Chapter 14: The Red Priest's Guidance
The plaza's council chamber thrummed with sandalwood's musky scent, a low mystical energy vibrating through the air, candles casting flickering shadows across gray stone walls. Elias sat opposite Melvyn, the red priest, whose ruby brooch pulsed with crimson light, warming his solemn face. The Stark scouts light our path, Elias thought, recalling Chap 13's alliance, resolve firm despite the strange air. A chipped lantern glowed dimly on a shelf, a micro-conflict as a servant cursed its flickering flame, while a tattered scroll lay heavy in Elias's lap, its parchment worn. A frayed cloak chafed Melvyn's neck, a world-in-motion pulse as a gust rattled frost-crusted shutters. A dented candlestick teetered nearby, a new sub-scene unfolding as a scribe dropped a chipped lantern, oil spilling across the floor, an Accidental Spill sparking Corax's quip, "Clumsy hands, fiery heart!" drawing chuckles that eased the tension.
"The northern passage is a dangerous one, Elias," Melvyn said, voice a resonant hum, unrolling a map of swirling stars, fire, and ice, its edges glowing with an otherworldly light.
"My System'll plot the path," Elias replied, a flicker of doubt in his voice, fingers brushing the tattered scroll.
[VERIFICATION: VISION MAP ACCURACY: 98%. MYSTICAL ORIGINS CONFIRMED. INTEGRATION COMPLETE.]
"R'hllor and your System," Melvyn said, a faint smile curving his lips. "A union of fire and science. It's an alliance we'll need if we're to survive the coming darkness."
"Fire's nice, but steel holds better," Corax cawed, landing on the table, his sharp eyes fixed on an Essosi symbol. "Look at that. A tear. A weeping sun. They're everywhere. The cult's reach is longer than we thought."
The Weeping Sun's shadow lingers, Elias thought, unease coiling like a snake . Larra leaned in, her sharp eyes scanning the map's hidden trails, her finger steady despite the dented candlestick's wobble.
"The paths are hidden, but they are there. It's a good route, Elias. It'll get us there faster."
"Fast enough to outrun ice?" a scribe muttered, clutching a frayed cloak, his voice low.
A new sub-scene emerged as a guard argued over ration allocations, voices rising until Larra's firm nod silenced them, boosting morale with her calm authority. The plaza's sept was hushed, a cold vision filling the air as Melvyn's eyes burned with fervent light, conjuring White Walkers marching through snow, their piercing blue eyes glowing, the stench of decay thick.
"The ice comes," Melvyn said, voice heavy with morbid awe. "They are the silence. They are the cold. They are death."
[VISION CONFIRMED: WHITE WALKER THREAT. OBJECTIVE: GATHER ALLIES. UNLOCKING ALLIANCE QUEST.]
Torak's nightmares are real, Elias thought, cold sweat beading on his brow despite the sept's warmth. A new sub-scene unfolded as a worshiper dropped a tattered scroll, its parchment snagging, a micro-conflict resolved by Melvyn's calm gesture, steadying the group. Corax landed on Elias's shoulder, his voice unusually serious.
"The ice symbol," he said, beak twitching. "Look at the symbol. It's a weakness. A crack in the armor. You have to find it."
Torak entered the sept, his face a grim mask, nodding with battle-worn resolve.
"The Free Folk have been fighting them for a thousand years. We know their tactics. We know their weaknesses."
"We've lost too many to them," a Free Folk warrior added, gripping a cracked flagon, his voice rough.
"The dead are coming," Elias growled, voice low and fierce. "My System's ready to melt them."
The plaza's courtyard buzzed with silent resolve, a chipped lantern casting jagged shadows, a world-in-motion pulse as workers hauled crates under a fading sun. Melvyn's fiery magic warmed the cold air, a beacon beside Elias, a dented candlestick glinting nearby.
"Faith and tech—we'll win," Elias said, voice a steady rumble, hands sore from gripping the frayed cloak.
[ALLIANCE FORGED: FAITH-TECH. MELVYN'S FIRE MAGIC INTEGRATED. STRENGTH BOOST: +10.]
"We'll be a self-sufficient fortress on the move," Larra said, planning logistics, a tattered scroll tucked under her arm, her mind a whirlwind of numbers.
"Hope R'hllor's got good aim," Corax quipped, landing on a sun-drenched stone, its warmth stark against the chill. "That island, the 'sunny island,' he's talking about… it's a long way from here."
The ice's weakness calls, Elias thought, the cracked flagon's weight in his pocket a hook to the North's looming trials, urging him to trust Melvyn's fiery guidance to survive the coming darkness.
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