The night passed quietly. By dawn, the sun rose pale and weak behind the storm, its light smothered by endless sheets of snow. The North did not soften even for morning—it remained a land of cold and silence.
Rayder stirred awake inside his tent, stretching lazily. As he rolled over, something caught his eye.
Lying by his pillow was a single weirwood leaf.
Its shape was delicate, palm-like, and impossibly vibrant—red as fresh blood, though no weirwood grew anywhere near this place. It should not have been here.
Rayder plucked it up between two fingers, turning it under the dim light. It felt ordinary enough, yet the sight of it stirred a faint unease. Was it a warning? A reminder? Or simply another trick of the gods he'd spurned the night before?
He snorted. "Another useless omen." With a flick of his wrist, he tossed it aside.
He had no time for riddles carved in leaves.
Breaking camp, he packed his tent into his system space and turned his attention to feeding the three dragons. Their golden scales gleamed faintly even beneath the gray sky, a living blaze in the storm. Once they were fed, he mounted the largest of them and gave the order to fly.
The beasts leapt into the sky.
The world below shrank to white and gray blur, mountains like jagged teeth biting the horizon. To Rayder, the speed was exhilarating. Riding a dragon was faster than the planes of his former world—miles vanished beneath their wings. Already, the looming line of the Wall crept closer, vast and terrible against the land.
Yet something was wrong.
Through his bond with the dragons, Rayder felt their unease grow as they neared the Wall. The other two, flying in formation, began to falter. They resisted, their minds thrashing against his command, wings trembling with reluctance.
Rayder's brow furrowed. He pushed deeper into the bond, and then he felt it—the clashing of powers.
Far ahead, rolling off the land beyond the Wall, surged a magic colder than death itself. Ice magic. The Others' presence.
His dragons recoiled instinctively, blood-fire magic in their veins reacting like oil against water. It was disgust, fear, defiance—all bound together.
Rayder's lips curved into a thin smile. "So it's real."
This was why he had come north.
The dragons snarled in protest, but his voice cut across their fear, iron-hard. "Forward. Over the Wall. Now."
With a shudder of wings and a guttural roar, the beasts obeyed. They rose higher, then with one mighty leap of muscle and flame, soared directly over the Wall.
From above, Rayder looked down. Even from this height, the Wall was breathtaking. An endless white serpent of ice, stretching from horizon to horizon, its ridges like frozen battlements of a slumbering god. Unshakeable. Eternal.
But Rayder did not linger on its majesty. He pressed north, following the map clenched in his hand, flying toward Celsen Canyon—last known site of the Others.
Yet something below caught his eye.
As they passed near the Fist of the First Men, Rayder spotted movement. Small black dots crawled across the snow, chasing, fighting. At first, distance obscured the details, but when the dragons lowered, he saw the truth: wildlings locked in battle.
His interest vanished instantly. Mortal squabbles were beneath him. With a snap of the reins, he turned the dragons back toward the canyon.
Celsen Canyon stretched vast beneath them, cliffs cutting jagged through the white land. Traces of life dotted its floor—settlements, crude trails, the signs of the Se'en Ren tribes.
Rayder's eyes narrowed. The map had been correct.
He began his search. From the sky, his gaze swept like firelight, piercing the snow for any glimpse of the Others or their wights. Hours passed. He found nothing. No glimmer of pale blue eyes, no corpses stirring in the dark. Only tribes.
But perhaps the tribes knew more.
He landed near one settlement, his dragon's wings kicking snow into a storm. The Se'en Ren scattered at first, but curiosity and awe drew them back. They had seen riders before—but never one astride a beast from legend.
Rayder questioned them directly. His tone was calm but carried the weight of command. "The Others. The wights. Tell me what you know."
But their answers disappointed him. Most treated the creatures as myths, stories to frighten children. Some had not even heard the names.
Ten days he searched among them, moving from tribe to tribe. Little changed. His patience thinned.
Then an elder spoke. His voice was frail, but his words carried weight.
"There is one thing," the man said. "Here in our canyon, the dead do not stay. Bodies vanish. No bones, no flesh. Gone as though the earth swallows them."
Rayder's eyes sharpened. "How long has this happened?"
"A long time," the elder answered. "So long our people no longer question it. Some say beasts. But I have seen. Not even the bones remain. No beast does this."
Rayder leaned forward. His heart quickened. This was it—the trail. Where bodies disappeared, Others lingered.
He left the elder with a clear plan forming. If corpses drew the Others, then corpses he would use. Wait and watch. The hunter would become the bait.
But fate shifted sooner than expected.
As he left the tribe, five men blocked his path. Warriors of the Se'en Ren, broad-shouldered and scarred, their faces hard with greed.
"Young stranger," one sneered, pointing to Rayder's shield and greatsword. "Hand them over. And the rest of your gear too. No one will protect you here."
The others circled, their crude weapons glinting.
Rayder stopped. He did not draw his blade. He simply studied them, eyes cool, calculating.
Ghidorah loomed behind him, golden scales catching the weak light. Its three heads lowered, hungry for blood.
Rayder tilted his head slightly, voice calm as winter steel. "You should have chosen another prey."
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