Chapter 5: Jon
Jon stood on the deck of the black ship as it cut through the waves, each surge of water rocking him with an unfamiliar rhythm that felt both thrilling and unsettling.
The salt-heavy air stung his nostrils, carrying with it the briny taste of the sea, sharp and bitter. Beneath his fingers, the rough grain of the ship's rail bit into his skin, each splinter a reminder that he was far from the cold stone of Winterfell. The sky stretched above, endless and gray, like an open wound in the heavens, mirrored by the iron sea below.
The crimson figure, a woman called Vaelira, stood at his side.
She seemed to feel the ship's movements as if they were her own, her lithe frame unwavering even as the deck pitched beneath them. Jon felt himself watching her more than he cared to admit. There was a weight to her presence, something dark and ancient, like the depths of the ocean that churned below. He was used to people who wore their strength openly, like Robb's fierce smile or Uncle Benjen's calm authority, but Vaelira's strength was quiet, coiled, like a storm yet to break.
"Tell me, Jon Snow." Her crimson robes caught the light, and the fabric appeared as if it was woven from blood. "What do you know of power?"
Jon hesitated, feeling the weight of her question settle over him like a cloak of iron. He had thought he knew what power was—his father's stern words, the whispered loyalty he felt for his family. Yet here, in this moment, those ideas seemed distant, pale as smoke.
"Power is… strength, isn't it?" he ventured, the words sounding weak to his own ears.
A faint smile curved Vaelira's lips, but there was no warmth in it. Her silver hair fell in loose waves, almost glowing against the stormy backdrop. "Are you asking me or telling me?"
He gulped. "Strength. Strength is power."
"Strength? Perhaps." She traced the ship's rail with a gentle, almost reverent touch. Her violet eyes had a depth that held secrets, and her shadowed gaze drew in the world around her. "Yet, strength without purpose is as useful as a sword left to rust."
"Then what?"
"What I teach predates the roots of the first weirwood trees." She spoke softly, yet her words sunk into Jon's bones. "A force that lives in the marrow of the world, in the earth, the air, in blood and bone. It is something that takes as much as it gives."
Something vast and uncontainable hid beneath her words. It was nothing like the structured learning Maester Luwin had taught him. This felt raw, untamed, a power born from the depths of the earth itself. He tried to imagine it, something that vast, that ancient, and the very thought of it made him feel small.
"Breathe," she said. "Breathe as if you could pull the life from everything around you. Breathe as though you would drink fire from the air itself."
Jon swallowed and drew in a deep breath, but it felt no different than any other. The salt stung his nose, the cold air chafed against his throat, but there was no spark.
No fire.
"Do you think this to be a game?" She stepped closer to him. "Do you think this to be one of your maester's lessons? Are you a wolf with broken teeth, unable to grasp the power lying dormant within you?"
Her words stung, sharp as a winter gale, but they kindled something within him—a low heat, a flicker of resentment that smoldered beneath the surface. She must have seen it, for her eyes brightened, a glint of approval sparking in the depths of her gaze.
"Yes," she murmured, almost to herself. "That's it. Draw from that anger, that frustration. Let it fill you."
Jon's jaw tightened as he held her gaze, and the rough taste of resentment settled on his tongue. Memories surfaced unbidden, clawing their way up from the dark recesses of his mind: Catelyn's cold stare, the years of silent dismissal that had branded him as an outsider, a shadow lurking in Winterfell's halls. The countless days he'd watched Robb embraced and praised while he stood on the edges, a silent reminder of something unspoken and unwanted.
He drew a breath.
It was deeper this time, letting those memories unfurl, feeling the ache of them sharp in his chest. He clenched his fists, the nails biting into his palms as if to ground himself in the pain. The air around him felt different—thicker, charged, carrying a faint, metallic tang like iron in blood. He could feel the ship beneath his feet, its steady groan echoing up through his bones, mirroring the churn of bile that had begun to pulse within him, steady as a heartbeat.
"That's it! Good! Use that bitterness. The anger you've swallowed, the rejection you've buried—don't shy from it. The Song we sing demands those emotions as fuel, as embers you must tend so that you may feed their fire into it."
