Morning came quietly to Torrhen's Square.
A soft drizzle fell from a sky heavy with low grey clouds, the kind of gentle northern rain that soaked into stone and bone. Stronghold seemed to breathe with it.
Roofs darkened, courtyards glistened, and the air turned sharp and cold again after days of hot stillness.
Inside the inner inn, tucked behind the stronghold's main yard, two men over thirty were already half-dressed in travel leathers. As they pulled on their outer layers, the faint clink of metal sounded. Intricate chains, hanging from their necks, could be seen. If you looked closely, they resembled those worn by maesters. The men tucked them deeper beneath their tunics, hiding them from sight.
The older of the two was Sereth, a man with a narrow face, sharp cheekbones, and dark hair tied back in a short knot. His eyes were a cold, calculating grey… the kind that measured everything and revealed nothing. His chain glinted silver and black before disappearing beneath his cloak.
Beside him stood Jorren, who had broad shoulders. His hair was sandy… beard trimmed short… expression that of irritation. His chain was shorter… made of dull iron links… each etched with tiny runes.
The door creaked open… a young man stepped in without knocking.
He looked barely twenty. Tavian was pale-skinned, dark-eyed, and exhausted. His black robe clung to him from the rain outside.
Sereth and Jorren both turned toward him with the same look… annoyance, thinly veiled and sharpened by habit. But neither scolded him. Tavian was too valuable for that.
"Did you finish with the Death Knights?"
Tavian slumped onto the nearest bed, leaving his boots on and letting his head fall back against the wall.
"Yes," he muttered. "My coils are almost empty. Again, why do we need so many of them?"
His voice trailed off, his pale lips tightening. He looked drained.
Sereth didn't answer the question.
But he knew that controlling even three Death Knights was a feat for a trained mage. Tavian controlled ten. That was why Sereth looked pleased.
This boy… this asset… was the most gifted mage their order had seen in centuries… at twenty… the young man's magical reserves rivaled those of the legendary heroes of old.
If his training continued well… he would become the strongest vanguard the Citadel had ever seen.
But as Sereth looked at Tavian sprawled across the bed, he kept that thought to himself.
Tavian blinked slowly, then seemed to remember something. He reached into his robe and pulled out a sealed letter.
"Oh. Right. This was passed to me by Maester Corveth. It's for you."
He extended his arm lazily, letting the letter dangle from his fingers, still out of Sereth's reach.
Sereth's jaw tightened, but he said nothing. He stepped forward and plucked the letter from Tavian's hand.
The seal broke with a soft crack… the parchment inside was coded, written in a cipher that only their order knew. Sereth sat and took a small slate from his pack, and began decoding the message.
Jorren stood behind him with his arms crossed. Tavian lay motionless on the bed, staring at the ceiling as if it might collapse on him.
Minutes passed.
Finally, Sereth exhaled and folded the letter.
"It's nothing more than reports from our insiders. It's the same information as before."
Jorren frowned. "About that mist?"
Sereth nodded once.
"Nothing has changed. As planned, we will need to examine it ourselves."
Outside, the rain fell harder.
---
Meanwhile, at Ironpine, Erick and the women had slipped back during the night, replacing the clones without a sound. By dawn, they were already rolling out of the settlement, Strike pulling the wagon through the soft drizzle.
The road was mud, thick and sucking at the wheels, but Strike moved as if it were smooth stone. His hooves barely sank. His breath steamed in the morning air.
Behind them, the people of Ironpine gathered to say their goodbyes, waving and calling out blessings. They didn't know what had happened in the mist.
Erick, disguised as an old man, lifted a hand in farewell.
Then the forest closed around them.
For a while, only the sound of rain tapping the wagon roof filled the silence.
Mora finally spoke.
"Is it not better to go back to Weir‑Grip?"
Her voice carried the question she had been holding since last night, filled with worry, confusion, and a hint of frustration.
Erick nodded slowly.
"Yes. In our situation, that would be the reasonable thing to do."
He didn't look back at them. He kept his eyes on the muddy road, the trees, and the faint shapes moving where most people would see nothing.
"But," he continued, "we don't know if there were more spies in Ironpine. If there are, I want them confused. I want them thinking the mist and the Weir-Grip people are not connected."
Dalla blinked. "Confusion…?"
Erick smiled faintly, the sort of smile that showed he was already three steps ahead of everyone else.
