Rayder didn't intend to tell the Green Prophet everything. Some instincts couldn't be silenced, and his warned him to stay guarded around the ancient seer.
"That's none of your business," he said flatly, brushing snow from his sleeve. "Why are you here, old man?"
The Prophet's form wavered faintly, a mist of light. He sighed. "Someone sought my aid to find you. Their goal is to convince you to leave the Land of Eternal Winter."
Rayder frowned. "Who?"
"The gods," the Prophet said simply. "Or, rather, those who oppose the Cold God. Your dragons' presence here… has disturbed the balance. They fear what may awaken."
Rayder scoffed. "Gods, balance—always the same story. I've barely survived snow and monsters, and they call that disturbance?" His voice carried sharp irritation.
Still, he changed the subject. "Fine. Tell me something useful. The Seven-Cornered Profound Ice Altar—what is it, and why can't I approach it?"
That question made the Prophet stiffen. His usually calm expression cracked with genuine alarm. "How do you know of that place?"
Rayder met his gaze without flinching. "I saw it while hunting the wights. It felt… alive."
The Prophet was silent for a long time before finally answering, his voice low, almost reverent.
"The Altar is no mere ruin. It is a bridge — a channel between our world and the divine realm of the Cold God. It draws power from the souls of the dead and anchors the Night King's command. It can only be activated through ritual sacrifice… and once it opens, nothing mortal can control it."
Rayder's breath caught. So that's why the Night King guards it. A chill crept up his spine — he had been standing a hundred meters from a doorway to a god.
"Thank you," he said quietly. "That… answers a few things."
The Prophet nodded. "Remember, Rayder — dragons are both power and burden. Use them with care. Do not let them fall into evil hands."
Rayder offered a half-smile. "Power's only evil when someone else holds it."
He sat down on a rock, eyes fixed on the distant mountains. For every answer he found, ten new questions grew. "Then tell me something else," he said after a moment. "Magic. How do I strengthen it? How do I cast stronger spells?"
The Prophet studied him, impressed despite himself. "To accumulate magic power, one must hold faith — firm and unyielding. And to wield true spells, you need the authority of a god."
"Faith I have," Rayder muttered. "In myself. The god part, not so much."
The Prophet's eyes flickered. "Then you may find another way. There are those who steal divine magic — siphoning belief instead of earning it."
Rayder's eyes lit up. "Steal it, huh? That sounds more my style. How?"
For the first time, the Green Prophet's voice hardened. "Do not take that path lightly. To steal a god's power is to challenge the very source of creation. The cost is always greater than you imagine."
"I've risked worse," Rayder said without hesitation. "Tell me."
The Prophet looked at him long and hard — this reckless human who dared to tread between gods. At last, he sighed. "I cannot teach you that. No one can. The path of theft must be found, not granted. But remember: every divine power, every miracle and curse alike, is born from belief. That is the key."
His image began to fade like mist in sunlight. "When you understand that, Rayder Stormborn… you may find that gods are not as untouchable as they think."
Rayder watched the last shimmer of light disappear. His reflection gleamed faintly on the ice beside him — eyes burning with ambition.
"Belief, huh?" he murmured. "Then I'll make them believe in me."
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Ãdvåñçé çhàptêr àvàilàble óñ pàtreøn (Gk31)