The stone corridors of Ghost Hill carried a dryness even within their ancient walls, as if the desert beyond had slowly seeped into every crack of the holdfast. Torchlight flickered along carved sandstone, throwing long, wavering shadows that danced across the tapestries of House Toland—the green dragon biting its own tail against a field of brilliant gold, a stark reminder of the defiance that birthed their sigil.
"Will you really help us, Lord Peverell?" Lady Rammuella Toland asked, her voice carrying the sharp, weathered authority of a woman who ruled a land made of sun and stone. She guided the wizard of Dorne toward the main hall, her steps deliberate and unhurried.
Behind them walked several advisors of the House, trusted confidants who had seen too many of their own waste away in the heat of the sands. The air within the castle was warm and stale, heavy with long droughts and longer prayers left unanswered.
The wizard did not hurry his steps. He never did. There was always a measured patience in the way Thaddues moved, as if time itself bent only when acknowledged.
"Yes, summoning rain is easy. Even commanding a storm is easy. But will you accept the consequences of this?"
Thaddues stopped as they reached a wide, open terrace, looking out over the castles perimeter. Even under the cover of night, the heat radiating from the desert was a physical pressure.
They stepped out onto the stone ledge. The desert stretched beyond Ghost Hill like an endless, sleeping beast. Even beneath the stars, the sands breathed heat upward in slow, suffocating waves, refusing to forget the sun. The horizon was a dim blur of dull amber and black, the stars faint against the lingering warmth of the land.
"Once heavy rain descends, floods will follow," Thaddues continued, turning his dark gaze toward Lady Toland. She stood near his own age, her face etched with the heavy burden of the lives held under her palms.
"It may nourish the once-broken land and create oases, but it can just as easily claim innocent lives."
Lady Rammuella did not answer immediately. Her hands rested firmly on the stone railing, her fingers tightening against the rough, sun-baked edge. She was a woman born to command, yet tonight she looked like a ruler balancing an invisible scale—one side filled with desperate hope, the other with catastrophic consequence.
The elders behind her exchanged quiet, anxious glances but remained silent. In Dorne, drought was not a passing condition; it was a cruel way of life.
"I expect you to provide the measures to avoid such a tragedy," Thaddues said, his gaze still fixed on the desert beyond the terrace.
Lady Toland answered at once, her nod sharp and decisive. "Give us three days. Ravens will fly to every corner of Dorne. They will know that a miracle from House Peverell is descending to provide water in this hour of crisis."
At the mention of ravens, the wizard's gaze drifted slightly, as if already tracing the paths of the dark birds scattering across the sunburnt lands. Three days was both too short a time and exactly enough for people who had nothing left to lose.
Thaddues chuckled, a low, dry sound.
"I am a wizard, My Lady. I do not create miracles. What I do is magic."
He turned his eyes back to the endless expanse of sand.
"And magic hears the endeavors of this world. That is why it exists."
There was no pride in his voice. To him, magic was just something that answered to will, pressure, and cost.
The heavy silence on the terrace was broken when a senior advisor stepped forward, bowing low.
"Forgive the intrusion, Lady Toland, Lord Peverell… but the man you ordered released still kneels outside in the sands, calling your name."
The air on the terrace seemed to tighten at those words. Even the desert wind felt reluctant to move.
Hearing it, Thaddues felt the familiar ache beginning to throb behind his temples. He knew exactly whom the advisor meant. It was the crannogman—a rare bloodline captive so far south—who had nearly become a lamb for the sacrifice scheduled for tonight, before Thaddues had interfered.
He exhaled slowly, his gaze remaining fixed on the horizon as if the desert might offer a better answer than the mortal standing behind him.
He should have felt pity for the man, but the memory of what had transpired just hours earlier blocked out any room for sympathy. The memory returned sharply, like a blade pressed briefly against his conscious thought, broadening his horizon to the terrifying wonders of this world.
The moment he had heard the System's voice earlier that evening, he had been dragged into an endless, suffocating darkness. Even his mastery over the mind arts had failed to break the hold. Then the world had shifted violently. He had found himself standing before an oppressive grove of weirwood trees.
Bleeding sap, carving out weeping, ancient faces.
"Strange magic, unheard of in this world," a chorus of voices had echoed, emanating from every carved face simultaneously.
The memory had weight. Presence. A crushing pressure that had no clear direction yet surrounded him completely.
Thaddues had grown irritated. Even trapped and unable to fight back, he had let his voice carry the full weight of his standing.
"Don't do it again, or I will wipe out every weirwood tree I find in this world."
The threat had not been empty. Even immobilized, his tone had carried absolute certainty—the kind that belonged only to someone used to rewriting rules rather than obeying them.
A mocking silence had followed, punctuated by disembodied cries, laughter, and whispering taunts. Then the collective voice spoke again.
"It was our rudeness... Chosen."
"Chosen."
