Kalindra, still rubbing the bridge of her nose from frustration, sighed sharply. "Then what choice do we even have, Seer? Let her die frozen in her bed?"
Velendra turned toward the glowing orb again, raising her hand. The light expanded, swirling into frost-shapes—castles, blades, crowns, and storms all dancing like a child's dream in midair. Her voice, suddenly softer, took a rhythm like a lullaby, yet laced with eerie gravity—like a nursery rhyme that warns children of the woods.
"In the northern dark, where winter sings,
There ruled the dread of Frostborn Kings.
Not one or two, but dozen thrones,
Each made from ice, from frost, from bones…"
The room was breathless. Even Pecks, wide-eyed, didn't dare squawk.
Velendra stepped forward, the illusions now showing shadowy figures seated on thrones—each crowned, their silhouettes distinct and terrible.
"One with eyes like frozen moons,
One who whispered to the dunes,
Another rode the Hailwind Mare,
And vanished cold into the air…"
Each Frost King wielded wintry might,
Some ruled with fear, some fought with right.
But one alone, they tell in rhyme,
Held power still—and not to crime."
The orb pulsed, revealing the figure of a towering warrior cloaked in ice-laced furs, face obscured beneath a crown that shimmered like glacier glass. He stood unmoved in a blizzard, blade in hand, aurora burning behind him.
"They named him Iskareth the Calm Before Storm,
He never bent, he broke no form.
He tamed the storm, the hunger, the cold—
For he bore three relics of old…"
Her fingers painted symbols in the air, each conjuring images brighter than the last.
"Gelidcor, the Crown of Ice,
A helm of frost with wisdom's price.
To wear it means to see the skies—
But never blink, or soul shall die."
"Solvarn Aegis, Armor of Northern Light,
Born of stars that fell at night.
Its glow can thaw the blackest fear—
But shed it not, or death draws near."
"Vytharion, the Wyrmforged Claymore,
Carved from jaw of beast of lore.
It hums the song of tundra's wail—
To swing it once splits sky and veil."
Kalindra stared, the colors reflected in her eyes. Even Ahab stood slack-jawed, enchanted like a child hearing tales by hearthlight.
"And with those three," Velendra whispered, voice now trembling with reverence, "Iskareth ruled not as tyrant nor as slave to cold… but as balance. Calm. He never fell to the madness of the frost. Some say he melted not... but chose to vanish, when the ice grew too loud."
The light dimmed. Silence returned. "Seek the artifacts," Velendra finished. "And perhaps Helga's soul may yet be warmed."
Kalindra slowly exhaled. "And where, exactly, do we seek?"
Velendra stepped back toward the ancient cabinet behind her, fingers dancing over the delicate carved handles. She opened it with a soft creak, revealing a scroll sealed in frost-laced wax. The sigil embedded in the seal pulsed once with pale blue light before cracking and unfurling the scroll on its own. As it hovered midair, magical threads stitched themselves into a wide map—glimmering coastlines, jagged islands, ocean trenches, and storm trails drawn in glowing silver ink.
She gestured with elegance, and the scroll zoomed in on a northern quadrant of the ocean, above the isle-dotted reaches of Rhimegarde.
"This," she said, voice calm, "is your first step."
A glowing arc traced itself from their current location—toward a crescent-shaped island wrapped in fog and crystalline reefs.
"It is called Narthendur, the Sleeping Isle. Said to be the resting place of the Solvarn Aegis, the Armor of Northern Light."
She waved her hand, and a soft projection of the armor emerged—sleek and beautiful, plated with aurora light that shifted in fluid motion like captured dawn. It shimmered as if breathing.
"Narthendur is not guarded by beasts nor cursed by spirits," she assured. "It is protected by obscurity—hidden, forgotten, unreachable to most but not dangerous in the traditional sense. The reefs sing at night, the wind is treacherous if you defy the tide's rhythm, but no man nor monster rules there. It is the safest path… if you respect it."
Ahab finally let out a breath he didn't know he was holding. He even chuckled. "For once… something that doesn't want to eat us, stab us, or turn us into frost statues."
Velendra nodded once. "The tides between here and Narthendur are quiet this season. No frost squalls. No pirate activity. Smooth sailing, if you leave soon."
Kalindra still narrowed her eyes at the map, as if mistrusting anything that claimed to be "safe." But even she couldn't argue—the path shimmered like a gift from the gods. It was the only glimmer of hope since Helga fell ill.
Ahab clapped his hands once, breaking the solemnity. "Then it's settled. We sail at dawn."
Pecks, ever the cynic, squawked under his breath, "Safe, she says… like last time wasn't an iceberg's asscheek waiting to smack us."
