The carriage, drawn by four horses guided by the system's enchantments, gradually slowed as the first settlement rose into view on the horizon.
The desert of Dorne stretched endlessly in every direction, a sea of pale sand and broken stone that shimmered under the relentless sun. Heat waves rose in rippling curtains, distorting everything beyond a few hundred paces. Even the horizon seemed uncertain, as if the world itself refused to settle into a fixed shape.
Then, through that distortion, Ghost Hill appeared.
At first it was nothing more than a darker smear against the land. Only as the carriage drew closer did its form begin to separate from the surrounding desert. Even then, it remained unstable to the eye. Half rock, half fortress, it seemed carved directly from the land rather than built upon it. Its walls were low, heavy, and pressed close to the earth, as if the structure had chosen concealment over pride.
The heat haze refused to leave it alone. At moments, the entire settlement blurred into the desert, dissolving into lines and shadows, only to return a breath later as if it had never vanished at all.
Inside the carriage, Thaddues stared at the sealed glass bottle—Daemon's Prison.
Inside, Daemon sat proudly atop his dragon… currently treating a very unlucky ant like it was a rival kingdom.
Thaddues blinked, then smirked. "Even here… you still fight like that," he muttered.
The system's voice broke through his quiet observation.
--
"Host, we are entering the border managed by House Toland. Do you wish to spend the night here?"
--
Thaddues did not answer immediately. His gaze remained on the shifting horizon, where Ghost Hill flickered in and out of clarity as the heat haze shifted. For a brief moment, the fortress appeared sharply defined—stone walls, narrow battlements, and a compact structure shaped more by necessity than ambition. Then it blurred again, swallowed by the desert's wavering air.
Only after a short pause did he respond.
"Yes," he said calmly. "I'm also hungry. Let's rest in this place."
The system acknowledged the command without further comment. The carriage shifted its direction slightly, the horses adjusting their course as though responding to an invisible current rather than reins or sound.
As they approached, Ghost Hill slowly solidified. The closer they came, the more it resisted the illusion of the desert. Its walls became firm, its edges more defined, though even then the environment seemed unwilling to fully reveal it. Sand clung to the stone surfaces. Wind carved shallow marks into the outer defenses. Everything about it spoke of endurance rather than comfort.
This was not a seat of beauty or pride. It was a settlement shaped by survival.
Eventually, the carriage reached a guard post at the outer edge of the settlement. The horses slowed to a halt, and armed men stepped forward. Their posture was formal but cautious, their attention immediately fixed on the arriving carriage.
One of them raised a hand in command.
"State your name and purpose."
Thaddues stepped down from the carriage with unhurried movements. The air outside was dry and sharp, carrying the harsh scent of sand and heat-worn stone. He looked at the guards briefly before answering.
"Thaddues Peverell of House Peverell." No etiquette, just stating his name and house he belonged to.
The effect was immediate. A subtle shift passed through the guards. It was not alarm nor hostility, but something closer to recognition. One of them stiffened, while another half-stepped back before catching himself. A murmur passed between them, low and tight, quickly swallowed by the air.
One guard broke away from the group and headed toward the settlement without delay.
The remaining men straightened. Their tone changed. The formal inspection did not continue. Instead, silence settled in, as though they were no longer certain what protocol demanded of them.
Within a short time, an escort arrived from within Ghost Hill. Their arrival changed the atmosphere entirely. The tension at the gate dissolved into restrained deference. Without further questioning, Thaddues was guided inside.
The streets of Ghost Hill were narrow, worn, and practical. Stone buildings leaned slightly inward, shaped by wind and time rather than design. There was little ornamentation. Everything served a purpose. Water, movement, shelter—nothing existed without necessity.
People watched from doorways and shaded windows as he passed. Their expressions were careful, guarded, as though his presence carried weight they did not fully understand but instinctively respected.
By the time he reached the central hall of House Toland's domain, word had already arrived ahead of him.
The steward who received him stood with formal composure, though his posture betrayed uncertainty. He inclined his head slightly.
"Lord Thaddues, Wizard of Dorne. The Dragonlord of Saltshore," he said carefully, as if testing whether the title fit the situation. "Ghost Hill welcomes you. Your arrival was not anticipated."
Thaddues gave a small nod but did not elaborate. He did not correct the title. Such matters were not his concern.
The reception was restrained. There were no grand displays or excessive ceremony. Food and lodging were provided, but nothing more than what was necessary. Ghost Hill did not waste effort on appearances. Already hungry from the journey, he focused on the meal placed before him, eating with quiet urgency until his hunger was finally sated.
