The voice was soft, dry, and reedy. It was the sound of old, dry paper, and profound, unwavering kindness.
As the small, stooped figure emerged from the infirmary's deep shadows, leaning on a simple, gnarled wooden staff, the chaotic, warring pieces of Thomas's and Brandt's minds snapped into a single, unified, certain thought.
'Maester Vorin.'
The name was not a guess. It was a fact. It was a memory, as clear and solid as his own, old, stolen name.
This was Maester Vorin. He was the chief healer, the scholar, and the advisor to House Rimescar. He was, for all intents and purposes, family. He had served the keep for decades, overseeing not only the health but also the education of its inhabitants.
Brandt's memories painted the old man as a profound, almost suspicious, anomaly.
In this land of brutal, pragmatic, and cold-eyed soldiers, Vorin was, without exception, kind. He was caring. He was deeply empathetic. He was the keep's grandfather, a source of unconditional, quiet warmth in a fortress of unforgiving ice.
He treated a terrified, low-born servant like Elara with the exact same gentle, paternal respect that he afforded the Marquess himself.
'And... he's a magic user.'
The thought was not one of wonder, but of simple, factual recall. Brandt's knowledge, now his knowledge, was clear. Vorin was a Conjurer. More than that, he was a Deviant.
He wielded light magic.
It was not a combat art. It was something far rarer, and, in this godsforsaken place, infinitely more valuable. Vorin's magic could mend torn tissue, cleanse wounds that would otherwise fester, fight off infections, and ease profound, agonising pain. It was a priceless, almost divine, blessing.
And this... this frail old man, who looked as though a strong gust of wind would shatter his brittle bones, was the one who possessed it.
He knew, with a sudden, dawning certainty, why he was not dead. The boy, Brandt, should have died. The fall, the ice, the water... that combination was a death sentence.
But Vorin was here.
Brandt... he... forced his new, small, and stiff limbs to move.
He pushed himself into a more formal sitting position, his back straight, his gaze meeting the Maester's. The action felt... practised. Natural. The ingrained posture of a young noble addressing an elder.
"I... I feel... better, Maester."
His voice was a shock. It was Brandt's. A child's voice, clear, high-pitched, but already touched with the formal, reserved cadence of his station. It was utterly alien, yet his own.
'He must have used his magic. The light magic.'
The thought was a clinical assessment, mixed with a strange, new, childish curiosity.
He wished he could have seen it. He had, technically—Brandt had—but the memory was vague and dull, more warmth than spectacle.
The memory was vague, lacking the thrill Lilith had promised.
It was not a spectacle of fire or wind. It was just... a light. A dull, warm, all-encompassing glow, like holding a candle inside a closed fist. It was unimpressive, and yet, it was life.
Vorin's kind, grey eyes, crinkled at the corners, studied him. The old man smiled, a slow, gentle expression that seemed to warm the air around him more than the roaring fire.
"A blessing, then. You gave us all a terrible fright, Young Master."
His voice was exactly as Brandt's memories held it. Soft, paternal, and profoundly reassuring.
"Hypothermia is no small thing. To be submerged in water that cold... for the Old Gods know how long..."
Vorin shook his head, his full, white beard rustling. He let out a long, slow sigh, as if a great, physical weight had just been lifted from his frail shoulders.
"To be perfectly honest, child... I am... astonished... you are alive at all. Truly. A testament to the Rimescar blood, perhaps."
He was alive because of magic. He was alive because of this man.
"Thank you, Maester," he said, the words polite, measured, and automatic.
He paused, his mind racing. He needed to control this. He needed a narrative.
"It... it won't happen again."
Vorin's kind eyes sharpened, just slightly. The gentle, grandfatherly smile faded, replaced by a quiet, focused concern.
"Won't happen again, Young Master? What, exactly, did happen?"
He looked down at his small, pale hands, clenching the rough, dry blanket. He acted. He let his shoulders slump, his breath hitch. He projected the image of a child trying to recall a trauma.
He looked up, his face... Brandt's face... a mask of pained, confused recollection.
"I... I'm not... sure," he lied, his child's voice wavering, a perfect, useful tool. "It was... dark. I was walking... on the upper landing, near the kitchens."
He paused, crafting the story, piece by plausible piece.
"It was... so cold. The stone was... slick. With ice. I... I think... I think I slipped."
He let the image hang in the air, letting the old man's imagination do the work.
"I... I fell. Over the railing. I... I must have... hit the edge of the well. And... fell in."
It was a weak, pathetic, thin story. It didn't explain what a nine-year-old boy was doing wandering the icy outdoor landings in the middle of the night.
But it was... something.
Vorin did not question it.