"Do you still remember that coin trick I showed Anna, where I pulled a coin from behind her ear?" Both of them nodded. They still remembered the laughter and Anna's confused face, but everyone else around her saw the trick clearly. The coin was never behind Anna's ear… it was tucked behind Erick's fingers.
"It's the same trick. Even if you know you're being tricked, the angle and the performer's skill still leave you with questions. Answering those questions takes time, and that's what we're doing right now."
"Confusion is a weapon. By doing this, we're buying ourselves time to observe our new enemy and understand it."
"And most importantly, we can't play their game. We need to play our own, by our rules."
He glanced at his map again.
There were three agents in Ironpine. Because they did not intend to attack, they were tagged yellow on the map, which is why he had missed them before.
He already knew that only those with the intention of harming would have red tags. Those who were uncertain or just curious, observing without intent to harm, would be shown as yellow marks, like most people he did not know. Only those who were friendly were marked as green.
At that moment, they were following, moving through the forest.
"And yes," Erick added casually, "don't look around. We're being followed."
Mora stiffened, and Dalla's eyes widened.
"Oooh," Dalla whispered as realization dawned. "That's why you asked Strike to pull the wagon slowly."
Erick nodded.
"Let them think we're harmless. Let them think we're unaware."
They were half an hour from Winterfell now.
On Erick's map, three dots moved through the forest behind them. They were steady, cautious, and disciplined, but now they were marked.
Another dot, whose name he now knew was Corwyn, was already inside Wintertown.
---
At Wintertown… market stalls were already open, people were preparing their goods, smoke rising from cookfires, wiffs of cooked meat and fish lingered in the air, merchants half-heartedly calling through the morning chill.
Corwyn moved among them with purpose, neither hurried nor slow, just another traveler stocking up for a long road.
His bag was already heavy with dried meat, hard bread, and anything else that could last weeks in the wild.
But his hands still shook. Every time he reached for something or brushed past a stall, the memory hit him again… the moment he regained consciousness in the forest.
He had been moving… too fast.
He remembered opening his eyes just a crack, and the world around him blurred. Trees whipped past, branches bent, the ground became a smear of color. He had been slung over someone's shoulder like a sack of grain, but the speed… gods, the speed…
He nearly vomited twice.
Only decades of training kept him silent.
And he saw the others… his colleagues… limp in the arms of two figures, dead. He didn't dare look at their faces, but feeling the speed that made him sick, he realized they were not human.
When they dropped him in the clearing, he pretended to wake only then. He pretended confusion and weakness, but inside, he was shaking.
He stood in the clearing for nearly an hour after they vanished, too afraid to move. Too afraid to even breathe wrong, afraid they might still be watching.
But eventually, reality settled in. They had left him alive. The voice had not lied.
And at that time he knew… if he didn't return to the organization, they would assume he was dead.
If he wanted to live, there was only one option… disappear, and do it fast.
But there was a problem… he had no provisions. Survival in the wild, even with tools, was a challenging task.
He couldn't go back to Ironpine. He had seen other agents there, hiding in the nids, watching the settlement. They recognized his face and would report on him.
So he ran for Wintertown.
Wintertown was quiet when he arrived. Only a few early risers moved through the streets.
Then he saw him… an agent pretending to be a blacksmith's apprentice at the first smithy by the gate, the perfect place to watch everyone who entered or left. Corwyn's stomach dropped. The agent didn't know him by face, but that didn't matter. The organization trained its watchers well, and he knew he would be recorded.
Corwyn kept walking, staying calm and steady, breathing slowly.
He had no tools, no weapons, nothing but a sharpened wooden branch he had carried since leaving the forest. But he didn't need more.
He found the young agent alone behind the smithy, sorting charcoal.
Corwyn acted fast… a single, silent, precise strike aimed at the neck.
The poor agent had a dagger and coins on him.
He hid the body in a charcoal barrel, covered it with the lid, and walked away without looking back.
He saw other agents in Wintertown too, scanning crowds, watching inns, and observing merchants. But he knew their roles. Only the gate watcher was tasked with identifying arrivals.
The others were doing something else, something he preferred not to understand.
So he focused on leaving Wintertown as fast as possible.
He bought supplies, kept his head down, and avoided every shadow.
---
Old Nan felt unusually awake, almost energized this morning. Today was Walder's birthday.
Even if he didn't understand the meaning of the day, she did. And she needed this small celebration more than anyone could guess.