The morning fog was just beginning to lift over Rhimegarde as The Leviathan creaked at the dock, her sails ready to be unfurled. The crew, groggy but packed and armored, gathered on the wooden planks for one last moment before departing. Ahab, standing at the bow like a captain of legend—if legends wore coffee-stained coats and had seaweed in their beard—clapped his hands and grinned wide.
"Alright ya freeloadin' barnacles!" he bellowed. "Before we sail off chasing shiny old elf armor, I need to know—how was the damn inn?! We paid half the treasury in silver, and I'm not lettin' that pass without reviews!"
Jonas, wiping his goggles, raised a hand like a schoolboy. "Room was nice, bed was warm, window faced a nice frozen alley. Got woken up by two cats fighting and a guy yelling about taxes… would give it four stars, lost one for the cat bite."
Briggs leaned on the railing with a scowl. "I had to share a room with Kalindra. She sleep-talks in seven languages and kicked me in the ribs thrice. Also, no ale in the minibar. One star."
Kalindra, arms crossed and smug, cut in, "And you snore like an orc drowning in soup. I should be refunded for trauma."
Pecks cackled from the mast. "Refund? They should've charged you extra for contaminating their sheets with desperate perfume!"
Kalindra threw a dagger so fast it shaved a feather off Pecks' wing. He squawked and ducked.
Squib raised a greasy hand. "My room was alright. Took six hot baths, used all the soap. Took some towels too."
Ahab narrowed his eyes. "You stole from the inn?"
Squib shrugged. "Consider it revenge. The pillows were filled with frozen beans. My neck now clicks like a skeleton doin' the cha-cha."
Dregor, the ever-awkward giant, muttered, "I accidentally broke the bed."
Everyone turned. "I sneezed," he added sheepishly.
Old Harsk spoke while cleaning his dentures with a fish hook. "The blankets were so soft, I thought I died in my sleep. Woke up mad I was still alive."
Ahab laughed until he wheezed. "Good gods, we paid what—tons of silver total—and all we got was cat bites, broken beds, and soap theft?"
Faerin, ever calm, adjusted his cloak. "Technically, we were paying for silence, warmth, and not freezing to death in our own farts. I'd say it was worth it."
Zarnak chimed in in his raspy hiss, "Our had a heated floor. I slept like a serpent in a sun pit. Ten outta ten."
Ahab threw up his hands. "Well, glad we survived the frost motel. Now get your sorry asses on board. Next time we're all sleepin' on the ship and I'm charging you rent!"
As crates thudded onto the deck and ropes were pulled tight, Ahab turned to Kalindra, brushing frost from his coat.
"How many silver coins do we have left after that cursed inn?"
Kalindra, arms wide like a tragic actress on stage, replied, "The inn bled us dry when we stepped through the door. We spent the rest on food and supplies. What's left… wouldn't buy a rat's sock."
Ahab groaned, dragging his hand down his face. "Of course. Perfect."
He turned, muttering curses in five dialects, and stomped up the gangplank toward The Leviathan. Just as he reached the deck, a figure stepped into his path—a hunched old man in a ragged hood, leaning on a twisted driftwood cane, his face mostly shadowed beneath the cowl.
"Captain Ahab…" the man rasped, voice like ice grinding on stone. "Turn not your sails so fast. Fate has left you something… unclaimed."
Ahab squinted, sizing the old man from boots to hood. "Do I know you, old frostbag? And how the hell you know me?"
The man didn't answer. He simply opened the wooden box in his withered hands—hinges creaking like a coffin lid—revealing rows of glowing tinctures, swirling with colors unnatural. Icy blue. Toxic green. Magma red. Starlight silver. Each vial humming like they held a storm inside.
"You sail for the relics of the Frost Kings…" the old man whispered. "The first? Safe enough. But the second… the third… they lie beyond sane waters. You'll need more than hope and cannonballs."
He raised his head just slightly—just enough for Ahab to see the eyes under the hood: glowing faintly, pale and distant, like moons lost behind stormclouds.
"Take these. They'll grant your crew strength beyond men. Fire in their blood. Steel in their bones."
Ahab raised a brow. "To fight what? We already survived Vorrugal."
The old man chuckled darkly. "You'll face worse. Dragons nesting in sky-falls. Pirates with cursed hulls and kraken-bound masts. Kaijus the size of mountains that sleep beneath waves. Leviathans that ain't yours. And beasts the sea itself forgot to fear…"
He pushed the box closer. "Take them. Or don't. But when the ice sings and the sea screams… you'll wish you had."
Then, like mist at dawn, the old man turned… and vanished down the dock, leaving nothing but bootprints and frostbite in the wood.