The snow had stopped falling by the time they reached the edge of the Dreadfort's valley.
They kept low as they approached, moving through a narrow line of trees along the ridge. The forest was thinner here, cut down long ago to create open fields of control. Kieran could see the outer wall from where they crouched—grey stone stained with soot, torches flickering along the top. Inside those walls, people were dying.
The closer he got, the more he could feel it. Not from the pendant. Not from the system. From the air itself. It wasn't magic. It was cruelty. Hanging there like the stench of something rotten beneath fresh snow.
They waited until nightfall before moving.
Lysa moved ahead, watching the guards. She had scouted the area during the day and found a weak point along the eastern wall—a gap behind a broken supply shed that hadn't been fully repaired since last winter. It wasn't much, but it was enough for two people willing to take a risk.
They slipped in without being seen.
Inside, the courtyard was quiet. Too quiet.
No movement. No dogs barking. No soldiers laughing around a fire. Just cold stone and the sound of wind cutting between towers.
Kieran kept to the shadows, the runes along his gloves dim but active. He wasn't casting spells yet. Just feeding a small amount of mana to his eyes, enough to track heat through stone. His body moved slower than he wanted. The wound from the ice-bear wasn't fully healed. But his grip on Moonfang was steady.
They crossed the lower yard without trouble and made it to the servant halls. Inside, the air changed. Warmer. But wrong. The heat didn't come from fire. It came from blood.
The first body was an old man.
Lying in a hallway, hands cut off, mouth filled with cloth. The smell hit them before the sight. Lysa froze for a second, her hand tightening on her blade. She didn't speak. She didn't need to. They kept moving.
They found the cells beneath the western tower.
Wooden doors bolted with rusted chains. Screams behind them—muffled, human, broken. Kieran stepped to the first and sliced the lock clean with Moonfang. Inside, a woman no older than twenty huddled in the corner, clothes torn, eyes swollen. She didn't flinch when he entered. She didn't even react.
That was the worst part.
He knelt and spoke softly, helping her stand. She didn't speak, but she let him wrap her in his cloak. Lysa stood watch, her face unreadable.
They opened three more cells.
Two of the prisoners were alive. The rest weren't.
Then came the voice.
Slow, calm, echoing down the hall like it had all the time in the world.
Someone's finally grown a spine.
Kieran turned.
A man stood at the far end of the corridor. Pale, tall, thin. Wearing the black and red of House Bolton. His hands were clean. His smile was not. Behind him, two guards stepped into view. Both carried short spears. One was already closing the gate behind them.
Kieran didn't wait.
He moved first.
A glyph snapped into the air beside him, forming a barrier of force that deflected the first spear. He rushed forward. The first guard lunged, and Kieran slid under the strike, slashing across the man's knee with Moonfang. The obsidian cut deep. The guard screamed and fell.
The second raised his spear—Lysa was already there. Her dagger sank into his throat before he made a sound.
The noble didn't flinch.
He simply clapped.
Not bad. Most cowards bleed before they swing. You're a different breed.
Kieran didn't respond. His mana surged. A wave of pressure rolled down the hall as he activated a low-impact glyph that cracked the stone under his boots. He advanced slowly, the pendant glowing.
The noble drew a dagger and stepped back into the next room.
Kieran followed.
They entered a hall lit by fire and blood. Torture tools lined the walls. A table soaked in red. Chains. Bones. Screams still clinging to the air.
Kieran didn't hesitate.
He struck.
Moonfang slashed toward the man's chest, but the noble moved quickly—too quickly. He ducked and twisted, slicing across Kieran's arm. The wound stung, but Kieran had fought through worse.
They exchanged blows. Magic against movement. Blade against grin.
The noble was faster than he should have been. Enhanced. Not with spells—but with something else. Kieran realized it too late. There were glyphs carved into the man's skin. Blood magic. Etched directly into his chest and ribs.
The noble smiled wider.
Pain gives me clarity.
He rushed forward.
Kieran blocked with a shield sigil, then forced mana into his boot and launched himself upward—cracking the wooden beams above. He came down hard, shoulder first, and rolled behind the table.
No tricks now.
He charged the dagger with everything he had left.
The pendant burned.
Moonfang lit with searing blue.
And when the noble lunged again, Kieran didn't parry.
He stepped into the strike and stabbed upward.
The blade pierced through the man's ribs, deep into his chest, until the hilt slammed against bone.
The runes exploded.
Light and force slammed outward. The noble's body convulsed—then went still.
He fell. Twitched once. And then stopped breathing.
Kieran stood over him, panting, his vision swimming from blood loss and strain. His hands shook. But it was done.
Lysa appeared a second later, helping him back to the hall. The prisoners had begun to stir. One wept. Another laughed, broken and hoarse.
They didn't ask who he was.
They didn't need to.
They just followed him when he told them to move.
They left through the back gate before dawn.
No one followed.
The Dreadfort was quiet again.
But this time, it would stay that way.
*********
Hey everyone! I'll be dropping an extra 1 chapter once we hit 200, 400 power stones! If you're enjoying the story, don't forget to spend some power stones. I'd really appreciate the support. Thanks a bunch!