathing shallowly, eyes clouded with exhaustion.
A woman coughed into her hands—wet, painful, almost tearing.
Charolette's eyes glistened.
She blinked fast, but a tear still escaped.
"Gods…" she whispered.
The man leading them continued speaking, voice hollow from exhaustion and fear.
Thessa walked behind, arms crossed, nose wrinkled in disdain at every sight she passed—like the entire village was beneath her.
Then—
A small tug on her robes.
Thessa jerked, barely swallowing a shriek as she spun around.
A child.
Barefoot.
Eyes large and tired.
Holding out a tiny hand.
"Please, miss… spare coin… any amount…"
Thessa froze.
Her face shifted—anger first, then annoyance… then something unexpectedly soft.
She knelt slowly.
She placed a silver coin gently into the boy's hand— before patting his head with a smile.
The child's face lit immediately—pure, innocent joy.
He dashed back toward his parents, who tried to sit upright to greet him despite their illness.
He held the coin high, showing them his small victory. A smile tugged at her lips.
Thessa stood.
Silence.
Jasmijn had turned back.
So had Zayn, Chauncey, Erik, Charolette… and the guide.
They had all seen.
Thessa's cheeks flushed crimson.
Her spine stiffened, as if she could erase the moment by pretending she hadn't felt anything.
The boatsman blinked, then asked quietly:
"…Is the woman with you?"
Jasmijn didn't even look back.
"Yeah," she said. "She is."
With that, they continued walking— the boatsman hurrying to keep pace.
Thessa lingered for half a heartbeat—caught between pride, embarrassment, and something entirely new in her chest—before following them into the heart of the dying village.