Sorry for the slow chapter releases. I got really sick for a few days.
Cassandra POV
The scent of rosemary drifted through the air as Cassandra crushed the fresh sprigs against the rim of her clay bowl.
The leaves broke apart beneath her fingers, releasing oils that shimmered atop the bubbling mixture beneath.
She worked with slow, practiced motions, turning the wooden pestle in gentle circles until the herbs dissolved into the rich purple liquid.
The potion simmered with a soft hiss, sending curls of steam toward the rafters where a handful of small birds perched, their black eyes following her every movement. Cassandra didn't look up at them. They always watched. It was their nature. And it pleased her to be observed while she crafted.
This particular brew was a simple thing in her eyes, a charm of longing, desire, and dreamy sweetness. Nothing dangerous. Nothing powerful. A love potion for a lord's daughter who believed she could coax affection from a man far too hesitant for her liking.
Cassandra found such troubles amusing.
She leaned over the fire, stirring the cauldron with the delicacy of an artist painting fine lines. The steam brushed against her skin like warm fingers. Her long dark hair fell over her shoulder, and she pushed it back absently while adding the final ingredient, a sliver of dried moonblossom petal.
The potion brightened, glowing faintly as it reached its completion.
Clunk. Clunk. Clunk.
The spoon fell still.
Cassandra raised her head.
She didn't smile, not yet, but her expression softened in a way that hinted at satisfaction.
"He is back," she whispered.
The doorframe dimmed as something immense blocked the fading daylight outside. Heavy footsteps approached, each one measured and deliberate. Shadows stretched across the floor.
The figure entered without a sound beyond the weight of its steps.
A towering presence, encased head to toe in coal-black armour, stood before her.
The metal absorbed the light rather than reflecting it, as though it drank the world around it. The red glow from within the visor burned faintly, pulsing like a heartbeat.
He bowed deeply, obediently.
In his gauntleted hand, he held a bag. Its cloth was darkened with bloody stains, tied shut with rough twine. Cassandra's eyes flicked to it, and at last, she smiled.
"Put it there," she said, gesturing to a small table beside the wall.
The armoured figure obeyed instantly. He crossed the room with unnerving stillness for someone so heavy, placed the bag gently on the wood, and stepped back, resuming a posture of quiet readiness, waiting for her next command.
Cassandra returned her attention to the cauldron, swirling the spoon once, twice, watching the purple mixture tremble with the reflection of her own face. She admired the way her blue eyes shimmered in its surface, bright and unearthly in the light of the fire.
A soft hum escaped her lips, a tune older than memory, older than language. The birds above cocked their heads.
"Another task completed," she murmured, more to herself than to the creature.
"Good."
The armoured giant did not respond. He never did. That was not his role. His presence alone was enough.
Cassandra dipped a ladle into the potion, satisfied with its colour and scent. She poured a small portion into a glass vial, sealed it with a cork, and set it aside for delivery in the morning.
She did not look again at the bag. She knew its contents. She knew its purpose.
And she knew she would open it when the moon was high.
For now, she simply continued stirring, letting the quiet fill the space, the fire crackling, the birds whispering in soft clicks, and the Black Armoured Servant standing like a sentinel beside her humble hut.
Her voice broke the silence one last time:
"Good. Everything is as it should be."
Lyonel POV
Lyonel sat stiffly in the crooked wooden chair, hands resting on his knees, fingers curled tight without him noticing. The hut felt smaller now than it had before, as though the walls had drawn closer while the old woman was gone. The air hung thick with the scent of herbs, sharp, bitter, earthy, and something else beneath it, something metallic and faintly sweet that made his stomach uneasy.
He had not moved.
Not once.
He didn't dare.
The birds above him lined the rafters like silent watchers, their small bodies still, their eyes fixed on him. One tilted its head slightly, as if studying him. Another blinked slowly. None made a sound.
Lyonel swallowed.
What is she?A healer? A witch? Something worse?
He had seen many strange things in the last few days, things he would have laughed at before leaving Harvesthall. But now… now he wasn't so certain of anything anymore.
The memory of the vision clawed at him.
The giant knight.The battle.The woman in the moonlight.The transformation.
The Black Devil.
His hand instinctively brushed the hilt of Adder's Fang at his side. The familiar weight grounded him, if only slightly.
That thing… I cannot fight that thing.
