Chapter 56 — Native Sorcery and Departure
[Your spirituality is now hidden beneath the Phantom's Veil. Your appearance has subtly changed.]
[Your speech is strengthened by the Tongue of Oaths. Your words carry greater weight.]
[Your spirit is protected by the Wraith Substitute. Certain curses, vows, and spiritual attacks can no longer harm you.]
Three streaks of pale gray shot into the "spotlight" of his inner vision, vanishing into the depths of his eyes.
The notifications faded one after another.
Charles withdrew his face from the basin.
The cold, suffocating pressure of that ghost-filled darkness vanished instantly—replaced again by familiar warmth: the crackling fireplace, the stone walls, the folded towel, the bright sunlight streaming through his window.
As if the other world had never existed.
He glanced down.
The silver basin now held nothing but clean, still water.
His own reflection rippled on the surface—his face the same, yet somehow… different.
"Let's see how well it works."
With that thought, Charles stepped outside.
---
The servant waiting outside bowed deeply.
When Charles greeted him in return, the young man hesitated, blinked… and stared.
Because standing before him was not the terrifying, gloom-shrouded "black sorcerer" whispered of in every tavern.
Instead, he saw a bright-eyed, warm-smiling young man whose presence felt almost… comforting.
Like a burst of sunlight.
"Am I seeing things…?"
The servant scratched his head in confusion as Charles walked away.
Charles descended the stairs and stepped out of the tower.
A squad of guards immediately fell in behind him.
And just like the servant, they froze.
The oppressive, suffocating aura they associated with the infamous sorcerer was gone—utterly gone.
In its place was a gentle, almost clergy-like calm.
He looked approachable.
Kind, even.
And when he greeted a passing soldier with a warm nod, the soldier nearly forgot to breathe.
The cityfolk reacted the same way.
Yesterday, most would scatter like frightened chickens at the mere sight of him—unless they were already converted by the Red Priestess.
But today, people only stepped aside respectfully… and stayed. Watching.
"Lord Cranston… do you worship the Seven as well?"
One guard finally gathered the courage to ask.
"Of course not," Charles answered softly, smiling.
"I worship the Lord of Thorns."
The guards exchanged confused looks.
Lord of… what?
But hearing that the "black sorcerer" actually had a god he respected—
Their fear melted a little.
Their shoulders eased.
Some even smiled awkwardly.
---
Lohn City was small, and the main street gave a clear view of the Red Priestess.
Just as Charles expected, she was surrounded by an even larger crowd than the day before—twice as many, at least.
"Good day, Your Excellency."
A young man with rolled-up sleeves—a blacksmith's apprentice from the look of his hands—approached Charles first.
He had forgotten, in his fascination with Melisandre's sermon, what sort of man he was walking toward.
When Charles looked at him, the apprentice flinched—
Then Charles smiled.
A simple, gentle smile.
Sincere.
Almost fatherly.
"May the gods grant you a long life, my lord," the apprentice stammered, relieved beyond reason.
"Thank you."
Charles nodded, then turned to the Red Priestess.
Melisandre had already noticed him.
She stepped away from the crowd, her gaze studying his face—her expression momentarily dazed.
"You look like Thoros of Myr," she murmured, voice soft, almost wistful.
"The same warmth. The same love for the world."
Her hand rose toward his cheek in an unconscious gesture.
Charles tilted his head aside.
"I've always been a good person," he said dryly. "So? What do you see?"
"You're smiling," she whispered, "but your heart is troubled."
Before he could dodge, her hand brushed his cheek—light, warm, perceptive.
She paused.
Doubt flickered across her eyes.
"You feel… guilty?"
"Guilty my ass!"
Charles slapped her hand away, rolling his eyes.
"What are you doing? Are you blind? Use your eyes, woman!"
"You…"
Melisandre's dazed expression faded. She studied him closely—too closely—her crimson eyes narrowing with a mixture of disbelief and suspicion.
"What did you do?"
"Maybe it's because I just finished reading the Seven-Pointed Star."
---
The Seven-Pointed Star was the holy scripture of the Faith of the Seven, divided into seven parts—each representing one facet of their seven-faced god.
Most noble houses in Westeros worshiped the Seven, so the holy book had naturally spread to every corner of the realm.
Even a place like Lohn City would have copies lying around.
Hearing Charles mention it, Melisandre relaxed.
Then immediately grew annoyed.
She launched into a subtle rant, disparaging the Seven and promoting the doctrines of her own Red God.
Her tone made it obvious that she held the Seven-Pointed Star in contempt.
Of course, Charles hadn't even seen the cover of the book, let alone read it.
But his transformation was, in a way, connected to the Faith.
Because the spirit he had used as a "catalyst" for his masking ritual had been a devout septon of the Seven.
Using the ritual to filter out the right soul, shaping it with spells and crushed spiritual essence, he had forged a Ghost Mask that didn't just soften the aura of a terrifying death-wizard—
It magnified every gentle, saintly trait the septon possessed.
In Charles's body, those soft traits were exaggerated to the extreme.
And the effect… was remarkable.
Even though everyone else seemed to temporarily forget his true identity, Charles did not.
Once back in his room, he returned to his black magic studies.
Aside from Whispers of the Dead and Evil Eye of Malice, he had already mastered every spell in his notebook.
The last two shouldn't take long either.
So now his attention was on the book Qyburn had given him—
the blood-scented, well-worn tome filled with ancient spells.
Unfortunately, the deeper he read, the more he realized—
This was an entirely different magical system from the one he practiced.
For one, the incantations were bizarre strings of guttural syllables and strange mouth positions—
nothing like his own method, which used "spirituality" to channel spells through intention.
And the spell requirements…
Eye of newt?
Graveyard mud?
Bone powder?
Moonlight collected from crossroads?
Even the simplest spell—something akin to his Bone of Ressurection—demanded half a dozen ritual ingredients.
And the incantations were a nightmare.
One annotation left by a frustrated scholar read:
"Learning these chants cost me an entire Long Summer.
When I finally snuck into the graveyard to test them, all I gained was the mockery of crows and the cemetery keeper's boot."
Still—
Although the chanting was incomprehensible, the treatise's insights into magic theory greatly broadened Charles's understanding.
It even sparked an idea.
"Could the reason Bone Ressurection refuses to level up be because of the incantation?"
"Maybe I should modify it… or lengthen it?"
Lost in thought, he flipped deeper into the thick tome.
That was when a servant arrived.
"Lord Bolton invites you to a dinner banquet, my lord. He hopes you will honor him with your presence."
"What does he want this time?"
Charles frowned.
For the last two days, the emotionless man had invited him to meals over and over.
Once or twice was fine.
But every day?
He wasn't a beautiful woman.
He was a pale, leech-loving psychopath.
What was there to "dine" about?
"Is this what they call attracting your own kind?"
Charles had grumbled before.
For some reason, he seemed to draw lunatics like flies.
Melisandre.
Qyburn.
Roose Bolton…
Who next? Night King?
"Lord Bolton says this banquet is different from before," the servant replied, unaware of Charles's drifting attention.
"What's different?"
"It is a farewell banquet."
"Farewell?" Charles closed the book.
"The army is leaving Lohn City," the servant said.
"Lord Bolton has decided to march south—to Harrenhal."
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