Far away in the Ghostwood Forest, a Green Prophet stirred. His blind, milk-white eyes gleamed with light as visions surged. Fragments of futures unfolded before him like scattered leaves—blood, fire, dragons, and a lone man standing against the storm.His consciousness slipped from his body, racing through roots and branches, flowing along the old paths of the weirwoods until it found a tree beyond the Wall.There, in the falling snow, a Red Priestess waited. She was wrapped in crimson robes, her pale face solemn beneath her hood.The Prophet's voice carried through the weirwood: "The one you seek lies in the northwest, at the edge of the Frostsnow Tooth Mountains. Beyond, in the land of Eternal Winter. The domain of the God of Winter. Even I cannot follow there."The woman's eyes gleamed like embers. "Then he must not fall into the God of Winter's grasp. If he and the dragons are taken, the prophecy is broken." Her words were calm, but the weight of conviction pressed through them.The Prophet sighed. "I sent messengers. I spoke myself. He does not listen."The Red Priestess tilted her head, silent for a time. Then: "Then I will try."The Prophet's mouth twisted. He remembered Rayder's stubborn defiance, his refusal to bow. He almost pitied her. Still, he bowed his head. "If I learn more, I will tell you."The vision broke. His spirit snapped back to his cave in the Ghostwood, where the Children stared with solemn eyes. "His path bends the weave," he murmured. "If he falters, the North will fall."---Rayder, meanwhile, had chosen another lonely peak in the Frostsnow Tooth range to recover. The dragons needed rest. So did he.For five days, he tended wounds, checked scales for frostbite, and forced himself to push past exhaustion. Yet even while the beasts slept, he could not be still.He had touched something in that last battle—raw power. The moment his sword blazed red and bit into the Night King's flesh, he had tasted the truth of magic. Now, he hungered for it.He tore through every scrap of magical text he had stored. Page after page, half-understood glyphs and symbols. He practiced until his head ached, willing sparks into his hands, then tiny flames. They guttered, weak and trembling, but they were real.It was a pitiful trick—useful only to light a campfire—but it was his first spell."Not bad," he muttered, pride curling in his chest. "No lighter required."Yet the triumph soured. His power was shallow, a pool too small to draw from. Attacks fueled by his own reserves were negligible; only when he poured energy into his weapons did it matter. Enchanting gave him teeth. Raw casting left him toothless.The problem gnawed at him. How do I deepen the well? How do I grow more magic?As he wrestled with the question, a presence stirred.Rayder straightened. His eyes narrowed. Across the snow, a figure shimmered faintly, like smoke given shape. A consciousness body, not flesh.The Green Prophet.Rayder scowled. "You again. What do you want, old man?"The spirit paused. Shock flickered in its hollow eyes. "You… can see me?""Not clearly," Rayder admitted, smirking, "but I can guess. You've got that same self-important aura." His tone dripped with mockery.The Prophet tilted his head, studying him. "Then it is true—you have awakened your power." His voice carried awe. "Do you know how rare that is? One in a million, if that. Even saying so is generous."Rayder folded his arms. "Rare or not, I managed it. Without your help."A flicker of pride warmed his chest. He had clawed his way forward, without guidance, without faith, without bending the knee.The Prophet's gaze deepened, troubled. He had seen stubborn men before. But this one carried dragons at his back—and that made him dangerous.-
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