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POV: Arthur Snow
The candle burned low.
Arthur sat alone in the study chamber, sleeves rolled to his elbows, ink smudged across his fingers. The Maester had let him borrow a stack of old texts in return for sharpening a full set of surgical tools, reshaping dulled needles, and restoring a rusted bone saw to pristine sharpness. Fair trade.
The current book open before him: Legends of the Long Night.
"White shadows with eyes of blue… risen dead…"
Arthur traced the phrase with a fingertip.
"Jiangshi," he murmured. "Stiff walkers. Qi-void husks. Drawn to life."
He turned the page.
It spoke of corpses raised by icy breath. Of creatures immune to cold and fire alike. Of kings who did not bleed.
"This world's undead are closer to curse-bound remnants than ordinary corpses. But the principle… it's the same."
He moved to the next tome—The Fall of Valyria.
Dragons.
Scaled giants of flame and fury, now extinct. Or so they said.
Arthur's lips curled faintly.
"In Murim, beasts like this were born from nature steeped in spiritual imbalance—Heavenly Beasts. Some served humans. Others slaughtered entire sects."
He leaned back and folded his arms.
"If dragons were real here, and they answered to riders… then the Targaryens weren't kings. They were Beast Lords."
His mind raced with comparisons: the mystical Qi Beasts of the Northern Peaks, the ancient Flame Serpents of the Southern Archipelagos, the legends of martial artists taming creatures through sheer willpower.
"The same laws echo through worlds," he thought. "Different language. Same weight."
POV: ???
Location: Unknown Keep
The room was dark, lit only by candlelight and a single lantern swaying gently on its hook.
The Man sat behind a heavy desk of black oak, gloved fingers drumming against the wood.
A servant stood silently at the side, head bowed. Another man knelt on the stone floor, bruised and panting.
"He failed," said the kneeling man. "The boy saw him coming."
No reply.
The servant moved, poured wine into a silver cup, and placed it near the Man's hand.
A pause. Then the Man spoke, voice calm and low.
"Was he questioned?"
"Yes," the kneeling man said. "By Stark's men. Then—died."
"Convenient."
"He may have… spoken of us."
A breath.
The candle flickered.
"I doubt that," said the Man. "He was trained better than that."
Another pause.
"But it does mean something else. The boy isn't ordinary."
The kneeling man lifted his head slightly. "He's only a blacksmith's whelp—"
"Wrong."
The voice sharpened. Cold.
"He moved like a killer. Not a child. And if he saw the blade before it was drawn, then he is dangerous."
The Man stood, slowly.
"We'll wait," the voice said. "And watch."
"And when the time comes… we send someone he can't see coming."