His thoughts spiraled, dark and heavy, until—
The door creaked.
Lyonel's head snapped up.
She entered quietly, as if she had never left at all.
But it was what she carried that froze him.
In her hands… was a heart.
Dark. Fresh. Real.
Lyonel's breath caught. His eyes widened despite himself.
"By the Seven…" he whispered, voice strained. "Why do you have a heart?"
She didn't seem disturbed by the question. In fact, she seemed almost amused.
"For many reasons," she replied calmly, stepping toward the center of the room. "But the greatest of them is to track the Black Devil."
Lyonel nodded slowly, though unease still gripped him. His gaze lingered on the object in her hands before he forced himself to look away.
He still didn't understand.
Why him?
Why had she saved him?
Why bring him here?
His mind turned back to the battlefield, to the way the Black Devil had moved—relentless, unstoppable.
She wants me to fight it… doesn't she?
"Yes," she said.
Lyonel froze.
His eyes widened again, snapping back to her.
"You—" He swallowed. "You can hear my thoughts?"
She didn't answer directly.
Instead, she simply watched him.
"And you want me to fight it?" he pressed, voice rising slightly.
"I do."
The words settled heavily between them.
Lyonel let out a hollow breath. "I will die."
"Yes," she said simply.
No hesitation. No comfort.
Just truth.
Lyonel stood abruptly, the chair scraping against the wooden floor behind him. Pain flared in his ribs, but he ignored it.
"Why?" he demanded. "Why me? Tell me—by the Seven, tell me!"
The birds above shifted slightly, their attention sharpening.
The old woman regarded him for a long moment before speaking.
"You are special."
Lyonel frowned. "Special?"
"A man with a pure heart," she continued, as if stating something obvious. "And only a man with a pure heart can kill the Black Devil."
Lyonel let out a short, disbelieving breath. "A pure heart?"
She nodded.
"The Black Devil was not born. He was made. Forged with magic rooted in malice… and vengeance." Her voice softened slightly, though it lost none of its weight. "Such a thing cannot be undone by steel alone. It requires its opposite."
Lyonel's gaze dropped to the floor.
Opposite.
Not strength. Not skill.
Something else.
He thought of the village. The people he couldn't save. The fear that had driven him to run.
Is that what a pure heart looks like?
"I am not—" he began, but stopped.
"You are," she said firmly. "Perhaps one day you will not be. The world has a way of changing men." Her eyes held his. "But right now… You are."
Silence stretched between them.
Lyonel didn't know whether to feel honored… or afraid.
Finally, she spoke again.
"Give me your sword."
His head snapped up. "My—"
"Your Valyrian steel blade."
Of course, she knew.
Lyonel hesitated for a moment before unfastening Adder's Fang from his belt. The blade felt heavier now as he held it, as though it understood what was about to happen.
"Be careful with it," he said quietly. "It isn't mine."
A faint smile touched her lips.
"I know."
She took the sword from him.
For a moment, she simply held it, turning it slightly so the dim light caught along its dark, rippling steel. Then, without hesitation, she raised the heart and drove the blade through it.
Lyonel flinched despite himself.
The air shifted.
Something unseen stirred within the hut. The birds above rustled, wings twitching, though none took flight.
"Your blade already carries power," she said, her voice low and steady. "Fire and blood, bound within it since the days of Old Valyria."
The heart hung upon the blade, unmoving.
"But it is not enough," she continued. "Not for this."
Lyonel watched, unease growing in his chest.
By the Seven… what is she?
She turned slightly away from him.
"Leave," she said.
Lyonel didn't hesitate.
He didn't ask questions. Didn't argue.
He simply turned and moved toward the door, every instinct in his body urging him to get as far from her as possible.
As he stepped outside, the cool night air struck his face, clearing his thoughts slightly.
Behind him, inside the hut, something shifted, something unseen, something ancient.
Lyonel didn't look back.
He just kept walking.
Lyonel waited beneath the crooked oak just beyond the hut, its branches stretching low like bent fingers over his head. The night had deepened while he stood there.
He shifted his weight slightly, leaning against the trunk, careful not to strain his ribs. The pain had dulled since the old woman had touched him, but it lingered faintly, like a memory his body refused to forget. His hand rested near his belt out of habit, though the absence of a sword still felt wrong, like a limb missing.
Time passed.