She had risen before the servants, wrapped her shawl tight around her thin shoulders, and made her slow way down to Wintertown. Her joints ached, but her steps were steady.
She had two goals in the market… find something sweet for Walder and buy more of that valerian-root tea, the only thing that soothed his trembling sleep.
The stalls were already opening, merchants brushing rain off their wares, steam rising from early cookfires. Old Nan moved through them with purpose, nodding politely to those who recognized her.
But when she reached the little shop that sold the valerian tea, it was still closed. She sighed… disappointment softening her face… she would come back later.
For now… she stood beneath the awning, thinking about what sweets Walder might enjoy, even if he couldn't say so.
Then she heard it… a commotion near the west gate.
Voices rose, people pointed, and a ripple of surprise moved through the quiet morning.
Old Nan turned and saw it… a massive brown horse, larger than any animal she had ever seen in her long life, stepping through the gate. Its coat shone even in the rain, and it pulled a wagon that looked almost too small for its size, as if the beast could drag ten such wagons without effort.
Recognition hit her… she remembered the stories whispered joyfully among the servants in Winterfell.
Tales of mysterious healers traveling the North, helping the sick, easing pain, and leaving villages better than they found them.
These were the same healers whose people sold her the calming tea that helped Walder sleep without shaking.
Her heart lifted… she did not hesitate. Old Nan gathered her shawl, straightened her back, and moved toward the wagon with surprising speed for a woman her age.
---
As Erick's wagon rolled through Wintertown's west gate… the entire street seemed to pause.
People stopped mid-step… merchants froze with crates in their hands, a child dropped a wooden toy in the mud.
Every pair of eyes locked onto Strike.
The massive brown horse walked with the slow, deliberate confidence of a creature who knew he was impressive. His mane rippled, his hooves struck the ground with perfect rhythm, and Erick, noticing with a twitch of his eye, realized Strike was definitely showing off.
Head high, chest out, tail flicking like a banner.
Behind him, Mora and Dalla were trying, and failing, not to laugh.
They reached the market stalls, where merchants were just beginning to set out their goods. The drizzle had softened, leaving the air cool and fresh. Erick remained seated on the wagon, playing the role of a frail elder who let his "assistants" handle the work.
In truth, he was scanning everything… faces, people's movements, every heartbeat, and Corwyn's location on his map.
People gathered quickly around the wagon. Some were customers who recognized them from earlier travels. Others were merchants who had traded with them before. But among the crowd, Erick saw a face that made him pause.
An elderly woman in neat clothing, a face he had seen only a few times on a TV screen in his past life.
Old Nan.
She stood among the waiting townsfolk, hands clasped and eyes hopeful.
As Mora and Dalla began setting out jars, bundles of herbs, and small wooden boxes of remedies, more and more people approached. There were not just buyers, but also the sick.
Erick's heart tightened.
A father stepped forward, holding a small girl in his arms. Her skin was pale, her breathing shallow. Erick didn't need to touch her to know it was an infection, spreading fast.
He wasn't a god. He couldn't heal everyone or save the world, but he could save her.
Behind the father, more people waited. They were not begging or demanding… they were just standing there with quiet, desperate hope.
Erick exhaled slowly. "It will be a long day."
Then he slid off the wagon, old-man disguise and all, and stepped toward the father with the sick girl. No matter how complicated the world became, no matter how many spies, agents, or mysteries there were, he would always stop for a child in need.
---
The old healer knelt beside the young girl her father carried.
Old Nan had seen that look before… the flushed cheeks, the trembling, the fever that burned from the inside out. She had watched too many die like that. Even the maesters could do little once the fire took hold.
This one is doomed, she thought.
But the old healer did not look worried. He looked calm and certain, as if he had seen this a thousand times.
"She will be alright," he told the father. "Just let me take care of her."
From those words, Old Nan's brows drew together.
She watched as the old healer called a woman, probably one of his students, named Mora, to prepare everything for some kind of operation.
Mora moved with practiced precision, setting up a sheet of cloth, building a makeshift tent, and cleaning everything with a care that reminded Old Nan of the Citadel's healers. She worked fast.
Erick lay the girl on her back in the tent, her breathing shallow, her skin pale and slick with fever. Erick placed two fingers on her forehead. A soft pulse of chakra flowed from him into her mind, gentle and precise, and her eyes fluttered closed as unconsciousness took her.
His hands glowed faintly blue. Medical Diagnosis Technique.
