GOT: The Prophecy of Shadow and Steel

The bar was dimly lit, the faint hum of a jukebox blending with the chatter of drunken voices and the occasional clink of glasses. Kieran leaned back in his seat, a satisfied smirk tugging at his lips. His latest victory—a well-coordinated takedown of a rival gang—still lingered in his mind like the burn of whiskey on his tongue.

He swirled his glass lazily, the amber liquid catching the light, when a sudden cold sensation pressed against the back of his head.

"Hands where I can see them," a muffled voice growled, the unmistakable hardness of a gun muzzle digging into his skull.

Kieran froze, his smirk growing into a grin. "Damn, Jay," he said without turning around. "You're still lousy at sneaking up on people."

The voice behind him laughed, dropping its forced menace. "One of these days, Kieran, my theatrics are gonna work on you."

The pressure disappeared, and Kieran turned to see Jay—a scruffy, sharp-eyed man with a cocky grin to rival his own—sitting down at the bar stool beside him.

Jay motioned to the bartender. "Two more of whatever poison he's drinking. You'll need it after all that ego-stroking you've been doing about your so-called victory."

Kieran chuckled. "Still bitter, huh? That's what happens when you bet against me."

They drank, their banter flowing easily, as if no time had passed since their last meeting. After a few rounds, Jay nudged Kieran toward the pool table.

"Come on, hotshot. Let's see if that big brain of yours translates to aim."

Kieran picked up the cue, the weight of it grounding him in the surreal haze of memory. The click of the balls, the laughter, the sound of a poorly sung tune drifting from another corner of the bar—it all felt too real. Too vivid.

As the game went on, Kieran started to notice it: the edges of the memory fraying, the moments lingering just a little too long. This wasn't the present. It was something deeper, more distant. Yet, instead of pulling away, he leaned into the moment, savoring the warmth of reunion.

Later, they walked out of the bar, the cold night air biting at their skin. They strolled down an alley, the dim glow of streetlights casting long shadows.

Kieran broke the silence. "Jay… If you had the chance to start over, would you take it?"

Jay raised an eyebrow. "Where's this coming from?"

Kieran hesitated. "Let's just say… I've been given something new. A second chance. But it's not easy. Every choice feels heavier, like I'm not just living for myself anymore."

Jay tilted his head, his expression softening. "Starting over's never easy, man. But if you've got a shot at something better—at leaving the past behind—you take it. You make it worth the struggle."

They stopped at the edge of the alley, the glow of a neon sign flickering above them. Jay clapped Kieran on the shoulder, his voice steady. "You've always been a fighter, Kieran. Just remember: no matter how dark it gets, you've got that fire in you. Don't let anyone snuff it out."

The world around Kieran began to blur, the sounds of the city fading into the distance.

Two weeks had passed since Torak fell into his coma-like state. The healers in the camp hovered over his motionless form daily, their faces growing more perplexed with each visit.

"He should have been long dead," one muttered to another as Alaena listened, her heart heavy. "The poison… It's a miracle his heart still beats."

Alaena, her face lined with worry, pressed them for answers. "There must be something more we can do."

But the healers could only hang their heads, their silence cutting deeper than words.

That afternoon, a commotion erupted at the camp's edge. Alaena and Malika rushed to the source, weaving through a crowd of shouting warriors.

At the center of the chaos sat a woman atop a red horse, her robes the same deep crimson as her mount. Her hair flowed like fire down her back, and her eyes glinted with an eerie confidence.

"I come to offer aid," she said, her voice calm but carrying an edge of command.

Malika's hand went to her blade. "Who are you to ride into this camp unannounced?"

The woman's lips curled into a faint smile. "I am Thyra, a priestess of the Red God. Your Khal teeters between life and death, poisoned by treachery. I can bring him back."

A murmur spread through the crowd. Alaena's gaze narrowed. "And what would you want in return?"

Thyra met her eyes. "That will be discussed after I have succeeded. If I fail, there will be no debt."

The camp erupted into arguments. Some shouted for her to be turned away, fearing sorcery, while others urged Alaena to accept.

After a tense discussion with Nakarro and Malika, Alaena made her decision. "We have no other choice. Let her try."

Thyra entered the tent, her movements slow and deliberate as she approached Torak's still form. She knelt beside him, her fingertips grazing his skin.

"The poison lingers," she said, her voice thoughtful. "But his spirit… It is strong. That is why he remains."

Thyra turned to Alaena. "Everyone must leave. This ritual demands focus. No interruptions."

Malika bristled. "You expect us to trust you?"

"It is not trust I require. Only silence."

Alaena raised a hand, silencing the protests. "Do as she says."

Reluctantly, everyone left.

Thyra slipped off her red robes, revealing intricate patterns of scarred symbols across her skin. Her movements were precise, her eyes glowing faintly as she chanted in a tongue unfamiliar to Alaena. The air grew thick, the firelight flickering unnaturally as shadows danced across the tent walls.

Thyra leaned over Torak, her voice dropping to a whisper. "The fire always demands a price, my prince."