"What…" He shivered as lightning crackled through his lungs. "What are you talking about?"
"The Song we sing is how we use the Breath of the World, child." She put her hand on his. It was softer than silk and paler than the moon. "The fire that gives form to your will. The Song of Passion. The Aruvail."
The Aruvail.
He repeated the word silently, tasting its rough edges in his mind, feeling the weight of it settle within him. This was no quiet meditation, no gentle communion with the natural world. This was something else—a primal force, jagged and raw, like a beast straining against the chains that bound it. He closed his eyes, trying to push deeper, to feel that ember Vaelira spoke of, to draw it out and fan it into something more.
Doubt coiled around him.
Was this real, or was he simply feeding into anger for anger's sake? The power Vaelira described seemed like an illusion, something too far beyond him, too wild to tame. What if he couldn't harness it? What if he was meant to remain only a bastard, left to wrestle with shadows while others held the light?
Vaelira squeezed his hand.
Her fingers brought coldness and steadiness against the heat and chaos that pulsed beneath his skin. "The uncertainty you feel is a test of the Aruvail. Do not give in to it."
"I.. I don't know if I can do this… I'm just a bastard."
"Only those who learn to harness the storm within, to shape it rather than let it consume them, will find strength in it. The circumstances of your birth are unimportant. Only your willingness to face the fire matters."
She held his gaze. Her eyes, endless pools of violet, seemed to see deeper into him than he could see himself. Her touch steadied him, grounding him as he drew another breath, slower, more deliberate. The air felt dense, as though it carried more weight with each inhale, filling him with that charged, metallic taste, tinged with something almost like smoke. With it, he felt the faintest flicker—a stirring, a spark responding to his unspoken call.
"Good." Vaelira lifted her hand, but her presence lingered and pressed against him like a satin blanket. "Now let it grow. Call it as you would a loyal hound. Make it come to you. Do not simply wait for it to rise. Claim it."
He let his thoughts shift, sharpening them on the jagged edges of his past, the bitter memories he'd tried so hard to bury. He thought of every whispered slight, every shadowed glance that had reminded him of his place—a son in blood, but a stranger in name. Slowly, he began to feel it: a warmth unfurling deep within, a faint flicker of energy that pulsed in time with his heartbeat.
It was there, elusive but real, a quiet power that seemed to stir as he reached for it.
The warmth grew, threading itself through his chest, down his arms, until it felt as though his blood had thickened, flowing with a molten weight. Jon's breath came shallow, each inhale feeding the ember that flickered within, a sensation both exhilarating and terrifying. He felt the power skitter beneath his skin, a restless force waiting to be unleashed, a current demanding his command. The air around him seemed to pulse in tandem with it, growing dense and full of lightning, as if the ship itself were attuned to the awakening within him.
"I…" He laughed. "I'm doing it… I feel it!"
"Good, child. Let it build, but do not surrender to it." She hugged him from behind and whispered into his ear. "The Aruvail is a starving dog. You must anchor yourself and give it only so much that it obeys your will, lest it takes more than you can give."
He could tell.
The power was already pushing against his mind whispering of hunger. Ravenous craving. Voracious need. Famished desire. More, more, more it said, threatening to burst through his blood vessels, muscles and bones if he didn't provide. To rip apart his flesh and scatter it over the black planks that made up the deck of the ship. To rend his mind until he was a blubbering mess with no thought and only one word to speak.
He thought of Catelyn, and the power hummed with the satisfaction of thirst sated.
Sweat beaded on Jon's forehead as the power fed on his memories of Catelyn. Heat coursed through him, and his muscles spasmed. Each cramp made him wonder if he already had no more to give the power. The grit of salt and sea grated against the knuckles of his clenched fists. He grounded himself in the physical, in the sharpness of sensation.
Yet, as much as it had said it would devour him a moment ago, the power was now threatening to abandon him.
"This is not something you reach for," Vaelira whispered as if chiding a child fumbling with a weapon too sharp. "It is drawn from within, from the marrow of your own purpose. You can command it only by knowing why you seek it. If you do not, it will slip through your grasp like sand."
Purpose?