That night, the settlement settled into silence earlier than expected. The desert's heat retreated abruptly, replaced by a dry cold that crept through stone walls and narrow corridors. Lanterns flickered weakly in the wind.
Thaddues was given a chamber within the hall. From its window, he could see most of the settlement below. Torches marked pathways in steady intervals, their light small but consistent.
He stood by the window for some time, observing without expression.
Then he felt it.
A disruption.
It wasn't natural. Not leftover residue either. Something was still being done here—controlled, deliberate. Magic, structured and active, moving through the settlement like a quiet pulse beneath it all.
His attention sharpened instantly.
At the same time, the system spoke.
---
"Unidentified magical activity detected within settlement perimeter. Source localized. Pattern consistent with ritual invocation. Risk level: moderate to high instability."
---
Thaddues did not hesitate. He turned away from the window and left the chamber.
He moved through Ghost Hill without interruption. Guards along the corridors did not stop him. Whether due to recognition or instruction, none attempted to question his movement. The further he went, the stronger the magical presence became, pulling him toward the outer reaches of the settlement.
Eventually, he reached the edge of the inhabited area, where stone gave way to older ruins and uneven ground.
Beyond the last buildings, beneath fractured rock formations shaped by wind and time, he found the source.
A ritual circle had been drawn into the earth.
Salt marked its boundaries in uneven lines. Bone fragments were placed at intervals along the perimeter. Runes had been carved into the ground, though their formation lacked refinement and precision. At the center of the circle, a man was bound and kneeling, his body weakened and covered in dust.
Around him stood several elders in dark robes.
"Bring the rain… bring the rain…
Dorne gives, and Dorne is given.
Hear us below, hear us through stone—
take what is offered, take what is owed.
Let it fall… let it fall…
take our silence… take us all."
Their voices rose in a steady chant, repeating phrases that carried both desperation and conviction. The sound was rhythmic, but unstable, as though belief itself was struggling to hold it together.
Thaddues watched for a brief moment before stepping forward into the circle.
The chanting stopped at once, as if someone had cut the sound cleanly out of the air.
Silence settled over them, dense and unmoving, making the aftermath feel louder than the chant itself.
One of the elders turned sharply toward him.
"You are not part of this rite," he said. "Leave."
Thaddues did not raise his voice. "This is no rite. It's a sacrifice."
The elder's expression tightened. "It is necessary. The gods have turned away. The land is dying. We have heard the storm. It demands an offering. "
His gaze shifted toward the bound man.
"He is the offering."
Thaddues followed the line of sight. The prisoner was young. His condition suggested neglect rather than preparation, his body marked by exhaustion rather than ritual care.
"Necessity does not justify killing an innocent man," Thaddues said.
The elder's voice rose. "You do not understand what we have seen. The wind speaks. The water whispers. We have been promised rain in exchange for balance."
Thaddues finally understood. The sacrifice was meant to bring rain.
It struck him only then that after he had cast rain at Salt Shore, none had followed since. Strange, but not unexpected in Dorne—endurance was its nature. Even Esteban had not mentioned it.
Still…
"Fear gives shape to voices that aren't there," he said quietly. "Not gods."
Then Thaddues raised one hand.
Light erupted from his palm, not like fire or flame, but like a pure unfolding of brightness being drawn out of nothing. It expanded instantly, flooding the ritual site with an intense, steady radiance. Shadows were erased in an instant. The carved runes on the ground became fully visible, stripped of their secrecy. Every face, every trembling hand, every fragment of bone and salt was exposed in harsh clarity.
The elders staggered back, shielding their eyes.
One of them fell to his knees.
"What is this…" another whispered, voice breaking. "Divine light…"
"God of light…"
"Mercy…"
The bound man at the center did not react to the light at all. His eyes simply remained closed, as if it did not exist for him in the same way it did for everyone else.
Thaddues lowered his hand slightly, maintaining the glow at a controlled intensity.
"I am not a god," he said to the elders, as if correcting a mistake he had no intention of repeating.
The words settled through the illuminated circle.
Silence followed, broken only by wind against stone.
Thaddues' gaze returned to the bound man.
As if sensing it, the man shifted. He lifted his head with effort, eyes opening slowly before locking onto him.
Thaddues held his stare.
It was moss-green, flat and dull, like lichen in stagnant water. There was no recognition in it. The man looked through Thaddues.
A faint smile formed on his lips.
"A year had passed," the man said quietly. "And I've finally met the chosen."
Thaddues' expression shifted slightly.
He then heard the system speak.
---
"Detected a crannogman possessing a pure, undiluted bloodline of the First Men."
--
TBC
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