The next day, Hadrian and his elves made their way to the stronghold of House Crowl. It was a cold, bitter journey through the snow-covered wilderness, but Hadrian felt invigorated by the challenge ahead. He had altered his appearance slightly, dressing in the rough furs and leathers typical of northern nobility, though his staff—a symbol of his immense power—remained hidden beneath his cloak.
When they reached the gates of House Crowl's stronghold, Hadrian stood tall, his eyes burning with determination. He was greeted by the guards, who eyed him with suspicion but allowed him to pass when he invoked the ancient rite of Skagos.
"I am Hadrian Peverell," he declared, his voice echoing through the cold air. "I invoke the Rite of Power and challenge the leader of House Crowl."
The guards exchanged uncertain glances before leading him into the great hall, where the head of House Crowl, a grizzled warrior named Torghen, sat on a rough-hewn throne. His eyes were sharp and calculating, but there was no mistaking the weariness behind them. He had seen many battles in his time, and now he was being challenged by a stranger who claimed the ancient rite.
Torghen stood, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. "You dare challenge me, stranger?" His voice was a low growl, filled with the weight of years spent defending his house.
"I do," Hadrian replied evenly, meeting the older man's gaze without flinching. "According to your own customs, I have the right to challenge you here, in your place of power. Do you accept, or do you refuse?"
The hall fell silent as the assembled members of House Crowl waited for Torghen's response. The older man's eyes narrowed, and for a moment, Hadrian could see the gears turning in his mind. To refuse would be dishonorable, but to accept meant risking his position.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Torghen nodded. "I accept your challenge, Hadrian Peverell."
The winds howled around the castle of House Crowl as Hadrian stood across from Torghen in the ancient hall that had seen generations of Crowl leadership. This moment, however, was unlike any in its history. The weight of centuries hung heavy in the air, as if the very stones of the stronghold sensed the impending shift in power.
Torghen had accepted the challenge, and now there would be no turning back.
Hadrian stood tall, his cloak swirling around him like a shadow. Beneath his furs, the staff of ancient power rested in his hand, disguised but ready to reveal itself in an instant. The members of House Crowl, soldiers and servants alike, stood around the perimeter of the hall, watching in silence. The tension was thick, and even the torches on the walls flickered anxiously, as though sensing what was about to unfold.
Torghen Crowl drew his sword—a broad, heavy weapon forged for battle in the wilds of Skagos. His movements were slow, deliberate, a man who had fought countless battles and was more than familiar with the feel of steel in his hands. The old warrior, weathered by years of warfare, met Hadrian's gaze with a mixture of suspicion and grim determination.
"You come here, outsider, invoking our ancient rites," Torghen said, his voice like gravel grinding beneath boots. "But this is no easy land. We fight for our lives here, and we do not fall to tricks or pretty words. If you seek to rule Skagos, you must prove your strength."
"I intend to," Hadrian replied, his tone calm and composed. His eyes gleamed with the fire of something much more potent than mere physical strength. Power radiated off him in subtle waves, and though Torghen was no wizard, even he could sense the difference between them.
Without further words, the duel began.
Torghen lunged forward, swinging his sword in a wide arc, the blade slicing through the air with deadly intent. But Hadrian moved faster, sidestepping with the ease of one who had faced far greater opponents than a mortal warrior. He raised his staff, now fully revealed, and with a swift motion, a shimmering shield of magic formed around him, absorbing the blow effortlessly.
The gathered onlookers gasped, their eyes widening at the sight of such otherworldly power. Magic was not commen in these lands—if it existed at all outside of legends. To them, Hadrian's abilities were the stuff of myth, something they could scarcely comprehend.
Torghen's eyes flashed with anger and desperation. He swung again, trying to break through Hadrian's defenses with sheer brute strength. But each attack was met with the same result. Hadrian's staff, glowing faintly, sent waves of force that repelled every strike, pushing Torghen back with ease.
Hadrian could sense the crowd's growing awe, but he remained focused on the task at hand. This was no mere demonstration of power—he needed to win, decisively and without question. With a flick of his wrist, he disarmed Torghen, sending the sword clattering to the ground. The old warrior staggered, thrown off balance by the sudden force.
Hadrian took a step forward, his voice echoing through the hall. "Yield."
Torghen, panting and beaten, glanced at his fallen sword, then up at Hadrian. His face was a mask of fury, but also of resignation. He knew when he had been bested. Slowly, he lowered his head, acknowledging his defeat.
"I yield," Torghen said, his voice heavy with the weight of centuries of Crowl pride.
The hall was silent for a moment, and then the tension broke. The soldiers of House Crowl, who had watched in stunned silence, slowly lowered their weapons. Hadrian had won, and with it, the rite. He was now the master of this house.
Hadrian turned to the soldiers who stood around the hall. "Gather your people," he commanded. "All of them. In three moons' time, every man, woman, and child who lives on Crowl land will gather at Kingshouse, the castle of House Magnar."
The soldiers hesitated, unsure of this new order, but a subtle compulsion charm from Hadrian's staff ensured they obeyed. Even without the magic, Hadrian suspected they would follow his orders. They had seen his strength, and in Skagos, that was all that mattered.
