"Blood remembers what the mind forgets; shadows never sleep."
— Fragment from The Codex of Shadows
The iron chest waited upon the pedestal, its surface engraved with coiling ravens whose wings merged into flames.
Dust shimmered in the torchlight as Alderic Ravenshade laid a steady hand upon the lid. For a heartbeat the air itself seemed to hold its breath.
With a groan of age-worn hinges, the chest opened.
Inside lay four relics—each humming with a faint, unnatural resonance:
a heavy black-bound tome, its pages rimmed in silver;
a fragment of dragonglass, dark as midnight;
a crystal raven idol;
and, wrapped in ancient velvet, twin dagger-blades—one of Valyrian steel, the other carved from dragonbone.
Beneath them rested a folded cloak of shadow-weave, glimmering faintly as if it drank the torchlight.
The Codex of Shadows
Alderic lifted the tome. The leather was warm to the touch, pulsing faintly—as though alive. When he opened it, black-inked runes bled into legible words.
"To my descendants who bear the blood of the Veil, know this: our gift is the Raven's Veil, born of fire and foresight, blessed by the night itself."
Line after line unfurled revelations that upended every tale he'd been taught about his house.
Raven's Veil — The Bloodline of Shadows
Shadow Manipulation:
Command the darkness that clings to all things. Let it cloak you, shape you, serve you.
He saw images flash behind his eyes—figures melting into gloom, blades forming from darkness itself.
Prophetic Visions:
The blood remembers paths not yet walked. Visions will come—symbols, storms, wings.
Alderic staggered as his torchlight flickered. For an instant he saw the Vale bathed in crimson dawn, a raven flying over a burning keep.
Raven's Call:
Through thought and feather we speak. Across valleys, across death, our voices reach.
The crystal idol pulsed. Far above, faint caws echoed through the night—ravens answering an ancient summons.
Dark Arts Mastery:
In secrecy lies survival. Wards, curses, veils—shadows made solid to guard our kin.
Alderic traced the runes with trembling fingers. His ancestors had not been mere lords; they had been magisters of shadow, wielders of powers now deemed heresy by the Citadel and the Faith alike.
Yet every gift bore its cost.
Beware the toll of the Veil. Shadow feeds on light; the heart will wane if the soul overreaches.
He felt it then—a whisper at the edge of thought, promising strength, demanding restraint.
Beneath the tome, the dragonglass shard gleamed faintly red within its depths.
The crystal raven seemed almost to watch him.
The twin daggers shimmered—Valyrian steel etched with ravens in flight, dragonbone carved into talons.
When he draped the Nightshade cloak over his shoulders, cold fire rippled across its fabric. The weight was light, yet he felt protected—as if unseen eyes turned aside.
A parchment slipped from beneath the cloak.
The Letter of Alaric Ravenshade
The ink had faded to brown, the words uneven where time had eaten the parchment's edge.
"To my blood that yet endures…
When kings die and faith rises, remember our creed: never contend with the dragon kings who shall rule for two centuries. Beware the Faith of the Seven and the Citadel's maesters—they are foes to all sorcery. Guard the Wall and the Watch, for they stand where night first stirs. Aid the wolves of the North only should their line face extinction; until then, observe from the shadows."
The rest was ruined—torn away or burned. Beneath the missing lines, unknown symbols glimmered faintly, half-erased runes that shifted when he looked too long.
Alderic closed the letter slowly. His pulse thundered in his ears.
So this is our truth… magic, prophecy, forbidden knowledge…
He looked around the chamber. Niches lined the walls, filled with scrolls, jeweled trinkets, and sealed jars of gold dust. At the rear lay coffers overflowing with coins and gems—a treasury vast enough to rival the Lannisters themselves.
Among them, relics of foreign craft—Mythic Essosi talismans, Volantene scrolls, dragon-etched mirrors—each humming with latent power.
Ravenshade Keep was not a crumbling relic—it was a sleeping fortress of sorcery and gold.
And he, its sole heir.
Yet awe soon gave way to dread. Questions clawed at him:
Had his parents truly died by chance—fever and battle?
Or had they discovered too much, as he now had?
Was their loyalty to Jon Arryn… or their silence… the price of this secret?
The torchlight dimmed. Somewhere above, a bell tolled thrice—the sound echoing down the stairwell.
A rider's horn followed, faint but clear.
He turned toward the noise, breath caught in his throat. The world beyond the mountain stirred once more.
Moments later, a flutter of wings swept through the chamber. A black raven—eyes like molten silver—descended from the shadows and landed upon the open tome.
Its beak clicked once, and a single parchment ribbon unfurled from its leg.
A message—freshly sealed with the wax of House Ravenshade's spymaster.
"The Hand of the King is dead. Lord Robert rides north. Lady Lysa summons you to the Eyrie."
Alderic's eyes narrowed. Fate, it seemed, waited for no man.
He closed the Codex and whispered an old vow.
"In shadows, we soar."
The raven croaked softly in reply.
And deep within the mountain, as the torches guttered out one by one,
the ancient house of Ravenshade—long thought faded into legend—
woke at last from centuries of silence.