He had no idea what his purpose was. He'd thought he knew while he was running away from Winterfell. He'd thought he wanted to prove himself, to become more than the shadow he'd been in his father's halls. He'd believed he wanted to claim something that could finally be his, untethered to the chains of blood and family.
Now, facing the raw fire and fury of this power, he knew those reasons were all petty.
The realization echoed through his mind with a hollowness and reverberated against the walls of his own thoughts with the finality of a life ended. His vision blurred, his mind grasping at those tangled threads of thought, and then, beneath the frustration, the anger, he found it—a spark of something deeper. Destiny. Vastness. Purpose. This wasn't about proving that he was more than a bastard. It couldn't be. This was about becoming great and finding his place among the pages of history. That desire, ancient as the weirwood tree of Winterfell's godswood, pulsed within him and anchored the torrent of power.
The Aruvail settled.
"There." Vaelira's hand came to rest over his heart. "Now, let it flow—not as a fire out of control, but as your own breath, as steady and unyielding as the tide."
Jon took a slow, deliberate breath.
He drew the power inward, and it settled like iron within his bones. It was no longer a storm raging within. It was a steady flame. A quiet strength that hummed with the chill of Winter and inferno of the Sun. It sharpened the world around him, making everything more vivid. Each sound and each scene etched themselves into his nose and ears with startling clarity.
The Breath of the World, the Song of Passion, the Aruvail resonated within his bones, muscles, and nerves like the music of a lyre.
Mist rose around the ship.
It flowed above the dark water like some ancient, sentient monster that intended to wrap its ghostly fingers around the ship and drag it down into the murk beneath. The gray world beyond the deck disappeared. A haze that seemed to glow cast an otherworldly sheen on the water. The ships timbers groaned with a hollow sound.
Jon's breath hitched.
The air scraped his throat as if he was breathing shards of ice. It was the kind of chill that reached into the marrow, setting every nerve on edge, pulling his senses taut. The mist itself smelled faintly metallic, a hint of rust and damp earth, mingling with the salty tang of the sea. It was a scent both familiar and unnatural, as if the mist itself were infused with memories of places it had traveled through, leaving fragments of forgotten times in its wake.
Vaelira stood beside him, holding the ship's railing.
Her crimson robes shifted around her like blood swirling through water. Her silver hair shimmered even in the muted light, almost too bright against the shadowed mist. She looked more like a spirit than a woman, an apparition drawn from the depths of some arcane lore. She seemed impervious to the unease, her gaze fixed on the mist as if she welcomed it, as if it were a long-anticipated companion.
A shiver ran down Jon's spine.
The pale expanse of the mist drew his gaze as it thickened and swallowed sound and light alike. Jon wanted to turn back, to retreat below deck where the warmth and company of the older men and women in black robes—who, he had learned, were called Harbingers—and the other kids—his fellow disciples—might offer some sense of security.
He took a step back.
"You cannot go below." Vaelira grabbed his arm and stopped him in his tracks. Her violet eyes burned with dark fire and the glint of steel. "You must face this. To shy away now is to show weakness."
"The… the other disciples are down there…"
"You are not like the other disciples."
He shivered but returned to her side.
She nodded at him. "The Sunset Sea is far from a safe place to travel. Storms and sea monsters plague nearly every corner of it between the western coast of Westeros and the eastern shore of Korrakh, where we are going."
"I'm guessing they don't here?"
"This is the Path of the Mist." Her voice was less than a whisper, yet it carried a weight that resonated with the creaks of the ship and the swirling of the mist. "It is more than a route. More than fog and water. The Breath pools in a tangible form here and, thus, allows no storms or monsters passage. It will only allow those who Breathe passage and even that after it tests them."
"More tests?"
She nodded, her silver hair brushing against her robes like the quiet sweep of autumn leaves over stone. "The mist will pry into your mind, child. It will draw out what you've hidden, what you fear. If you are not prepared, it will take hold, twist your thoughts, and drive you into madness."
The words settled over him like a chill fog, each one sinking deep into his bones. He swallowed, feeling his mouth dry and tasting a hint of iron on his tongue, his stomach churning with a sudden and inexplicable fear. He turned his gaze away from her, looking into the mist, where strange shadows began to take shape, darkened forms shifting just beyond the range of his sight.
