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Chapter 78 - Chapter 78: The Prophecy of the Undying — Part One

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Paiya Pree's face froze in horror. His blue lips stretched wide, but before he could scream or curse, the Valyrian steel split his mouth clean in two.

The grand warlock was a bizarre creature. Even as blue blood gushed from his face, Drogo didn't let down his guard. He shouted, "Dracarys!"

Fwoom!

Drogon responded like clockwork, unleashing a spiral of flame that engulfed the warlock's shattered head.

Ssssskreee!

As Paiya Pree's skin melted, an eerie squealing filled the air—like rats screaming in torment.

The smoke wasn't black, but blue. Instead of rising upward, it drifted sideways, unnaturally drawn into the House of the Undying.

Drogo hated to remain at the mercy of sorcerers. When an opportunity arose, he took it—sending the bastard straight to whatever hell existed here.

Though whether Paiya Pree even went to such a place was uncertain. In a realm as warped as this, everything seemed unnatural.

His body had perished, but perhaps his soul endured. In his past life, Drogo had been an atheist—but since awakening in the world of ice and fire, his beliefs had changed.

He had expected retribution for killing a servant of the Undying—some divine punishment no mortal could resist. But nothing came.

Perhaps, he thought, the Undying valued him more than their warlock.

Hhhff.

Drawing a breath of damp, heavy air, Drogo pushed open the grotesque maw of the stone door. Snowball followed close behind. Drogon turned to glance back, hesitating as he noticed Daenerys wasn't there. After a pause, the black dragon swung his tail and joined them.

The Khal was certain: once he'd passed through the nightshade forest, he had entered a realm of illusion and sorcery.

From outside, one could clearly see the House of Dust. But now, inside, Daenerys and the others at the entrance had vanished from view.

Another confirmation: this place followed no ordinary rules.

Drogo didn't know whether Snowball and Drogon perceived the same illusions he did—but he hoped they did. They were his greatest allies now.

The room he entered was large and airtight, with four doors set in the walls. As he stepped inside, torches flared to life on their own, casting flickering orange light across the chamber.

The floor gleamed like ice—smooth, slippery, and treacherous. His rodent-leather boots gripped well enough, but Snowball and Drogon had more trouble. Their claws scraped against the surface, leaving shallow scratches as they walked.

No moonlight reached this place. Snowball's vertical eye, which could see through shadow, refused to open—rendering the creature nearly useless.

Drogo unslung his bone bow, nocked an arrow, and loosed it at the ceiling. Thwack! The arrow vanished into the darkness above.

From the outside, the House looked like a low, crumbling ruin. The roof was full of holes. But from within, the ceiling soared far higher than expected—two or three times higher than it should have been.

"A sorcerer's illusion, no doubt," he muttered.

He glanced at Snowball, wondering if he should send the white lion away—no need to risk its life.

Before he could decide, slam!—the grotesque stone door shut behind them.

It had no handle, no keyhole—just smooth, unbroken stone. Drogo tried prying it open with his blade, but it didn't budge.

Snowball would have to stay.

Remembering the warlock's instructions, and what he knew from the stories, Drogo turned to the first door on the right and stepped through.

The next room looked exactly the same. He did the same again.

Another identical room.

It wasn't until the fourth chamber that anything changed.

This one was oval-shaped, with decaying wooden walls instead of stone, and six doors instead of four.

Still, Drogo took the first door on the right. It opened onto a dim corridor. The floor was lined with moldy Fireheart moss carpeting. There were no torches.

But Drogon's lava-like eyes gave off enough glow to light the way.

The thick carpet muffled his footsteps—so much so that he could clearly hear the scratching sounds within the walls. Like something clawing at the stone from the inside.

Snowball and Drogon noticed it too. The white lion arched its back, fur bristling, its gait slowing to a tense crawl. Snowball let out a low growl.

As they moved forward, the noises changed—no longer just scratching. Now there were sobbing women, doors rattling, floorboards trembling, and an eerie, high-pitched piping.

It was maddening.

In a place like this, Drogo had no room for pride. He wanted to run. But the darkness ahead might hold even worse terrors—and without Drogon's light, he'd be helpless.

The black dragon, sensing challenge, snapped its tail, stirred the stifling air with a powerful wingbeat, and let out a thunderous roar.

SKRAAAAAAA!

The sound echoed through the corridor, drowning every other noise. And as Drogon fell silent, so too did the hallway.

The silence was complete.

Doors lined both sides of the corridor. Most were closed, but a few stood ajar, their thresholds seeping wisps of blue smoke. Darkness oozed from within.

Drogo tightened his grip on his Valyrian steel blade, eyes alert as he moved forward—hugging the wall, wary of every shadow.

He didn't know if what he saw was illusion or truth. But he knew one thing: Paiya Pree hadn't been the only warlock here. The Undying were warlocks too.

If all of this was illusion, then the nightshade water flowing through his blood was distorting his senses. Somewhere, hidden in the dark, other warlocks whispered their spells.

Finally, man and beasts reached the end of the corridor. Drogo steadied his breath and pushed open the rotting door before him.

And froze.

This wasn't a room.

It was an entire world.

Above a ruined city by the sea, a colossal stone dragon circled the sky, its massive wings stirring the clouds. Its roars were both a wail and a battle cry—filled with grief and fury.

Clutched in its claws was a silver horse. As if it were both mount and martyr—a symbol of longing, loss, and loyalty.

From the broken walls, from the foul moats, from muddy shores and beneath the bright blue sea, cracked stone hands reached upward toward the sky—

—as though answering the dragon's call.

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