Or at least, it felt like it did. In the Kingswood, time seemed to move strangely, too slow when one waited, too fast when one ran.
The wind stirred the leaves above him. Somewhere far off, a branch cracked.
Lyonel exhaled slowly. What is she doing in there? He wondered.
He tried not to think of it.
Tried not to imagine the heart, the blade, the quiet certainty in her voice when she spoke of things no mortal should know.
Then—
A flutter.
Before he could react, something landed squarely atop his head.
Lyonel stiffened.
"—What in—"
He froze, eyes crossing upward as best they could.
A bird.
It perched there as if it belonged, claws lightly gripping his hair. It let out a sharp, almost annoyed caw, tilting its head as though judging him.
Lyonel blinked. "Right… yes… of course."
He let out a small breath through his nose, somewhere between disbelief and resignation.
"I suppose that means I should go back in."
The bird cawed again.
He took that as confirmation.
Carefully, he stepped away from the tree and turned toward the hut. The door creaked as he pushed it open once more.
Inside, the air felt… different.
Quieter.
Heavier.
The smell of herbs still lingered, but beneath it was something else, something faintly metallic and unfamiliar, like the echo of something that had already passed.
The bird on his head lifted off and flew back to the rafters, joining the others as if it had never left.
Lyonel's eyes moved immediately to her.
The old woman stood near the center of the hut, exactly where he had left her.
But the heart was gone.
And in her hands—
Adder's Fang.
She looked up at him, calm as ever.
"Come here."
Lyonel obeyed without question.
There was something about her voice that allowed no hesitation. He stepped forward slowly, his gaze fixed on the sword.
She extended it toward him.
"I have done what I can to strengthen it."
Lyonel reached out and took the blade.
It felt… the same.
The same weight. The same balance. The same faint ripple in the steel that marked its Valyrian forging. If there had been a change, it was something that he could not detect.
Still, he nodded. "Thank you."
He wasn't sure if he meant it.
She didn't respond to the words. Instead, she lifted her head slightly and whistled.
The tune was strange, soft, winding, almost like a song half-forgotten. It rose and fell in uneven rhythm, echoing faintly against the walls.
For a moment, nothing happened.
Then—
A rush of air.
A white shape swept through the doorway and into the hut, wings wide and powerful. It circled once before descending, landing gracefully atop her head.
Lyonel's eyes widened.
The bird.
The same one that had saved him.
Up close, it was even more striking, larger than any bird he had ever seen, its feathers pale as fresh snow, its eyes sharp and intelligent.
The old woman smiled faintly.
"Lyonel," she said, "this is Cloud."
The bird gave a soft cry, almost proud.
"She is descended from the ancient Thunderbirds of the Stormlands," the woman continued, her tone almost reverent. "She will lead you to the Black Devil… and she will help you fight him."
Lyonel blinked.
"Thunderbird?" he repeated. "Aren't those… myths?"
The old woman turned her gaze toward him, one brow lifting slightly.
"There are dragons in this world," she said evenly, "and yet you doubt the existence of Thunderbirds?"
Lyonel opened his mouth, then closed it again.
"…Fair enough," he admitted quietly.
She looked back at Cloud, gently brushing her fingers along the bird's feathers.
"Once, long ago," she continued, "they filled the skies of the Stormlands. Creatures of storm and sky. But when the Andals came with their Seven gods… they hunted what they did not understand."
Her voice remained calm, but there was something beneath it, something colder.
"They called such things unnatural," she said. "And so they were wiped from the world."
Lyonel shifted slightly, unsure how to respond.
The Seven had always been part of his life. His faith, his house, his identity. Hearing them spoken of in such a way unsettled him, but he could not deny what he had seen.
Not anymore.
He said nothing.
Cloud let out a soft cry and lifted into the air once more, circling the hut before flying toward the open doorway.
The old woman watched her go.
"Cloud will take you to the Devil," she said.
Lyonel followed the bird with his eyes.
Outside, the night stretched wide and uncertain.
He hesitated for only a moment.
"Follow her," the woman added. "And do not worry."
There was a pause.
"I will help you."
Lyonel nodded slowly.
He turned and stepped out into the night, the cool air greeting him once more.
Cloud waited ahead, perched on a low branch. As soon as he emerged, she took flight again, gliding silently between the trees.
Lyonel tightened his grip on Adder's Fang.
Then he followed.
Into the dark.