Rayder had made his choice: he would stay here, striking from the shadows, a predator feeding on the endless tide of the dead. Every wight burned was another step toward strength, another surge of energy in his veins.
The Frostfang Mountains loomed behind him, jagged sentinels against the frozen plain. At his back lay the three dragons—Red Yigen, Black Im, and golden Kidora—silent, waiting, patient as lions before a feast.
Rayder tapped the hilt of his sword absently, eyes fixed on the horizon. His heart thudded with a mixture of eagerness and tension. Soon enough, the prey arrived.
The wights appeared like shadows crawling across the snow, clumsy yet unstoppable, their numbers swelling into hundreds.
Rayder's lips curled. He turned to his dragons. "Ready, my friends? Let's remind them what fire means."
Yigen and Im answered with guttural roars. Their wings unfurled, blotting out what little moonlight pierced the storm.
"Attack!" Rayder commanded.
The night split apart.
Twin torrents of flame erupted, carving through the ranks of the dead. Wights shrieked soundlessly as their bodies collapsed into ash, their blue fire-eyes snuffed out like candles in a gale.
Rayder stood unmoved, watching the slaughter with cold detachment. These were not men—they were husks, puppets. Their souls were long gone.
Then he saw it.
An Other rode at the center of the chaos, tall and gaunt, armored in frost. Its pale steed stamped the snow as it raised an ice spear, commanding its corpses forward. The sight sent a shiver racing down Rayder's spine—not of fear, but of exhilaration.
"Perfect," he whispered.
He spurred Kidora forward, circling behind. The dragon slunk low among the rocks, golden eyes burning with a predatory gleam.
The Other never saw it coming.
Kidora leapt, wings flaring wide. Its central head snapped open, and a beam of crackling gravity-light blasted forth. The ray struck horse and rider alike. Ice shattered, bones twisted, and the Other was hurled violently into the air before slamming into the earth with a sound like breaking glass.
Rayder vaulted down, sword in hand, rushing toward the fallen figure. But as he raised his blade for the killing stroke, his eyes fell on the weapon clutched in the Other's hand.
An ice spear.
Rayder hesitated. Slowly, he pried it free, holding it aloft.
It was no ordinary weapon. The shaft was clear as crystal, yet harder than steel. He dragged its edge across Kidora's scales—sparks leapt where ice met gold.
Rayder's grin widened. "Now this… this is worth keeping."
The battlefield had gone silent. Behind him, Yigen and Im circled above the ashes of the last wight. Rayder lifted the spear, feeling its perfect balance, its bone-deep chill. It hummed faintly in his grip, as though it whispered to him.
He swung it once, twice. The weapon felt as though it had always belonged to his hand.
Neither he nor Kidora noticed the flicker of change—an instant when his violet eyes glimmered ice-blue before fading back.
Rayder climbed back onto his dragon, spear in hand. For a moment, triumph swelled in his chest. He had slain an Other. He had claimed its weapon. He had proven himself.
But then, on the horizon, movement stirred. A tide of pale figures surged across the snow, a line of Others marching fast and silent. Their armor glittered like frozen stars, their spears raised, their forms monstrous and regal.
Rayder's gut clenched. If they caught him here, even dragons might not be enough.
Without hesitation, he leapt astride Kidora. The dragon beat its wings, tearing into the sky. The Others gave chase, racing below with inhuman speed, but the dragons climbed higher, faster. Soon the rugged peaks of the Frostfangs shielded them, the pursuit faltering in the broken terrain.
Only then did Rayder breathe again. He held the spear before him, examining its flawless form, marveling at the icy haze curling from its surface. Awe and hunger mingled in his gaze.
Yet as he settled against Kidora's back, exhaustion crept in. He closed his eyes, mind buzzing with numbers. The system tallied his harvest: 3,751 points. Almost all from the dead he had burned. His lips curved in satisfaction.
Sleep claimed him.
But far away, on the heart of the endless ice plain, the Night King stirred.
Seated within the altar of seven frozen spires, his pale head lifted. His deep blue eyes turned north, as if piercing mountains, forests, and storm, fixing directly upon Rayder.
Slowly, he closed his eyes. His will drifted outward, slipping the leash of flesh. Ice and shadow wove together, building a dream of frost and silence.
And into that dream, Rayder stumbled.
He stood suddenly in a vast white wasteland, the world unfamiliar and unreal. The air was razor-cold. His breath turned to ice before leaving his lips. Confusion twisted his gut.
From the distance, a figure approached.
At first it was only a blur, but each step brought it closer, sharper. A tall man, skin pale as death, hair like hoarfrost, eyes burning with endless blue. His armor shimmered like living ice, and in his hand he carried a longsword carved from crystal.
The sight made Rayder's heart hammer. He knew the name before it even left his lips.
The Night King.
Leader of the Others. Lord of the endless dead.
And now, face-to-face in a dream of darkness and snow.
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