The Maester just stared at him, his kind, grey eyes filled with a new, profound, and aching... sadness. He let out another, longer, heavier sigh.
He moved slowly, his wooden staff tapping, thok... thok... thok... on the floorboards. He came to the side of the cot and, with a quiet grunt, sat down on the edge.
His hand, knotted with arthritis, but surprisingly warm, settled on Brandt's shoulder. The touch was gentle, paternal, and grounding. It was the first, kind, human touch he had felt since...
He blocked the thought.
"We are all just... profoundly glad you are safe, Brandt," Vorin whispered, his voice thick with a genuine, paternal emotion that was... unsettling.
It made his skin crawl.
"Your father... when he returns... if he had learned..." Vorin shook his head, his eyes closing for a moment. "Your sisters. This whole, grim keep. You are... you are important, child. More important than you know."
The atmosphere in the hot, smoky room turned... heavy.
The clinical relief of a patient surviving was gone, replaced by the crushing, political weight of an heir being returned.
This was not just a boy. This was a linchpin.
The silence stretched, broken only by the crackling fire.
Then... Vorin's expression changed. The heavy, sombre weight lifted, and the kind, crinkling smile returned. It was... brighter. Excited.
"But... amidst all that terror... something else happened, didn't it?"
His voice was light, almost... playful.
'What?'
Vorin leaned in, his grey eyes sparkling with a new, academic light.
"Congratulations, Young Master," he said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "It seems... while you were... otherwise occupied... you have, quite miraculously... Awakened."
The word Awakened hung in the hot, smoky air.
It was a word, like Maester, that Brandt's memories immediately, instinctively, understood. But it was a word that Thomas's mind, the mind of the man from a world of steel and science, seized upon with a new, sharp, and sudden focus.
This was it. Lilith's third point. Magic.
It was real. And this old man, this kind, grandfatherly figure, was not just confirming it. He was diagnosing it.
Vorin leaned in, his frail body shifting on the hard, wooden cot. The grandfatherly warmth in his crinkled, grey eyes faded, replaced by a bright, keen, scholarly light. The healer was gone. The academic had taken his place.
"Tell me, Young Master," he said, his reedy voice dropping to a low, conspiratorial, and excited whisper. "While you were... unconscious... did you dream? Did you, perhaps, feel a... pressure? A strange, inward, condensing feeling, as if your very body was being compressed?"
He paused, his gaze sharp.
"And a barrier? A... a shell? A translucent light, forming around you?"
His words hit with the force of a physical blow.
It was not a guess. It was a script. It was a perfect, 1:1 description of what had happened in that other place, in that library.
'He... he knows. That's exactly what she did.'
The boon. The help. The snap of her fingers. The crushing, inward pressure. The shimmering, translucent barrier that had freed him.
It was not a dream.
It was real.
What had happened in his mind, in that space she controlled, had somehow... imprinted... itself onto this new body.
It had triggered... this.
He had to be careful. He had to play the part. He was not Thomas, the man who had spoken to a demon. He was Brandt, the boy who had just, miraculously, survived.
He looked at Vorin, widening his new, small eyes, forcing a look of confused, childish awe. He nodded, slowly.
"I... I think so," he whispered, his child's voice a perfect, hesitant, and valuable tool. "It was... strange. A... a crushing feeling. Yes. And... a light. I saw a light."
He looked at the Maester, his gaze a carefully crafted question.
"How... how did you know?"
A brilliant, triumphant, and utterly pure smile bloomed on Vorin's aged face. It was the smile of a scholar who had just proven an impossible theorem.
"Because, child, it happened right here," he said, his voice brimming with a quiet, profound excitement. "In this very room. Not... not two hours ago."
Vorin tapped a knotted, arthritic finger on the rough, woollen blanket, right next to Brandt's leg.
"The translucent barrier is the universal sign, you see. All mages, of all paths, Conjurer or Augmenter, they all manifest it. It is the soul's first, true defence."
He leaned in, his voice dropping even lower.
"But the other feeling... that inward, condensing pressure... that is unique. That is the sign of a dominant, powerful, and ready set of mana channels. It is the sign, Young Master, that you are an Augmenter."
An Augmenter.
The word resonated, a deep, powerful chord that both minds, Thomas and Brandt, felt.
This was not just a world of magic.
He... he was now part of it.
But the flash of excitement was doused just as quickly by Thomas's caution, drawing on Brandt's ingrained knowledge. This was... wrong.
He looked at Vorin, his expression shifting from awe to a calculated, precocious confusion.
"But Maester," he said, his voice small. "I'm... I'm not thirteen."
He had to play the part. He had to be the child who knew the rules.
"Isn't... isn't that the age? Father... Falk... they always said... I... I'm only nine."