Hadrian glanced down at Torghen one last time. "Your people will live, and they will follow me. If they do not, the consequences will be far worse than this."
With those words, he turned and left the hall, his black cloak billowing behind him like the shadow of death itself.
The journey to House Stane in the north was swift and uneventful. Hadrian's mind raced with thoughts of his next challenge. House Stane was older than Crowl, with deeper roots in Skagosi tradition. It would not be an easy task to conquer them, but Hadrian was no longer merely a wizard from another world. Here, he was Hadrian Peverell, master of Skagos by right of strength.
House Stane's stronghold was built into the side of a great mountain, a fortress of stone that had stood for centuries against wildling raids and internal conflicts. The air here was colder, sharper, as though the very land itself was testing Hadrian's resolve.
When he arrived at the gates, Hadrian once again invoked the ancient rite. Word had already spread of his victory over House Crowl, and the guards of Stane were not eager to face the same fate. They led him into the great hall without protest, where the leader of House Stane, Arik Stane, awaited.
Arik was younger than Torghen, but no less formidable. His body was lean and muscular, honed from years of hunting and fighting in the brutal wilderness of the northern mountains. His eyes were hard, calculating, and there was none of the hesitation that Torghen had shown.
"You seek to take Skagos for yourself, outsider," Arik said as Hadrian entered the hall. "You may have beaten old Crowl, but I am not so easily defeated."
"We shall see," Hadrian replied calmly, his staff once again hidden beneath his cloak. "I challenge you, by the laws of your own land, to the Rite of Power."
Arik smirked, drawing a long, curved blade from his side. "Very well, then. Let's see what you're made of."
The duel began in earnest, with Arik wasting no time in attacking. Unlike Torghen, his strikes were precise and calculated, aimed at exploiting any weakness in Hadrian's defenses. But Hadrian had no intention of letting this fight drag on. He summoned a burst of magic, a wave of force that sent Arik skidding across the floor.
Arik growled, rising to his feet with surprising agility, but Hadrian was faster. He extended his staff, and with a whispered incantation, the air around him shimmered. Invisible chains of magic wrapped around Arik's limbs, binding him in place.
"You fight well," Hadrian said, stepping forward. "But your strength is no match for mine."
Arik struggled, his muscles straining against the magical bonds, but it was futile. He knew it, and so did everyone in the room. The soldiers and attendants who had watched the duel unfold stood in stunned silence, waiting for the inevitable conclusion.
Hadrian met Arik's furious gaze and spoke the final words. "Yield."
For a moment, Arik's pride kept him silent, his jaw clenched in defiance. But slowly, the realization that he was well and truly beaten sank in. With a snarl of frustration, he lowered his head.
"I yield," Arik spat, his voice thick with resentment.
Once again, Hadrian turned to the soldiers. "Gather your people. All who live on Stane land will meet at Kingshouse in three moons."
This time, there was no hesitation. The men obeyed without question, their loyalty shifting to the one who had proven himself stronger than their leader.
The final challenge lay with House Magnar, the oldest and most powerful of the three Skagosi houses. Magnar's seat, Kingshouse, was a fortress of stone and iron sitting against a mountain, a grim reminder of Skagos' violent past and the dominance of its ruling family. To conquer House Magnar was to conquer Skagos itself.
When Hadrian arrived at Kingshouse, he was greeted not with suspicion or defiance, but with an eerie calm. The soldiers at the gate knew who he was, and they knew what had happened at House Crowl and House Stane. They offered no resistance as they led him inside to meet the leader of House Magnar, a man named Borran Magnar.
Borran was a giant of a man, taller and broader than any man Hadrian had yet seen in this world. His face was weathered, his beard streaked with gray, and his eyes were cold and calculating. He sat on a throne of stone, his presence dominating the room.
"You have come to take my house, outsider," Borran said, his voice deep and resonant.
"I have come to challenge you, as I did with Crowl and Stane," Hadrian replied. "By the rite of your own land."
Borran rose from his throne, a massive axe in his hand. "I have ruled Skagos for many years, and I will not give it up easily."
The duel with Borran Magnar was the most difficult of all. Borran was strong, far stronger than either Torghen or Arik, and his attacks were relentless. But Hadrian was not fighting a mere man. He was fighting for dominion over an entire island, for the future he had envisioned.
With every swing of Borran's axe, Hadrian countered with magic, his staff glowing brighter with each spell. The hall was filled with the sounds of battle, the clash of steel against unseen barriers, the crackle of magical energy.
In the end, it was not strength or speed that won the day, but Hadrian's unwavering resolve. With a final surge of magic, he disarmed Borran, sending the great axe flying across the room. Borran fell to his knees, breathing heavily, his face contorted with rage and disbelief.
"You have lost," Hadrian said, standing over the fallen lord. "Yield."
For a long moment, Borran was silent. But then, slowly, he lowered his head.
"I yield," he growled.
Hadrian turned to the assembled soldiers of House Magnar. "Gather your people. In three moons' time, they will all meet here, at Kingshouse."
The soldiers bowed their heads, accepting Hadrian's command. Skagos was now his.