Rayder faced the five Se'en Ren who had dared to rob him. They were strong, hardened by the North's cruelty, but to him they were little more than children waving sticks.
With a single motion, he drew his greatsword. The steel glinted coldly under the stormlight, alive in his grip.
One heartbeat.
The blade flashed.
By the time the wind carried the sound of the first cut, it was already over.
Five bodies collapsed into the snow, their eyes wide with disbelief, blood steaming in the cold. Until their last breath, they could not understand how a young man could move with such speed, such merciless precision.
Rayder shook the red from his sword and stored the corpses within his system space. These were not trophies—they were bait. And if the tales of the Others were true, then the dead themselves would draw them.
"Simple-minded fools," he muttered, turning his back without a second glance.
---
He flew on with his three dragons until he found an open plain of snow, far from the tribes. Flat, barren, without tree or hill—perfect. Here, no shadow could conceal movement.
One by one, he laid out the bodies, arranging them neatly on the ground. Then he and the dragons withdrew to a distant rise, shrouded in snow. The beasts curled low, their massive forms soon indistinguishable from the frozen drifts. Even their steady breaths blended into the storm.
And so began the wait.
Snow fell without end. Days passed, each hour crawling slower than the last. By the third day, the bodies were completely buried. Only Rayder's memory marked the spot.
Impatience gnawed at him. His blood burned for results, yet the snowfield remained still. The endless silence pressed in, heavy as iron. Even his dragons, meant to watch with him, had long since drifted into slumber, white frost covering their golden scales.
The seventh night came.
Darkness swallowed the world, the sky a curtain without stars. Rayder lay half-asleep, fighting against the monotony, when something nudged his forehead.
He blinked awake to find Kidora's tails prodding him insistently. Irritation flared—then vanished, replaced by cold alertness.
He sat up sharply. "Show me."
At once, the bond opened. His mind slipped into Kidora's vision, the world now refracted through three sets of golden eyes.
What he saw made his breath catch.
The snow shifted. Slowly, unnaturally, the five corpses clawed their way out of their frozen graves. Their movements were stiff, mechanical—yet purposeful.
And then, impossibly, they began to walk.
Northwest.
Rayder's heart pounded with excitement. "Finally…"
Without hesitation, he climbed onto Kidora's back. Through their mental link, he ordered the dragon to follow at a distance—silent, careful, unseen. The other two dragons he left behind; their size and fire would draw too much attention. This hunt required patience.
Together, man and beast shadowed the figures through the snow.
The moon broke free of clouds for a moment, spilling pale light across the plain. In that light, Rayder saw them clearly at last.
It was the same five men. The very ones he had slain with his sword. Their wounds gaped open, raw and unhealed. Their skin was pale, their eyes empty. Yet they marched forward, tireless.
Wights.
Rayder's pulse quickened. He had heard the tales, but now he saw them with his own eyes. Death had not ended them. Something else commanded their steps.
All night they followed, but the wights moved slowly—slower than an ordinary man's walk. By dawn, they had covered barely twenty kilometers.
As the first rays of sun touched the snow, the wights abruptly halted. One by one, they lowered themselves into the drifts, covering their bodies until nothing remained above the surface. Soon the snow was smooth again, as if nothing had ever been there.
Rayder frowned, baffled. "Why hide?"
He searched through Kidora's many eyes, scanning every shadow, every ridge of ice. Nothing. No sign of more wights. No hint of the Others. Only an endless, lifeless snowfield.
He scratched his head, unsettled. The behavior was strange—too deliberate. Too purposeful.
And if there was purpose, then somewhere nearby, something was pulling the strings.
Something colder, older, and far more dangerous.
---
Ãdvåñçé çhàptêr àvàilàble óñ pàtreøn (Gk31)