The stone was cold.
Not the cold of winter. Deeper. Heavier. A silence that had slept for centuries, sealed beneath the earth and forgotten by time.
I didn't remember falling.
Only the veil, shivering around me like a dying flame.
Only the pressure — the air folding in, my lungs empty, and then—
This.
Rough stone beneath my palms. Bitter air.
The taste of old dust and older death.
I stayed still.
"You're not dead," Sebastian said.
He always said that first.
I didn't answer. My fingers curled tight around the wand in my hand. Still there.
"Lumos."
A pale light unfurled from its tip.
The darkness recoiled.
⸻
I was in a tunnel. Narrow, low-ceilinged. Walls carved with alcoves — bones wrapped in linen, laid in stone beds with wolves above their heads.
Tombs.
The magic clung to everything. Feral. Untamed.
No core. No leyline to draw from. Just echoes.
It wasn't like the world I came from.
It had weight, but no rhythm. No system. It didn't want to be bent or shaped.
It wanted to be left alone.
⸻
I moved slowly, brushing dirt from the carvings as I passed. Some faces were gone, worn down by centuries. Others remained, eyes shut, stone mouths silent. A place of pride, and mourning.
Far at the end — beneath a low arch where roots broke through the walls — was a larger tomb.
Its lid was cracked, half-shifted. The carving on it was of a wolf with one eye gouged out. A scar carved deliberately across the face.
Something about it stilled me.
Around it were offerings. Swords rusted through their hilts, necklaces of bone beads, figurines carved in black wood.
An axe leaned against the side — black stone, heavy-bladed. Covered in dust but still sharp.
And beside it: a book.
The leather was half-rotted, eaten by mold. The binding flaked at my touch. But there was a faint sigil left — a wolf pressed into the skin, barely visible. No title. No name. Just the feeling that this mattered.
I reached out with my magic. Not casting. Just sensing.
Nothing like a leyline answered — not exactly. But there was something… underneath.
Buried. Asleep.
I let the magic brush it.
And the stone moved.
⸻
A low groan split the silence. Dust poured down from the ceiling.
Behind me, part of the wall pulled inward — revealing a narrow passage, untouched by light.
"Subtle," Sebastian muttered.
I stepped inside.
⸻
The air changed.
This path climbed. Roots clawed through the walls. Moss crept between stones. There were no more coffins here — just the old scent of water, of lichen and age. My light barely touched the edges of the path.
Eventually, I heard voices.
Two. Male. Quiet.
Not guards. Not soldiers.
Grief sat in the words between them. Grief and silence.
I slowed. Let the light lower.
The tunnel curved, then opened.
A chamber. Wider, better kept. Torches burned low on the walls.
At the far end, a tomb. A woman carved in stone, flowers in her hands. Her face looked peaceful, but the silence around her felt heavier.
Two men stood before her.
One tall, broad-shouldered, wrapped in dark furs. Quiet.
The other younger. Tighter in the jaw. His grief was rawer. Closer to the surface.
They turned when they heard me.
⸻
The younger saw the wand first.
"That's not a torch."
I didn't speak.
He stepped forward, squinting against the glow. His hand hovered near a blade at his hip.
"What are you holding?"
"Light," I said.
"There's no flame," he snapped. "What is it?"
"Magic."
⸻
The word cracked the air like stone under ice.
The younger took a half-step back. Not fear — reflex.
The older man narrowed his eyes. He hadn't moved.
"Put it out."
I whispered, "Nox."
The darkness pressed back in. Their torch gave enough to see by.
Their stares didn't soften.
⸻
The younger's gaze drifted to my hands.
"That book—"
"I found it," I said. "Below."
"There is no below."
"There is now."
⸻
He stepped forward again. More edge this time.
"You steal from the dead?"
"I didn't steal anything."
"You didn't ask, either."
"There was no one to ask."
⸻
The older man spoke now.
"There's nothing past that wall," he said. "Not for a thousand years."
"I didn't know that."
"You went down there anyway."
"I didn't choose to come here," I said. "I woke up there."
⸻
That paused them.
I held the book a little tighter.
"I'm not here to take anything. I need answers. This—" I lifted the book slightly. "Might help."
The younger shook his head.
"It's ruined. You think that'll tell you anything?"
"I don't know," I said. "But it's something."
⸻
Sebastian was quiet. Watching.
Their silence stretched.
The younger finally moved again. One hand on the hilt.
"You'll come with us."
I didn't move.
"I'm not here to cause harm."
"Could've fooled me," he muttered.
⸻
The older man took a step forward, slow and steady.
"You appear where no one should. Carry light with no flame. Speak of magic. You carry relics that should've turned to dust."
"I didn't plan for any of this."
"Still happened."
He studied me.
"You'll walk with us. Or you'll be left for the crypts."
⸻
I looked past them. At the carved woman.
The grief in their eyes. The way the older man's voice softened slightly when he glanced back at her.
This wasn't a place for violence.
I nodded once.
"I'll walk," I said. "But not as a prisoner."
The older man gave a short nod. "Then walk freely."
The younger didn't lower his hand.
I didn't expect him to.
⸻
We moved slowly.
The crypt walls whispered past us.
I kept the book close, wand hidden beneath my cloak.
Sebastian murmured once, quiet in my thoughts.
"You shouldn't have told them it was magic."
I didn't answer.
⸻
The younger glanced back after a while.
"You haven't said your name."
"Neither have you."
He frowned. But didn't press.
⸻
Eventually, the path changed.
The air grew less heavy. Fresher. I could smell cold stone and snow above.
The stairs were carved narrow and steep. They wound upward, between statues of long-dead men with wolves at their feet.
I climbed in silence. Behind them.
Not prisoner. Not guest.
Just out of place.
The light changed. The shadows moved differently. A draft touched my face — sharp and cold. Clean.
⸻
When we stepped into the torchlight of the upper crypt, the younger turned suddenly.
"You never answered," he said. "Why the book?"
I looked at him.
"It's the only thing I've seen since I arrived that might tell me where I am."
"It's rotted."
"I've fixed worse."
"Fixed?"
I said nothing.
⸻
He studied me like he wanted to call me a liar, but couldn't decide what word to use.
Eventually, he shook his head. Turned away.
⸻
We reached the door that led to the stairs beyond.
They paused there. The older man turned back to face me.
"You'll speak to the Maester," he said.
"I'm not from here."
"Then he'll have more questions."
I nodded.
⸻
We emerged into the courtyard of the keep.
Snow fell lightly.
The walls were tall, grey, cold as the bones beneath them. The people moving about wore leathers and wool, hoods drawn low. Soldiers stood near the gates. No one looked our way.
I had never seen this place before.
But the magic in the ground still whispered. It was wilder here. Restless.
Unshaped.
Untouched.
⸻
The older man finally spoke again.
"This is Winterfell."
The name meant nothing to me.
But it felt right, somehow.
I looked back at the stairs.
At the crypts below.
At the book still clutched in my hand.
And said nothing.