"It's not real… right?" The words felt foolish, slipping past his lips before he could stop them, but the need to understand gnawed at him.
Vaelira's lips curved faintly, though the smile held no warmth. "It is as real as doubt is real."
"Is… is that a no?"
She reached out, her pale fingers hovering close to his arm but not quite touching. "You fear what you do not know. You fear yourself. That fear is what the mist will show you."
He clenched his fists, the roughness of his skin scraping against itself, grounding him. "I don't fear myself…"
The words felt thin and hollow even as he spoke them. He wanted to believe them, to trust in the strength he'd felt only hours before, that burning ember Vaelira had helped him uncover. But here, among gleaming mist and dark water, that ember seemed small and fragile, a single flame in the face of a rising storm.
"Breathe, child." She stepped back and vanished into the mist. "Breathe and let your thoughts gather like stones against the current. Let yourself be the dam to stop the onslaught."
He gulped.
Alright, Jon… You can do this…
He took a shaky breath, feeling the air slip through his lungs, cold and weightless, carrying the taste of something old, something almost rotten, as if the mist itself held traces of long forgotten ages. His heart thudded against his chest, a drumbeat against the silence, as if to remind him of his frailty, of the flesh and bone that could so easily fail him.
The shadows in the mist deepened and darkened.
Shapes formed in the murk—the arch of a doorway, the rough outline of stone walls. Jon's pulse quickened as he recognized them, each line and shadow coming together to form something familiar, something impossible yet undeniable.
Winterfell.
The sight of it gripped him, each stone etched with memories he'd long tried to leave behind, a ghost of the life he had forsaken. He could almost feel the cold air of the northern stronghold, smell the smoke from the hearths, hear the faint murmur of voices that called him bastard.
It was his past, his blood—chains that bound him tighter than any oath, shackles he'd thought broken.
He gripped the ship's rail, feeling the rough wood bite into his palms, anchoring him in the present, but the vision of Winterfell didn't fade. Instead, it grew clearer, each line and corner sharper, as if carved from the mist itself. He saw faces now, shapes moving within the shadows—Catelyn's cold, unforgiving gaze, Robb's easy smile—that one cut deeper than he expected—and the sting of familiarity mingled with the ache of distance.
"Breathe." Vaelira's voice was a tether in the darkness, a lifeline that held him steady. "Do not let it overtake you. I have expectations from you. You will not fail me."
The vision of Winterfell blurred, shifting, turning darker, more menacing.
He saw the Weirwood tree in the godswood, its bark pale as bone, its red leaves like blood against the gray sky. The face carved into it seemed alive, watching him with ancient eyes that held secrets, promises, curses. Its stare bore down on him, silent and knowing, a gaze that saw every shadow he carried, every doubt he harbored.
The slender frame of his father ripped himself out of the Weirwood.
He stood as he had so often in Winterfell's halls, silent and somber, a tower of resolve. But his were hollow, the gray gaze dull as unpolished steel, stripped of the warmth they always bore at the sight of Jon. It was as if life itself had left his father's eyes. As if his body was no more than a puppet with no strings, unwilling to live or eat.
Then his father's head fell off his shoulders.
Jon gripped the ship's rail. The wood dug into his skin, and Jon used the pain to stave off the vision. He just had to focus and refuse the wraiths the mist chose to send at him. They weren't allowed to consume him. Whatever shape they took, they couldn't hurt him. Yet, they only grew closer, each face blurring, merging, reshaping.
A faint voice—whispered, barely audible—drifted from the shadows. "Bastard…"
The word slithered through the mist like a serpent's hiss, coiling around his heart. Another figure took shape beside his father's: Lady Catelyn, her gaze piercing, cold, as unforgiving as the North itself. Her face held that same disdain, the sharpness of her look slicing through him as she stared, silent yet accusing, a reminder of the rejection that had burned in him for as long as he could remember.
Will I ever be free of you?
No, he couldn't think of Catelyn Stark right now. He couldn't give the mist purchase in his mind. Yet, the ache of Catelyn's treatment, the old wounds that the sight of her had pried open, felt too real. Each glance and whisper she'd given him came back to him. Each time he'd imagined her accepting him. Being a mother to him like she'd been to Robb.
