Hadrian stood on a raised platform of the castle, surveying the ongoing construction with a mixture of satisfaction and anticipation. His magic flowed through the very bones of the fortress, bending stone and earth to his will. The once barren cliffs of Skagos had transformed into something magnificent: a castle that defied the rugged, savage nature of the island. Towers spiraled toward the sky, their black stone glittering like polished obsidian under the cold northern sun. Glasshouses, filled with the beginnings of rare plants and herbs, shimmered in the distance, their roofs catching the light and casting it in strange patterns on the ground below.
And then there was the godswood. The centerpiece of his new extras, it stretched wide and far behind the castle. Hadrian had conjured ancient trees, tall and gnarled, their bark white as snow and their leaves a deep red that whispered with the wind. A massive heart tree stood at the center, its face carved with a calm, knowing expression, its ancient eyes watching over all. It was a godswood unlike any other, grander than even the one at Winterfell, and it hummed with a quiet, raw power that even Hadrian could feel vibrating in the air.
But the work was far from finished. More towers needed to rise, chambers had yet to be completed, and he still envisioned a grand hall lined with tapestries and runes that would tell the story of Skagos' rebirth under his rule. There were still secret passages to be woven into the stone, and subterranean tunnels to secure. This place, he knew, would be more than just a seat of power. It would be a fortress of magic, history, and iron will.
As he walked the perimeter of the godswood, planning the next stages of construction, his sharp senses caught something in the distance. A disturbance in the otherwise peaceful forest that lay just beyond the reach of his stronghold.
A group of men, rough and ragged, was moving swiftly through the trees. They were not the laborers or soldiers that had been under his command since the fall of the three Skagosi lords. No, these men moved with a different purpose, and their presence stirred the winds with a sense of something impending. It wasn't an ambush—Hadrian would have felt the murderous intent long before—but it was something dangerous nonetheless.
He turned, cloak billowing behind him, and started toward the edge of the forest where the men had emerged. As they drew closer, he could see them more clearly. Their rough leathers and furs marked them as Skagosi, but these men carried themselves differently than the soldiers or peasants he had encountered before. There was a gleam of something feral in their eyes, and a cold hardness to their expressions. They came with purpose.
Hadrian watched in silence as they stopped a few paces away from him. There were five of them, each one holding weapons—axes, clubs, crude swords that had seen more than their fair share of battle. Their leader, a tall man with a mane of dark hair and a thick beard streaked with grey, stepped forward. His eyes were hard, but they glittered with the fire of defiance.
"We are the last of the true bloodlines," the man declared, his voice carrying the raw, guttural accent of the Skagosi. "The last heirs of the old noble families who ruled these lands before you came, foreigner."
Hadrian's eyes narrowed slightly. He hadn't expected this. The previous lords of Skagos—Crowl, Stane, Magnar—had left behind no heirs as far as he knew.
"And what do you want?" Hadrian asked, his voice calm but edged with authority.
"We killed our old lords," the man continued, ignoring Hadrian's question for a moment. "They were weak, unworthy of the blood they carried. Skagos is a land of strength, of battle, and they had forgotten what it meant to fight for power. You come here, with your magic, your foreign ways, and build your castles in the ground like some Southron king. But Skagos does not bend to outsiders. We fight for what is ours."
Hadrian's grip on his staff tightened slightly, though his face remained unreadable. His magic thrummed beneath his skin, ready to be unleashed at a moment's notice. "So you come to challenge me, then?"
The man bared his teeth in a savage grin. "We do. The old ways demand it. If you are to rule Skagos, you must prove you are the strongest. We challenge you, foreigner. To the death. And if we win, we take what is ours."
Hadrian's gaze flickered over the group, reading the determination and bloodlust in their expressions. They were warriors, hardened by the brutal ways of Skagos, and their confidence in victory was palpable. But they had no idea who—or what—they were dealing with.
"I accept your challenge," Hadrian said, his voice cold as the wind that swept through the clearing. "But you will not leave this place alive."
The men exchanged dark looks, their grins widening at his words, as if they had expected nothing less. The leader nodded and stepped back, drawing his crude sword from his belt.
