The keep was quieter than it should have been.
Not empty—just watchful. Walls thick with silence. As though it were waiting to exhale. Every step they took echoed back at them in a language made of cold and stone.
I followed. A little behind. Not enough to seem afraid—just wary.
The older one didn't speak. His walk was measured. Not heavy, not light. Like someone used to being listened to even in silence.
The younger one kept looking back at me.
I kept my wand tucked into my sleeve. Its tip still warm from the Lumos, the magic slinking back into the wood like breath drawn after a gasp. Sebastian sat quietly on my head, the dull fabric of him worn soft by years. He hadn't said a word since the crypt.
Neither had I.
They led me past an arch where red leaves bled through cracks in the stone. A tree grew there—bark pale as bone, twisted and old. A face carved into it stared outward, eyes bleeding crimson sap. It watched, though it had no breath.
The moment I passed it, I felt something under my feet.
A current. A thread. The faintest pull, like a river buried beneath the stone.
Leyline.
Not like the ones back home. Wild. Rooted. Hungry.
I didn't stop walking.
But I remembered where it was.
They brought me to a room lined with books. Stone floors. A fire smoldering low in the hearth. The air smelled like smoke and ink and parchment too long left to dry.
A man in grey sat beside the fire. His robe heavy with stitched patches of metal. His eyes moved slowly. When they landed on me, they didn't blink.
"This is him?" he asked the two.
The older man gave a single nod.
The younger one scoffed. "Found him in the crypts. Said he woke up there."
I said nothing.
"And he took that," the younger added, nodding to the book in my hands.
I glanced down at it. The leather was blackened, flaking at the corners. A wolf pressed into the cover. Its jaw half gone. I hadn't meant to keep holding it. But I hadn't meant to leave it, either.
"I thought it might tell me something," I said. "About where I am."
"You don't know?" the grey one asked.
"No."
He studied me.
"Where are you from?"
I didn't answer.
He seemed unsurprised.
"You're not dressed for any land I know," he said. "You carry no coin. No name. You speak our tongue, but with a twist."
He leaned forward.
"That stick you hold. You lit it like a torch."
"It is a torch," I said simply.
"Without flame?"
I looked at them all. The younger's hand was still near the hilt on his belt.
I turned to the one in grey. "What do you call this land?"
He blinked. "Westeros, more particularly, The North."
"I don't know it," I said.
"Your name, then."
"Michael."
A pause.
The older man finally stepped forward. His voice was low. Measured. Like frost just before it cracked.
"Michael. You appeared in the tomb of a king who's been dead longer than our line remembers. With fireless light and knowledge of nothing. And you carry that."
He pointed at the book.
"I found it in the tomb."
"You took it."
"I meant no disrespect."
"Did you ask?"
"There was no one to ask."
Silence.
The man in grey raised a hand slightly. "Let me see it."
I stepped forward, careful. Placed the book on the table between us.
He turned it slowly. "This is barely holding together."
"I thought maybe I could fix it."
The younger one laughed once, sharp and dry. "With what? Ink and prayers?"
"With care," I said. "And some luck."
Sebastian stirred on my head, murmuring into my thoughts.
"You shouldn't show them anything."
I know.
The man in grey turned a few pages. Some disintegrated at his touch.
"You won't learn much from dust."
"Still," I said softly, "sometimes even dust remembers."
I reached out—hesitating first.
Then I drew my wand.
The younger one stiffened. His hand went to his blade.
I didn't lift it. I didn't wave it. I just touched the tip gently to the edge of the leather.
Whispered, "Reparo."
The magic unraveled quietly.
No flash. No flare. Just warmth. A pulse from the leyline I'd felt earlier, rising to meet the spell like old roots stretching toward light.
The cover hissed. Mold shrank back. Threads pulled tight. Pages realigned, the ink bleeding into legible lines. A title shimmered faintly at the top—though I couldn't read it.
The fire popped.
The man in grey froze, fingers inches from the binding.
The younger one stepped back. The scrape of boots against stone.
The older man said nothing.
"Magic," the grey one whispered. Not like a curse. More like a confession.
"Yes" I said.
They said nothing.
"I've also studied healing," I continued. "Plants. Tonics. Some… techniques."
"You used no herb," said the younger.
"Not all wounds are of the flesh," I said.
The man in grey looked up. "You're no maester. That much is clear."
"I'm not claiming to be."
"Then what are you?"
I looked down at the book. The wolf on its cover stared back, jaws restored.
"I'm just trying to survive."
That hung there.
"I've seen enough charlatans to know what a trick looks like," the grey man said at last. "That was not sleight of hand."
"No."
The older one took a step toward me. Not threatening. Just close.
"I don't trust what I can't name," he said.
"Then don't name me."
More silence.
Sebastian's voice drifted again, dry and amused.
"Well. That went better than I expected."
The younger one circled the table. His eyes didn't leave me.
"You said you were a healer."
I nodded.
"There's a village to the west. People are coughing blood. We've sent supplies. It's not enough."
"I can try," I said. "I need quiet. Space. Some plants I can identify."
"You'll be watched," the older one said.
"I expect nothing else."
He turned to the grey-robed man. "Keep the book."
I looked at it, then nodded. "For now."
They left a guard outside the door.
I wasn't shown to chambers. Just given the hearth and a cot by the corner.
As the fire died, I sat against the wall. Sebastian still soft against my head.
"Do you think they'll let you live?"
"I think they'll let me try."
A long pause.
Then, softly: "You felt it, didn't you? The leyline."
"Yes."
"It's not dead here. Just buried deep."
I reached inside my cloak, pulled a small vial from my trunk. Something green and faintly glowing. I set it down beside me.
"No magic like home," I said. "But magic still."
I closed my eyes.
The stone hummed softly. The book lay on the table, whispering of old kings and wolves and things lost to snow.
Outside, the wind howled low.
But for now, I was warm.
And alive