Is this my fate? To lose my mind to shadows and chains made of ghosts and memory?
Jon looked away from Catelyn as another figure emerged from the mist, a woman that walked with quiet grace.
Her features were delicate and ageless, and soft, muted light gleamed around her outline. Each step she took echoed like a whisper swimming on a silent wind. Her hair flowed in a soft cascade of chestnut waves, and her eyes—gray and deep as a winter's dawn—held a calm, unwavering gaze that settled Jon's scattered breath.
Who…?
She reached out and kept her hand near his shoulder, though she didn't touch him. The cool mist seemed to melt under her presence, easing its grip on his chest. For a moment, he could feel something warm coursing through him, a distant ember glowing faintly, enough to keep the ghosts at bay.
"Never fear the shadows. Never question your worth." Her voice echoed with the melody of direwolves singing a song of sorrow and death. "Never doubt how much I love you. You are my hearth and heart. You are my earth and water. You are my bronze and iron. You are my Ice and Fire."
Jon's heart clenched. "Are… are you…?"
She tilted her head, a flicker of a knowing smile in her eyes. "I am a memory."
"Please… Please tell me." He gulped, and a thousand knives struck his chest. "Please let me know you…"
"The only chains that can ever bind you are those you forge yourself." She moved closer, and the scents of wildflowers and horses lingered in the air between them. Her fingers moved to his brow, not quite touching, yet the space between them thrummed with Jon's own heartbeat. "Breathe."
Jon closed his eyes and drew in a deep, shuddering breath. His lungs filled with the cold, metallic tang of the mist. Yet, beneath it, he tasted the warmth of life and childhood and the half-forgotten melody of riding, hunting, and play-fighting with Benjen.
When he opened his eyes, the woman was gone.
The mist receded slowly, drifting back across the water, leaving Jon alone on the deck with his breath steady, the shadows of Winterfell's ghosts retreating to the edges of memory. In the clearing fog, a figure emerged—Vaelira, her crimson robes swirling like embers against the graying world, her silver hair catching what little light remained, casting her as a beacon in the fading mist.
"You did well, child." Her gaze swept over him. "Never before have I seen a disciple stay as immobile or as quite as you were."
"I…" Jon's grip on the railing loosened as he let out a long breath. "Thank you."
"What for?"
"I think I just saw my mother…"
Vaelira's eyes lingered on him, as if assessing the truth behind his words. "The mist tests each of us differently. It conjures fragments and faces—sometimes from our past, sometimes from what we fear or long for."
"She wasn't—"
"You stayed firm and didn't lose yourself in them." She nodded. "That is what matters. Whatever happiness that woman brought you… You should cherish it. Whether she was real or not matters little."
Jon glanced down, a faint warmth rising in his chest at the thought of the woman in the mist.
Could she have been real, even a fragment of something once true? The idea that he might have glimpsed his mother, or at least some essence of her, stirred a hope he hadn't felt in as long as he could remember. He kept his expression steady, cautious not to betray the longing that gripped him, though he felt Vaelira's watchful gaze. Her eyes seemed to glint as she studied him, as if sensing the weight of his thoughts, yet her face held its usual mystery, giving nothing away.
"You may go below now." Vaelira gestured at the stairs. "Rest. You have faced enough shadows for one night."
The air below deck hung thick and damp, carrying the scent of old wood and the tang of sweat, an odor that seemed to cling to the rough-hewn beams overhead. The dim lanterns cast a wavering, amber glow, and shadows stretched thin against the walls. Jon's eyes adjusted slowly, taking in the forms of the disciples scattered across the cramped quarters, each figure cloaked in dark robes, their faces veiled in half-light and wariness. Every sound seemed amplified here—the scrape of a boot, the quiet rustle of fabric—as if even the walls held their breath.
Jon kept walking.
The floor creaked beneath his weight with a dull sound that pulled a few curious glances his way. A boy near him, slight and wiry with a tangled mop of black hair, looked up from sharpening a small dagger. His gaze flickered over Jon with a mix of suspicion and reluctant curiosity before he returned to his work. Others stole glances as well, murmuring among themselves in voices barely audible, their words slipping through the air like whispers from some forgotten language.
