Chapter 16: Wight's Warning
The Iron Islands' cliffs rose stark against a pale dawn, their black basalt slick with sea spray, jagged edges cutting the horizon like a serrated blade. The air hung heavy with salt, seaweed, and the rhythmic crash of waves, while gulls wheeled overhead, their screeches slicing through the wind's low moan. Pyke's towers loomed, their weathered stones pocked by centuries of storms, torchlight flickering in narrow windows. Adam Stiels stood on a rocky outcrop, his black cloak flapping, frayed at the hem, his hazel eyes scanning the mist curling along the cliffs, his HUD glowing crisp and blue: [SYSTEM: LEVEL 3, 14/1,000 USES, 9-MINUTE COOLDOWN.] His smirk was sharp, his fingers twitching to snap a sign, his boots crunching gravel, the cold prickling his sweat-dampened brow. My school's a fortress, but something's sniffing around, he thought, brushing dark hair from his eyes, the sea breeze sharp, his silver sword cool against his hip, its hilt worn but steady.
A wight, its flesh gray and peeling, eyes glowing an unnatural blue, skulked near the Witcher school's outer walls, its claws scraping stone, a scout for darker forces lurking beyond the waves. Adam snapped his fingers, casting Yrden, a glowing glyph pulsing on the ground, its violet light flaring, trapping the wight in a shimmering cage, its hisses sharp as it thrashed, skeletal limbs jerking. [SYSTEM: YRDEN, 1 MINUTE, 15/1,000 USES.] Lyra, disguised as an Ironborn via Faceless Men training, her face weathered and bearded, slipped through the shadows, her silver sword hidden beneath a cloak, scouting wight tracks etched into the mud, her HUD pinging: [SYSTEM: WIGHT ACTIVITY CONFIRMED.] Adam tossed a coin, its silver glinting in the dawn, his grin wide, his teeth flashing. "Wights, kid? You're my undead expert now." Daenerys, her silver hair tightly braided, watched from the ramparts, her violet eyes wary, her hand resting on her dagger, her voice soft but firm. "White Walkers, Adam? Here?" He winked, leaning against a boulder, his tone light. "Just spicy neighbors, Dany. I'll send them packing."
In Pyke's great hall, its air thick with the tang of ale, smoke, and roasted mutton, torchlight danced on rough-hewn walls, casting shadows over ironborn raiders, their axes glinting at their belts. Adam pranked an Ironborn, casting Axii to make him dance mid-toast, his boots stomping the stone floor, his mug spilling, raiders roaring with laughter, their braids swaying. [SYSTEM: AXII (ENHANCED), 30 SECONDS, 15/1,000 USES.] "Dance, mate, show the wights how it's done," Adam teased, his hazel eyes gleaming, the Ironborn's glare sharp, his calloused hands clenching, his face flushed. Adam slipped into a shadowed corner, spotting a system NPC, his robes glowing faintly to Adam's eyes, a Gwent deck spread on a scarred table, its edges worn. Adam sat, his Northern Kingdoms deck fanned out, his Keira Metz card outwitting the NPC's Scoia'tael deck, winning a Ciri card, its borders shimmering like starlight, and a pouch of gold, heavy with coins. [SYSTEM: GWENT WIN, CIRI CARD, 1/10 MATCHES.] "My deck's got more spark than these cliffs," he said, pocketing the gold, the trader's laugh warm, his fingers shuffling cards with a practiced flick.
At the school's alchemy table, tucked in a stone-walled chamber, its air sharp with myrrh and lotus root, Adam crafted a Swallow potion, the vial glowing faintly green, its warmth spreading as he tested it on a minor cut, the skin knitting shut, his HUD updating: [SYSTEM: ALCHEMY, SWALLOW CRAFTED, 1/5 POTIONS.] He flirted with Daenerys over smoked fish at the feast, its salty tang bursting on his tongue, joking about Iron Islands life, her violet eyes sparkling, her hand brushing his, warm and soft, her silver hair catching the torchlight. "You're making this bearable, Adam," she said, her smile rare and bright, the hall's clamor fading around them. She's a storm, and I'm her anchor, he thought, his heart quickening, the ale's bite sharp. He explored cliff caves, their air damp with mildew, finding wight traces—claw marks gouged into stone, shards of bone scattered in the mud—his HUD pinging: [SYSTEM: WIGHT NEST DATA LOGGED.] He bantered with Tomas, praising his Shadow Trick: "Money-maker, you're a ghost now." Tomas' grin was wide, his stocky frame steady, his silver sword gleaming, his leather creaking.
Adam taught Lyra a basic Igni trick in the cave, a small flame flickering in her palm, the air cold, her eyes focused, her dark braid swaying, her leather armor scuffed. "For wights, kid, burn bright," he said, chuckling, the flame dancing in the draft. He planned a group prank with Tomas, targeting Ironborn, plotting to use Axii to make them swap axes mid-feast, Tomas' eyes gleaming with mischief, his sword hilt firm in his grip. Adam inspected the school's defenses, its walls reinforced with iron and stone, ensuring wight protection, pacing the ramparts, the sea's roar steady, his HUD updating: [SYSTEM: DEFENSES SECURE.] Under the stars, he reflected on White Walkers, the cliffs' shadows deep, Undead crashing my resort? Rude, his HUD warning: [SYSTEM: NIGHT'S WATCH MAY INTERFERE.]
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