The Burning Sands of Westmere

The sea roared beneath them, churning with white foam as the ship sliced through wind and spray. Without Vaelric at the helm, the silence weighed heavier than the storm clouds overhead.

Dagan stood near the bow, cloak snapping behind him, eyes fixed on the distant shore. He was the one Vaelric had left in charge—not for his strength, but for his mind. A tactician. A reader of people. The others followed him now, not because they wanted to, but because Vaelric had told them to.

"He didn't even tell us why," muttered Thorne, arms crossed over his thick chest. "He just left."

"He said to meet him in a week," replied Kayla, leaning against the railing. Her tone was flat, practical. "We've followed stranger orders before."

"Aye," said Jorek, the youngest of the five warriors, brushing salt from his beard. "But not without him beside us."

Dagan stayed quiet. He was thinking—not just of the mission ahead, but of Vaelric. The man wasn't one to disappear without reason. And when he said one week, he meant exactly.

"He left us this for a reason," Dagan finally said. "He trusts us. That's enough."

Keala's gaze lingered on the waves, but her thoughts were elsewhere. She wasn't worried about Vaelric—she respected him, yes, but cared little for whatever ghosts he was chasing now. What mattered was the task at hand. And their destination was drawing near.

The Scorched Coast

They reached land by dawn.

The sky over Westmere burned with dry heat, casting the sands in hues of rust and gold. What once had been a thriving coastal village now stood half-buried in dunes, blackened by fire and silence.

Dagan signaled for the crew to disembark. Fifty warriors descended onto the beach, weapons drawn, armor glinting in the sun. Tracks led toward the old village walls—deep footprints, some human, others clawed and twisted.

"We're being watched," Keala murmured.

"Then let them watch," Jorek growled. "Let them see what Ironborn can do."

Dagan raised a clenched fist.

"Form up. Two flanks. Move with discipline. We sweep the ruins. Search for survivors, or signs of magic. Our target is a man named Arven Skeld—a former Flameborne warlock turned raider. He was last seen commanding a group of defectors near this village."

"And if we find him?" Thorne asked.

"We bring him down. Fast."

The Ambush

The Ironborn entered Westmere like a tide of steel. Houses lay shattered, their stone foundations cracked and scorched. Ash drifted in the wind like snow. A broken shrine to the old gods stood at the center of the village, now defaced with bloodied sigils of the Flameborne.

The silence was thick. Too thick.

"It's a trap," Keala said suddenly, drawing her shortblade.

"Hold," Dagan commanded. "Shields up!"

Too late.

From beneath the sands, they came—creatures of ash and bone, remnants of corrupted Flameborne magic. Wraiths of the dead, bound by sorcery, rose howling from burial pits. Arrows loosed from rooftops. A fireball exploded in the air, shattering a column of stone.

"Form the line!" Thorne roared.

The Ironborn clashed with the enemy in a brutal frenzy. Swords sang, hammers broke bones, and magic lit the air with unnatural color. Dagan fought with precision, striking at the roots of each spellcaster, while Kayla danced between attackers like a blade of her own.

Jorek fell upon the archers, cutting through them with berserker fury. Blood stained the sand. Screams echoed over the dunes.

The sky darkened with smoke.

The Turning Point

Hours passed like minutes.

Though the ambush had been brutal, the Ironborn held their ground. The Flameborne cultists, once feared, were unorganized and desperate—more a scavenging horde than an army.

Dagan regrouped the forces in the village square, breathing heavily. Half their number bore wounds. A few had fallen.

"Arven's not here," he said, scanning the ruined shrine. "This wasn't a battle—it was a message. They wanted us to know they still have claws."

"They picked the wrong pack to provoke," Thorne muttered.

Keala moved through the rubble, silent and thoughtful. Her eyes narrowed on a scorched emblem burned into the earth—one she had seen before in older Flameborne temples.

"This symbol," she said. "It marks territory. They're expanding."

"We report back to Vaelric," Dagan said. "We've cleared the village. And we've learned enough to plan the next strike."

Restoration

The warriors spent the next day burning the corpses of the corrupted dead, cleansing the town with fire and salt. Survivors were found—just a handful of farmers and children, hiding in cellars, trembling with fear.

Jorek stayed behind to comfort a boy no older than ten who'd lost his parents in the raid. He gave him his pendant—iron, carved with the mark of Vaelric's company.

"This'll keep you safe," Jorek said softly. "We'll be back."

The Ironborn rebuilt what they could. Repaired a few homes. Lit a beacon tower to signal that the coast was clear. It wasn't much, but it was enough.

By nightfall, a fire crackled in the middle of the village. The warriors sat around it, silent at first—then, slowly, laughter returned.

Thorne passed around a flask. Jokes were exchanged. Scars were shown off like trophies. Dagan even cracked a smile.

But Keala stayed on the edge of the firelight, sharpening her blade, eyes still locked on the horizon.

"He said a week," she muttered. "Five more days."