The morning light over Ghost Hill came pale and restrained, as if even the sun hesitated to fully touch the ancient stones. Wind carried the dry scent of Dornish earth through the high corridors of the castle, slipping between arrow slits and curling around carved pillars worn smooth by centuries of heat and sand.
Thaddues woke later than intended.
Sleep hadn't been rest. It had felt like an extension of discipline.
Most of the night, he stayed within the system's guidance—forcing spells further than they should've gone, stabilizing what wasn't meant to hold yet. Each success left a small sting behind his eyes, like his mind was being pressed past its limits.
Still, it was better than the alternative.
Better than standing still.
Better than remembering what it meant to be helpless.
Helpless against gods.
The thought lingered briefly as he sat up, then was dismissed as he dressed in silence.
By the time he stepped out into the corridor, a household guard was already waiting. The man straightened immediately.
"Lord Peverell," the guard said carefully, "the man who claims your subject is still kneeling at the door. He has not moved all night."
Thaddues did not slow his pace.
"Ignore him," he replied evenly. "Let his Old Gods keep him company. I will not."
The guard waited a fraction longer than necessary, as if expecting some additional instruction. None came.
He lowered his head and followed without another word.
The great hall of Ghost Hill Keep was already awake when Thaddues arrived. The long table had been prepared with precision rather than abundance—fresh bread, olives soaked in oil, roasted quail, and fruit brought from the more forgiving parts of Dorne. Even in hospitality, the Tolands maintained restraint. Excess was never a virtue in the Red Lands.
Lady Toland stood near the head of the table.
She stood near his age, but time had begun to mark her in the subtle ways of Dornish nobility—lines near the eyes that spoke more of patience than age. Beside her stood her children: two sons and a daughter, all still in the awkward transition between youth and inheritance. Their clothing was fine, yet not extravagant. House Toland did not dress its heirs as fragile ornaments.
Still, there was something unrefined in their appearance, a harshness in bone structure and expression that contrasted sharply with the delicate elegance often associated with the ruling houses of Dorne. It was not ugliness in any meaningful sense, but severity shaped by environment and bloodline alike. Ghost Hill did not raise soft faces.
As Thaddues entered, conversation ceased immediately.
Every member of the household rose.
Not out of fear alone, but recognition.
A wizard of his standing was not bound to any house but his own, yet he stood on equal footing with the ruling House Martell. His presence bent noble expectations around him. In Dorne, where pride was carefully measured and rarely surrendered, such courtesy was reserved only for those of near-equal standing to House Martell.
Lady Toland spoke in composed grace, "Please be seated. Breakfast has been prepared in your honor."
Thaddues inclined his head once. A gesture precise enough to acknowledge respect, restrained enough to deny familiarity.
He took his seat at the center of the table without hesitation.
The children glanced at him before sitting again, their curiosity poorly hidden. They had likely heard the stories—summoning inferno burning the invaders fleet, a wizard dragonlord. Whether they believed them fully or not did not matter. Belief was not required for caution.
Lady Toland remained standing until he had settled.
Only then did she sit.
For a moment, silence held the table in balance. Servants moved quietly along the edges, pouring water and wine without interruption.
"Thank you for the courtesy," Thaddues said at last, breaking the stillness. "It is not always extended to those outside your blood."
"It is extended to those who command consequence," Lady Toland replied smoothly. "And you, my lord, have brought enough of it to Ghost Hill to warrant proper etiquette."
A faint pause followed, measured and intentional.
Then her son older than her daughter, sharper-eyed—spoke carefully.
"The preparations for the ritual continue. Ravens have been sent across Dorne. The lords of the region have been informed as you requested."
"Good," Thaddues answered without looking up from his bread. "They will need warning more than invitation."
The younger daughter frowned slightly. "Is it truly necessary for so many to witness it?"
"It is not for witness," he said. "It is for survival. If they do not understand what is coming, they will name it divine. That is always the first mistake."
No one responded immediately.
The words carried weight that did not invite argument.
Lady Toland studied him for a moment before speaking again, her tone measured.
"The location has been prepared. The four towers of Ghost Hill will serve as your anchors, as requested. The main castle grounds will form the central focus of the runes. The maesters have confirmed the stone will hold the inscription."
"Maesters confirm many things," Thaddues said lightly, though there was no humor in it. "Stone will decide the truth."
Breakfast continued after that, though conversation remained sparse. It was not discomfort that silenced them, but awareness. Every word spoken to him felt like it required precision, as though careless speech might tilt something already balanced on the edge of collapse.
When the meal concluded, Thaddues rose first.
The others followed only after a brief delay.
Outside, the courtyard was already shifting into preparation. Workers moved with purpose, carrying chalk, iron rods, and carved stone markers. The air smelled faintly of salt and dust, as if the sea itself was being summoned closer.
Thaddues walked without escort.
He ascended the first tower alone.
From its height, Ghost Hill revealed itself fully—stone structures layered against the harsh Dornish landscape, fields stretching outward into dry gold, and beyond that the distant shimmer of heat rising from desert sands. People below moved like controlled currents, preparing for something they did not fully understand but trusted enough to obey.
And still, at the base of his residence, the man remained kneeling and unnmoving since the previous night.
Thaddues looked down at him for a brief moment. The man's devotion was not difficult to understand. Faith rarely required clarity. It only required direction. The Old Gods had given him that direction, or at least the illusion of it.
But illusions were dangerous when mistaken for authority.
Thaddues turned away. He left the tower and returned without ceremony.
Back within his residence, the stone walls of his chamber felt quieter than the world outside. There was a difference between silence imposed by distance and silence chosen. He preferred the latter.
Without hesitation, he extended his hand slightly.
"System," he said, voice steady, "sign in today."
A pause followed.
Then the response echoed within his ears.
--
"Host system sign-in successful."
--
A faint shimmer unfolded before him, as though reality itself had loosened. Then the system box burst into view mid-air with an exaggerated flare of light, scattering little sparks of shimmer in every direction. It wobbled for a moment, as if it had appeared too excitedly, before settling into place with a soft glow.
Inside the frame, light spun in slow, playful motion, gathering itself like it was being shown off rather than revealed. From the center, an object began to form, as if the system were deliberately taking its time to make sure he saw it clearly.
A diadem.
It hovered midair before descending slowly into his reach.
Silver, intricate, and disturbingly familiar in its craftsmanship. The runes etched into its surface were not Dornish, nor Valyrian, nor anything native to this world. It belonged to another logic entirely—one built on thought rather than steel.
--
"Congratulations, host. "
--
The system voice continued.
--
"You have received Rowena Ravenclaw's Diadem."
--
Thaddues reached out.
The moment his fingers closed around the diadem, something shifted.
His mind reacted first.
His control over the mind arts remained unchanged—but the effort behind it eased, as if unnecessary resistance had been stripped away.
Then the system spoke again.
"Detected an artifact from the wizarding world. Convert it into an artifact in Planetos?"
Thaddues stared at the diadem in silence.
The question was not simple conversion. It was transformation. Rewriting meaning into a world that did not originally contain it.
Outside, Ghost Hill continued its preparations for rain that might reshape the land.
Inside, Thaddues considered how many realities could be bent before one finally broke.
TBC
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