Without warning, they lunged at him, axes swinging and swords gleaming in the weak northern sunlight. Hadrian remained still for a moment, watching the chaos unfold in front of him. His mind reached out, assessing their movements, predicting their attacks before they even made them. To any normal man, the Skagosi warriors would have been terrifying—a blur of muscle, rage, and deadly weapons.
But to Hadrian, they were nothing.
He moved with the fluid grace of a predator, stepping back just as the first sword swiped through the air where his chest had been only moments before. With a flick of his staff, the earth beneath one of the attackers exploded upward, throwing him off balance. Another lunged at him with a battle axe, but Hadrian's magic was faster. He gestured sharply, and the axe froze mid-swing, yanked from the man's grasp as if pulled by an invisible hand. It hovered in the air for a heartbeat before slamming into its owner with bone-crushing force.
The man crumpled to the ground, his body broken.
Two more rushed him from opposite sides, their blades flashing in tandem. But Hadrian's eyes glinted with calm focus. With a sweeping motion, he sent a gust of wind crashing into them. It was no ordinary wind—it carried the weight of a gale, flinging the warriors back like ragdolls. They tumbled across the ground, stunned but not yet defeated.
The leader, seeing his men falter, roared in fury and charged Hadrian himself. His sword came down in a vicious arc, aimed directly at Hadrian's throat. But before the blade could even come close, Hadrian's staff moved in a blur, blocking the strike with ease. Magic crackled around them, the air alive with power.
"You are not strong enough," Hadrian said softly, his voice filled with quiet certainty.
With a flick of his wrist, the man's sword shattered into pieces, the fragments falling to the ground in a clatter. The Skagosi leader staggered back, eyes wide in shock. But before he could recover, Hadrian thrust his staff forward, sending a pulse of raw magic into the man's chest. He flew backward, hitting the ground with a sickening thud.
The remaining warriors, seeing their leader fall, hesitated for a moment. They had come here expecting a fight, expecting to test this foreigner and prove themselves the rightful rulers of Skagos. But they had not anticipated this. They had not anticipated magic of this magnitude.
Still, they did not flee. To flee would be to dishonor their ancestors, to reject the old ways that demanded strength above all. They gripped their weapons tighter and charged once more, shouting in defiance.
But it was over before it had even truly begun.
Hadrian moved like a storm, his magic swirling around him in a deadly dance. The ground beneath the warriors shifted and cracked, throwing them off balance. Blades of pure magical energy flew from his staff, cutting through steel and flesh with terrifying precision. One by one, the last heirs of the noble Skagosi houses fell to the ground, their blood staining the earth.
The final warrior collapsed at Hadrian's feet, his breath ragged and shallow. His eyes, once filled with defiance, were now clouded with the realization of his defeat. He looked up at Hadrian, blood trickling from his mouth, and for the first time, there was no anger in his gaze—only respect.
"You..." the warrior gasped, his voice weak. "You are... the one..."
Hadrian knelt beside the dying man, his expression unreadable. "You fought well," he said, though there was no warmth in his words. "But you were wrong. Skagos will not fall to chaos. It will be united, under me."
The warrior gave a final, shuddering breath, his body falling limp.
Hadrian stood, wiping the blood from his staff. The winds had returned, howling through the trees, but now they carried a different sound—the whispers of awe from the gathered Skagosi who had witnessed the fight. They had come, expecting to see a battle, expecting to see their old lords' bloodlines reclaimed through violence.
But instead, they had seen something else entirely.
To them, Hadrian was no longer just a conqueror. He was something more, something ancient and powerful—perhaps a chosen one, sent by the Old Gods to bring order to the chaos of their island.
Hadrian looked out at the assembled men, his gaze cold and calculating. He could feel their awe, their fear, their respect. And he knew, in that moment, that his victory had secured more than just their obedience.
He had earned their belief.
"Skagos will rise," he declared, his voice cutting through the wind. "It will be stronger than it ever was. Under my rule, we will carve our place into history."
The Skagosi warriors fell to one knee, heads bowed in reverence. They did not yet know what their new lord truly was, or what he was capable of. But they would follow him, just as they followed the old ways.