The moon was a sliver of silver in the night sky, barely piercing the thick clouds rolling over Raventree Hall. Turin woke in darkness, the ache in his leg now dull but ever-present—a familiar throb that reminded him he was still healing, still alive. Sleep hadn't lasted long. He couldn't say why he got up—only that something tugged at him, something silent and insistent.
Wrapping his cloak tighter, he walked the quiet halls of the keep. The stone underfoot was cold, and the torches that lined the walls burned low, their light flickering like nervous breaths. He found himself drawn to the godswood, as he often was, since that first time.
The godswood was dead silent save for the wind. The great weirwood tree, its colossal limbs bare and lifeless, loomed like a skeletal god, its bark pale as bone. The ravens that perched in its limbs watched him silently, unblinking.
Then—he heard it.
A soft, rhythmic sound. Sucking. Wet. Human.
Turin froze mid-step.
Slowly, he crouched behind a root and crawled forward, inching closer through the underbrush. What he saw made his blood turn cold.
Royce Blackwood stood beneath the weirwood, his head tilted back in ecstasy, while a dark-haired girl knelt before him. Her black hair shimmered in the moonlight, and on the back of her neck, clear as day, was a raven-shaped birthmark.
Turin's gut twisted.
He slinked back like a shadow, breath shallow, mind racing. He didn't need to see more. He returned to his chamber in silence, locking the door behind him. He sat on the edge of the bed, staring into the dark.
"Why the fuck do people always fuck in holy places?" he muttered, disgusted.
Three weeks passed.
One moon and one week since Turin had first awoken in Raventree Hall, barely alive. His leg was much improved. He could walk without limping now, though the pain still whispered with every step.
And today, he would leave.
He stood before the door to Lord Blackwood's solar, ready to thank him for his hospitality. But before he could knock, the door opened—and a tall woman stepped out. Dark hair, green eyes like emerald blades, and the raven-shaped birthmark on her neck.
She scoffed at him and brushed past. He stared after her.
Inside the solar, Lord Blackwood greeted him warmly. Turin asked who the woman was, and when he heard her name, his heart skipped.
"That was my sister, Morgan," said Lord Blackwood.
Turin bit his tongue.
"Lord Blackwood… I'll be leaving today. Thank you for everything."
Lord Blackwood nodded. "You're welcome. There are horses in the stables—take one of the unused ones."
Turin bowed slightly, then left. The sun had not yet risen, but the first light was blooming over the walls of the castle.
At the stables, Turin's eye was drawn to a stunning white stallion, wild and untamed, staring at him with sharp eyes.
"What's this one?" he asked the stablemaster.
"That beast?" the old man snorted. "From the North. Gift from King Stark, but no one's tamed him. Not Lord Blackwood, not his son Robert. Too wild. He'll kill ya."
"I'll take him."
The stablemaster laughed. "Then today's your death day, boy."
The stallion snorted as Turin stepped into the stall. He hummed softly—a lullaby his father once sang. The horse shifted, uneasy but not hostile. Turin moved slowly, brushing the snow-white mane with his fingers. He touched his forehead to the horse's.
"Your name is Snow," he whispered. "Like the snows of the North."
The horse neighed and licked his cheek.
Applause echoed behind him.
He turned—and froze.
Morgan Blackwood stood in the stable's entrance. She was tall, almost a head taller than him, with flowing black hair and striking green eyes. There was something... unnatural about her beauty.
She walked over, eyes like a cat's. She touched his chin.
"Nice black hair," she whispered in his ear. "Pretty blue eyes."
Turin swallowed. "Thank you…"
Her lips brushed his cheek, then turned cold.
"If you speak a word of what you saw," she hissed, "I'll cut your fucking throat."
He nodded. "Okay…"
She left. Turin shuddered. "Gods… why does she scare me more than anything?"
The stablemaster, shocked that he'd tamed Snow, gave him a saddle. Turin packed the chest on the back, mounted Snow, and made for the gate. A soldier intercepted him and handed him his bow.
"Almost forgot this," the man said.
Turin nodded. "Thanks."
With that, the gates lifted. Turin rode out fast. Snow was faster than his old horse, Red—stronger, smoother, more alive.
Two hours later, he reached the burned ruins of the camp.
The graves of the men lay in mounds of earth. Turin dismounted and knelt before them.
"I'll avenge you," he whispered. "I swear."
He mounted again, riding into the woods. Following the path from his vision, he found it—an old lake, untouched and silent.
He stripped and dove in.
The water was freezing. He swam deep, eyes straining, lungs burning—and there it was. The chest. He grabbed it and kicked upward, breaking the surface with a gasp.
He crawled out, soaked and panting, pulling his clothes on. Then—
Rustling.
He spun, bow in hand. Four men emerged from the trees, wearing Blackwood tabards.
Turin's heart pounded.
They smiled falsely. "Lord Blackwood sent us with—"
One drew a dagger.
Turin loosed an arrow into his eye. The man dropped like a sack of meat.
The others charged.
He fired again—another arrow tore through a skull.
Two left. Too close for archery.
One swung a blade—Turin ducked—and Snow kicked the man so hard he flew ten feet into the lake.
Turin snatched the fallen sword and blocked the last man's strike. He twisted, shoved the blade through the man's neck. Blood spurted hot on his face.
He exhaled.
But the last man—soaked and groaning—emerged from the lake, dragging himself toward a blade.
Turin stormed over and shoved his sword against his neck. "Who sent you?"
"R-Royce!" he spat. "It was Lord Royce!"
Turin snarled. "Fucking Cunt."
He raised the blade to end him, but the man lunged and stabbed a dagger into Turin's left leg.
"FUCK!"
The pain seared—but it missed the old wound.
Turin roared, grabbed the man's hair, and drove his sword through his eye.
Silence.
His leg bled again—bad. He ripped a Blackwood tabard, tied it tight around the wound, and staggered to the chest.
Blood dripped from his hand onto the lock.
It snapped open.
"What the fuck…"
Inside: a blue tabard with a sigil he didn't recognize—silver stars, strange arrangements, beautiful and alien. A silver ring with a deep blue sapphire, swirling like a storm inside. A map written in symbols he couldn't read.
He held the ring. It called to him. He slipped it on.
BANG!
A lightning bolt slammed into the ground beside him. The wind roared. The sky darkened. A storm had appeared from nowhere.
"What in the Seven Hells?!"
Rain poured in sheets. He closed the chest and hauled it to the tree. He and Snow huddled beneath its boughs, soaked and bloodied.
Turin looked at his hand.
The ring shimmered.
"Why is it always my left leg?" he groaned.
And then he laughed—tired, blood-covered, half-dead, and soaked through—but alive.
Alive and bound for something far greater.
He didn't know what lay ahead.
But he knew there was gonna be death