"Chosen."
The word had echoed a hundred times over, tearing at his patience. He had pushed his mind arts to their absolute limit, trying to force his consciousness out of the domain, but it wouldn't break through. Even the System had been completely unresponsive, its sudden absence unsettling him more than the voices themselves, as if this place lay beyond its reach.
A whisper had crawled into his left ear."Your strange magic is useless against this domain."
Another scraped against his right. "Humans are nothing in front of the Old Gods."
Thaddues had almost sneered. He knew where he was the moment he saw the faces, but the irritation refused to fade. Despite everything he had achieved, he was still defenseless against the deities of Planetos. But why him? He shared no bloodline or connection with the Old Gods.
"You are here because your magic awakens the echoes in history," the trees had whispered back, their voices layering over one another like branches growing into a single, massive trunk.
"You have heard the seers sing. You have created another future."
"You have created possibilities."
"Possibilities, interwoven with dragons as well."
He could only understand the concepts in fragments. His presence in this world carried a weight far beyond his intentions, and the consequences were spreading further than he could account for.
He had never considered himself part of fate—only an observer who occasionally altered outcomes for his own convenience.
If this was reality, then so be it. Fear had no place in it. But as for being a "Chosen"? He did not like where this path was leading.
"What you've said is irrelevant. I will live the life I choose." he had stated firmly, his declaration cutting through the whispers like a sealed decision.
"But..."
"Fate has woven..."
"For you—"
It was at that exact threshold that a the system's voice had cut through his mind.
--
"Host connection re-established successfully... Consume 70 Faith Points to escape the Old Gods' domain?"
--
Thaddues had looked at the weeping eyes of the weirwoods one last time.
"Fate has no claim over me." he said, and made the decision.
Like a striking hammer against a mirror, the ancient grove fractured and shattered. Reality did not fade; it broke apart. The whispering voices snapped like brittle threads, and the weight pressing against his mind dissolved into nothingness.
When his eyes had snapped open back in reality, he was standing in the courtyard, looking into the eyes of the crannogman. The transition between realms had left no physical mark, but his awareness still echoed faintly with residual pressure.
The captive had looked up at him with terrifying reverence.
"I have been blessed to see those black eyes I saw in my dream... Chosen."
Hearing that word again had flared Thaddues irritation. With a sharp flick of his finger, the heavy ropes binding the captive unraveled of their own accord. The crannogman slumped forward, his face meeting the dirt. The magic was casual, effortless—as if undoing knots was no different from dismissing a passing thought.
Turning his back on the captive, Thaddues looked toward the elders of House Toland who remained kneeling where he had stopped the ritual. The lumos dissipating in his hand.
"Call your Lady," he had commanded coldly. "I, Thaddues of House Peverell, will invoke the rain you pray for." Then he had walked into the castle.
Back in the present, standing on the terrace beside the golden banner of the biting dragon, Thaddues looked at the advisor.
"Then let him kneel outside," Thaddues said, his voice stripped of all emotion. "Let his gods protect his knees from the sands all night."
There was no cruelty in his tone, only an indifference sharpened by deep irritation. He would never let gods—old or new—dictate the life he intended to carve out for himself. This terrifying brush with helplessness was merely another reason to grow stronger.
Without another word, Thaddues turned and apparated on the spot, vanishing with a sharp crack of displaced air and leaving Lady Toland and her elders standing in stunned silence on the terrace.
He reappeared in his chambers. The room was quiet, lined with ancient Dornish carvings and illuminated by half-lit oil lamps. Even the silence felt structured, as if the room itself were waiting for instructions.
Taking a breath, he addressed the System in his mind.
"Why was I helpless? Why did you fail to respond?"
---
"The System's current strength aligns with the current authority the Host possesses. Advancement and upgrades are required for the System to unlock higher-tier authority."
--
The mechanical answer provided no comfort. It explained the cold mechanics of his reality—nothing more. And Thaddues knew it.
After all, a year ago, before the major update, he had to check the System himself to confirm if a new update had occurred.
"And the Faith Points?" he demanded. "Where did they come from?"
--
"Faith Points are generated by faithful followers and are harvested once per year."
--
"Strange… when did I have a believer?" Thaddues could not recall.
Only the lingering Confundus charm spread across his territory—subtly bending perception, keeping people from even recognizing him as anything divine.
It did not make sense.
Of course, he knew the tropes. This was the classic faithful–believer system, the kind found in the webnovels of his past life. But he had no churches, no cults, no worshipers.
He had to ask the System.
"Who are these believers?"
--
"Host possesses sufficient authority to view source..."
--
The silence that followed felt heavier than the domain of the Old Gods.
A list of blurred names unfolded in his mind's eye. Shock flickered through him—followed by irritation that quickly hardened into resolve.
He turned away from the window.
Power mattered above all else. And he would acquire enough to make gods irrelevant.
TBC
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