"Exactly the same?"
Lynn shot to his feet, eyes blazing.
"We're going. Now."
No hesitation. The order came swift.
Fifty men would stay behind to guard the camp and supplies.
Lynn would take the remaining hundred—his finest warriors—and follow Jason through the night to that mysterious valley.
If I don't come back, they can retreat to Castle Black and bring reinforcements.
The Haunted Forest at night was far more sinister than by day.
Twisted shadows swayed in the wind and snow like clawed phantoms.
The wind howled through the trees, a keening wail.
But no one in the column was afraid.
They followed Lynn. Weapons and torches in hand. Courage burned bright.
Through dense black pines. Around jagged cliffs.
Then—a narrow valley squeezed between two towering mountain ranges.
A frozen river snaked through it, vanishing into endless darkness.
Along the banks, thick snow covered the ground.
And scattered across the snow—black shapes.
Lynn approached.
His pupils contracted.
Bones.
Human bones.
Piles of skeletal remains, discarded carelessly along the riverbanks.
Some still bore marks from gnawing beasts.
"What... is this?"
Torren sucked in a breath.
"A slaughterhouse?"
"No."
Lynn shook his head, face grim.
"A warning."
He pointed at the arrangement of the bones.
Not random. Deliberate.
Spirals. Twisted patterns.
Lynn had seen those patterns described in the original story.
The mark of the White Walkers.
"They've... been here."
Jason's voice trembled.
Every soldier gripped their weapons tighter, scanning the darkness.
As if icy blue eyes might surge from the black at any moment.
"Keep moving."
Lynn's voice cut through the suffocating silence.
No fear on his face.
Instead—excitement. Almost feverish.
The more dangerous, the more twisted—the closer I am to the secret.
The column crept along the frozen riverbed, deeper into the valley.
Every step crunched over bones that had slept for who knew how long.
After an hour—
The valley ended.
Before them loomed a massive cliff face, sheer as if carved by a blade.
At its base—a natural cavern.
Found it.
The place from the skin map.
At the cavern entrance stood a massive black stone, jutting upward like a fang.
Smooth. Mirror-like.
Dragonglass.
A massive shard of obsidian.
"Gods..."
Everyone froze, stunned.
They'd never seen dragonglass this large.
In this frozen wasteland, the black stone looked alien. Wrong.
And carved into the surface—a blood-red eye symbol.
It seemed painted in fresh blood.
Under torchlight, it gleamed with sinister light.
Then—movement.
A figure on horseback near the dragonglass.
Black cloak.
Benjen Stark!
What was he doing here?
Had he already become what he was in the show? Half-man, half-Walker? Transformed by the White Walkers, then saved by the Children of the Forest—a creature with human emotion but undead flesh, still fighting for the living?
Did he fall here?
Lynn's hand moved instinctively to Longclaw.
Benjen had left with his rangers, heading northeast toward the Frostfangs.
Their mission: investigate rumors of Mance Rayder rallying wildling tribes.
But now he was here. Alone. No sign of his men.
Stay cautious.
Lynn led his men forward.
Closer.
Benjen whipped around, sensing movement.
When he saw Lynn, he froze.
"Lynn?"
Up close, Lynn saw the truth.
Benjen's body was covered in wounds. He'd been through hell.
But he was human. Not a Walker.
"Lord Benjen. What are you doing here?"
Lynn voiced the question burning in his mind.
Benjen's expression twisted with bitterness.
"My squad was wiped out by Mance Rayder's men. I was lucky. I escaped."
"I was heading back to Castle Black to report when I stumbled onto this place."
Lynn relaxed. The tension in his body eased.
He and his men gathered around the massive dragonglass shard.
"Do you know what this is?"
Benjen's voice carried awe.
"Looks like... an altar."
Lynn circled the dragonglass slowly.
"An altar?"
"Yes."
Lynn's gaze locked onto the blood-red eye symbol.
"An altar for worship."
Just looking at it made his chest tighten.
Is this a shrine to the Cold God? A place where wildlings who worship the god of winter come to commune with their deity?
Lynn sent men to treat Benjen's wounds.
Then he searched the altar carefully.
At its base—a cleverly concealed recess.
A small alcove.
Sealed by a black stone slab of the same material.
Carved into the slab—twisted, ancient runes.
First Men script.
Lynn couldn't read it. But he could guess.
Warnings. Curses.
"Lord! Look here!"
A guard pointed at the ground around the altar.
Dried blood.
And fresh footprints.
Chaotic. Leading to the altar, then vanishing.
And human skeletons—flesh stripped clean.
"They were here recently."
Lynn's brow furrowed.
The wildlings who worship the Cold God. They held a ritual here.
Where did they go?
A dark premonition stirred in his gut.
He didn't hesitate.
"Torren! Harvey!"
"Yes, Lord!"
"Pry that slab open!"
"Yes, Lord!"
Several strong guards stepped forward.
They jammed swords and axes into the slab's edges like crowbars.
"One, two, three! Lift!"
Torren roared.
They heaved together.
The heavy slab groaned—a teeth-grinding scrape.
Then a crack appeared.
A colder, older air rushed out.
Everyone stepped back.
Everyone except Lynn.
He moved forward.
Eyes locked on the black gap.
I'll see what's inside.
"Again! Push!"
The guards strained.
BOOM!
The slab crashed aside.
A black opening yawned before them.
Silent. Empty.
Like a doorway to another world.
Lynn raised his torch.
And stepped inside.
~~~~❃❃~~~~~~~~❃❃~~~~
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