The chakra light illuminated the girl's small body, casting soft shadows against the tent walls. Erick pressed his glowing hands to her abdomen, letting the chakra seep inward. He felt the inflammation immediately… a swollen, angry appendix on the verge of rupture.
"Appendicitis," he whispered. "Advanced."
Mora's jaw tightened. She knew what that meant. Without surgery, the girl would die within hours.
Erick's chakra-infused hand shifted from gentle to sharper, more focused. Chakra Scalpel.
A thin blade of chakra extended from his fingertips, and he guided it with absolute precision. He cut through layers of tissue without blood spilling.
Through the opening inside the girl's body, the inflamed appendix came into view, swollen and ready to burst.
"…Hold the cloth steady…"
Mora pressed down gently… keeping the area stable… keeping the girl steady.
Erick's hands moved with the calm certainty of someone who had done this a hundred times in another life. He isolated the appendix, severed the blood vessels with microscopic chakra threads, and removed the organ in a single smooth motion.
For a moment, Erick's palm released chakra, creating a warm pulse that spread through the girl's abdomen. It killed every trace of infection, burned away bacteria, and sealed microscopic wounds. He used a Sterilization Technique, finishing with the Healing Palm Technique to close the open area.
The operation took less than ten minutes.
When he finished, there wasn't even a scar on the girl's stomach.
Erick walked out of the tent, and the father rushed forward, tears rolling down his face.
"She is alright," Erick said gently. "I was able to treat her. But she needs rest."
The man collapsed to his knees, sobbing into the mud, clutching Erick's hands.
"Thank you, healer… thank you…"
Old Nan watched, feeling confusion twist inside her chest… she had seen children burn with fever… seen them die… seen maesters fail.
But this old healer had undone death as if it were nothing.
She stared at him, at the calm face, the steady hands, the impossible skill, and something ancient stirred in her memory. It was something she had not felt in decades.
A whisper of old magic, a reminder of stories too dangerous to tell children, made Old Nan look at him with a complexity she could not name.
'Maybe, this last time, let me believe in magic again,' Old Nan thought to herself.
---
Above the Imperial Palace, the sun stood high, its light poured through carved lattice windows, painting shifting patterns across Princess Bu May-Lin's chamber.
Midday in Yi Ti Imperial Palace… was at the hour when the palace was busiest… servants hurried around, and ministers schemed when no one looked too closely.
But May‑Lin sat alone.
Her room was quiet, too quiet for a princess whose future was being decided without her. The imperial court had declared she was "of age," ready to be married off, disposed of, really. A political piece to be moved, traded, or sacrificed.
By imperial law, her father's law, no one had the right to dictate the lives of imperial children. Not even the Emperor. But with her father secluded for seven long years, the court had grown bold, corrupt, and hungry. The old laws were now treated as suggestions, bent by those who clawed for power.
She played along… just to blend in.
She still didn't know what happened the night her father withdrew from the world. One day he was the loving Azure Emperor who smiled at all his children equally, whether born of a wife or a concubine. The next day, he vanished into seclusion with his first wife, leaving the empire to rot under the weight of ambition.
Only one man might know the truth… Scholar Xun.
But Xun was a storm given human shape, a magi who could split armies with a gesture. Joking with him was one thing. Demanding answers was suicide.
May-Lin didn't understand why her father allowed such wicked creatures to infest his court. But she knew one thing.
When he returned… when he needed her… she had to be strong enough to stand beside him.
She needed power, allies, and certainty.
A sudden rush of air stirred the silk curtains.
A crow, as large as an eagle, swept through the open window and landed on her desk. Its feathers gleamed like polished obsidian, and its dark eyes fixed on her with sharp intelligence.
May‑Lin rose gracefully.
She opened a lacquered box and took out strips of dried meat… each piece cut to the exact size the crow preferred. She placed them on the desk, and the bird hopped forward eagerly.
May‑Lin brushed his feathers gently… "You worked hard, Mo Mo… are you tired, my friend?" Mo Mo croaked softly, leaning into her touch.
She had sent the crow with Khen-Zai, her silent shadow and protector. Through Mo Mo, they could communicate across vast distances, a bond forged through training… magic… trust.
On the bird's leg was a small scroll.
While Mo Mo pecked at the meat, she untied the string and unrolled the message.
There were only a few words.
But they were enough to make her heart quicken, sharpen her gaze, and shift the future.
"I found it."
May-Lin smiled, a rare and dangerous smile.