Vorin's bright, excited smile faded. The scholarly light remained, but a new, deep, and serious gravity now tempered it. He raised a hand, his gnarled fingers slowly, thoughtfully, stroking his short, white beard.
"You are correct, Young Master."
His voice was no longer excited. It was... heavy.
"The common age of Awakening is, indeed, thirteen. Sometimes as late as seventeen. That is the norm."
He held Brandt's gaze, his kind, grey eyes now sharp, analytical.
"In some ancient, powerful lineages... such as your own... we have seen Awakenings as early as ten. It is... exceptionally rare. It is a sign of profound, innate talent. A true blessing from the Gods, Old and New."
Vorin paused, his hand stilling on his beard. The silence in the room stretched, thick and heavy, broken only by the crackling fire.
"But... I have been a Maester for fifty years, Brandt. I have read every record in this keep. I have studied the lineages of the North for my entire life. I have never... not once... heard of a child Awakening before their tenth nameday."
He leaned in, his face, his old, kind, grandfatherly face, now a mask of profound, calculating seriousness.
"You... are an unprecedented case."
Before Thomas... before Brandt... could even begin to process that, to formulate a response, Vorin held up a single, placating hand.
"Which is why... Brandt..."
He used his name. Not his title.
"...you must not speak of this. To anyone. Do you understand me?"
The shift from grandfather to advisor was instant and absolute.
'A secret.'
Thomas's mind seized the strategic value. A hidden card. A... a weapon in reserve.
Brandt's mind, simpler, more dutiful, just heard a command from a trusted, absolute authority.
The two minds merged, seamlessly, into a single, decisive action.
He nodded. His face was a mask of childish, earnest, solemnity.
"I... I understand, Maester. I won't say a word."
"Good." Vorin nodded, the tension visibly leaving his frail shoulders. "Good. This... this is... dangerous... knowledge. A nine-year-old Augmenter heir... it... it would... complicate... things."
The old Maester paused, his gnarled fingers tapping a rhythm on his staff. He looked at Brandt, his expression shifting from relief to a grim, calculating pragmatism.
"However," Vorin murmured, almost to himself. "We cannot hide this from everyone. Not if you are to survive yourself."
He looked Brandt in the eye.
"I will speak to Falk," Vorin decided, his voice firm. "The Master-at-Arms must know. He guards this family. If you are to train... if you are to learn to control this without tearing yourself apart... he needs to know what you are."
Brandt said nothing.
"But only Falk," Vorin commanded, raising a stern finger. "We will wait. Your tenth nameday is in... what, four months? Your father is due to return from his patrol of the southern passes by then. We... the three of us... will tell him. Together. Until then, to the rest of the world, you are just Brandt. You are a normal, nine-year-old boy. Understood?"
"I understand."
He dipped his head.
"Thank you, Maester. For... for the healing. And... for... this. For your... counsel."
The formal, adult word "counsel"... it slipped out.
Vorin's eyes flickered, just for a second. A flash of... something. Surprise? Calculation?
...and then it was gone.
The warm, kind, grandfatherly smile returned, chasing the shadows away.
"Of course, child. Of course."
He patted Brandt's shoulder, the same, gentle, grounding touch.
"Now..."
He gestured with his free hand, his staff tapping the floor, toward a small, simple stool near the cot. On it, neatly folded, was a set of... Brandt's clothes. A dark, woollen tunic. Trousers. A thick, leather belt.
"Get dressed. You are healed, and you are Awakened. There is no longer any reason to keep you here, languishing with an old man."
He watched, his gaze kind, as Brandt... as Thomas... slid, stiffly, off the high cot. His new, small, bare feet hit the warm, wooden floorboards. The weakness, the shuddering, was still there, but the paralysis was gone.
As he reached for the clothes, the wool rough and familiar under his small fingers, Vorin spoke again.
"And... if you see Kael or Garret... you should thank them, as well."
His voice was light, but held a core of steel—a reminder.
"They... were the ones who brought you here. Their speed... it made all the difference. Between this... and a... much... sadder... conversation."
Brandt nodded, his head bowed as he pulled the rough, heavy tunic over his head. The fabric scraped, uncomfortably, against his skin.
'Kael. Garret. Yes.'
He would thank them. The debt was his, as Brandt.
But... his mind, Thomas's mind, added another name to the list. A small, pale, round face. Terrified, pale blue eyes. Chapped, red hands.
'And Elara.'
'She... she was the one who found me. The one who... pulled me... from that...'
He shivered, a violent, involuntary spasm, as the phantom memory of the black, icy, crushing water... Brandt's terror... his terror... flooded him.
'I have to thank her, too.'