Caster stood in his chambers, the flickering light of a distant candle casting long shadows against the walls. The cold had settled in, creeping through the cracks of his stone keep. It was unusual. As a man blessed by the cold gods, he should not have felt this chill. The biting frost that seemed to claw at his bones had no place in his divine sanctuary.
His thoughts drifted to the sacrifice he had made earlier, his son—the life that had been offered up to the Weirwood tree, his blood staining the snow. He could feel the divine connection growing stronger within him. In his heart, he believed the cold gods had received his offering, and he felt an unnatural sense of power, like he had become something more, something untouchable.
"These godless wildlings and crows... they will never survive this winter," Caster muttered under his breath, his voice laced with arrogance. The bitter cold was a symbol of his newfound grace, the power of the cold gods coursing through him. He was above them all.
But then, something caught his eye.
Blue eyes—piercing and cold—glimmered in the dead of night. Caster paused, his heart skipping a beat. Could it be? Had the cold gods truly come to reward him for his devotion?
Before he could contemplate further, a loud crash echoed through the room, the door flying open with force. Caster's eyes widened in shock, and he instinctively reached for the weapon at his side. "Who dares?!" he screamed, his voice sharp with authority.
He expected a wildling, a deserter, a rebel of some sort, but what he saw instead made him pause. A young man stood in the doorway—a boy, really. His appearance was almost too perfect, his features refined and sharp. Handsome, even. Caster's lips curled into a smile as he saw the youth's pretty face. Such a lovely specimen...
Caster was prepared to play with the boy, perhaps bend him to his will, but then his gaze fell on the child—the same abandoned son he had cast aside earlier. His annoyance flared up immediately, his patience wearing thin.
"What is this?" he sneered, looking from the boy to the child in his arms. "Who are you?"
The boy, unfazed by Caster's anger, stepped forward. His eyes—those damn blue eyes—stared right into Caster's soul. "You wouldn't even be reborn as a cursed spirit," the boy said coolly, his voice steady.
And in the next instant, Gojo's fist shot forward, punching straight through Caster's spine with the force of a thunderstrike.
Caster's body went limp as his screams echoed through the room, the pain beyond anything he had ever felt before. He collapsed to his knees, gasping for breath, his hands clutching at the gaping hole in his back. Blood poured from his mouth, but his mind, twisted and broken, clung to one last hope.
"The cold gods... they will protect me," he wheezed, even as his body began to fail him. His vision blurred, and the last thing he saw was the boy's eyes—those piercing, god-like eyes.
Gojo's gaze was unyielding, the world around him cold and indifferent. As Caster's life faded, a single thought echoed in the dying man's mind: Had the cold gods found him wanting?
With that, Caster's life came to a brutal end, his body crumpling to the floor, his blood staining the stone beneath him.
Gojo, standing above him, remained silent as the weight of the moment settled. His task was done, but there was no satisfaction in it. There would be no joy in killing someone like Caster. There was only the grim necessity of it. The world was full of these kinds of people, and Gojo knew the fight was far from over.
But with Caster's death, the path ahead was clearer.
Gojo turned away, the child still in his arms, and walked out of the keep without another glance at the fallen man. There was still more to do. The cursed energy of this land would be purged, and those who trafficked in such evil would meet their end.
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