None of them had faced the Mist.
Their eyes lingered on him, and the weight of their stares pressed down on him like stones. Each gaze felt like a challenge, a question unspoken yet hanging thick in the air. The title of outsider clung to him, unseen yet undeniable, as tangible as the salt coating his skin. He hadn't expected a warm welcome, but the intensity of their wariness unsettled him, stirring an instinctive defiance within him, a need to stand his ground.
A figure moved towards him from the far side of the room.
Jon recognized the boy from the training deck—Coren, a tall, lean disciple with sharp features and eyes the color of wet stone. Though he was younger than Jon, his presence seemed to command attention; those near him quieted, shifting subtly away as if his very approach carried a silent threat.
"So…" Coren's gaze raked over Jon. "The bastard of the North deigns to grace us with his presence."
Jon glared at him.
"Did you think coming here would make you more than what you are?" Coren smirked. The lantern light cast an auburn gleam over his face, accentuating the hollows of his cheekbones. "Did you think your blood wouldn't mark you?"
"Is that all you have to use against me?" Jon chuckled. "If you're that unimaginative, I can see why you're down here while we go through the Mist."
A murmur rippled through the disciples around them, faint as a breeze yet charged with an undercurrent of tension and anticipation.
"Careful, bastard." Coren's smirk faltered. "Out here, we're all stripped down to what we really are. Some things don't change, no matter how far you run."
"Go up on deck, then." Jon met Coren's stare. "Go and see who and what you are."
The light cast strange shadows across the faces of the other disciples, lending them a haunted, almost spectral quality as if each of them bore secrets darker than the mist outside. Whispers trailed through the air like creeping vines, snaring fragments of words and casting them into the stale warmth of the cramped quarters.
Coren's lips twisted into a sneer.
"Look at you." A pale scar ran along his cheek, splitting the flesh like a crack in stone. "A bastard thinking he's a wolf. You think your wolf's pride means something here? You think you're going to last?"
The air closed in around Jon, thickening with a metallic taste, as if it had teeth and claws. Lightning coursed through his nerves as he breathed, and liquid fire flowed through his muscles. His fingers itched to reach for the dagger he wore beneath his tunic, but he kept his hands still. He forced himself to meet Coren's eyes with a cold stare instead of a furious swipe of cold steel.
He forced himself to be as unyielding as the stone walls of Winterfell.
"You really think I'm ashamed of who I am?" Jon glared at Coren and then at the other disciples, who quickly looked away. "Being a bastard has taught me to fight harder. To stand alone when I have to. It's more strength than you know."
"Strength?" The cold light in Coren's eyes darkened like clouds before a storm. He straightened, and the lines of his posture were rigid, sharp as the steel strapped to his belt. He scoffed, glancing around as if inviting the others to join in his disdain. "Strength is knowing your place and using it to survive. You're still tethered to your old life, to a name that means nothing here. Vaelira's interest in you is… misguided."
"Like you have any idea why Vaelira does anything." The fire in Jon's chest flickered to a blaze as if a spark had found dry timber. The breath he took brought the press of salt and wood-heavy air against his lungs, and boiling water to his muscles. "Maybe your willingness to bend over backwards and change who you are is what leads her to not respect you."
Coren's hand dropped to his dagger, his fingers curling around the hilt as he took a step closer, his jaw tight with the tension of unsaid words.
The silence that followed was thick, broken only by the creak of wood and the distant slap of waves against the hull, as if the ship itself was listening, waiting. Around them, the disciples shifted uneasily, some casting glances at Coren, others watching Jon with newfound interest, their expressions flickering between distrust and reluctant curiosity.
"That's enough." A new voice, calm yet firm, cut through the charged air. One of the older disciples, a tall woman with cropped silver hair and an eyepatch over her left eye, pushed her way between them. Her remaining eye, the piercing blue of ice beneath a winter sun, swept over Jon and Coren. "You can tear into each once you're Acolytes."
Coren shot Jon a look as sharp as the edge of the dagger he was holding. Then, he released his grip on his weapon. His posture relaxed, though his gaze lingered a moment too long. He turned on his heel, moving back to his original place, his head held high as if he'd won something. The tightness around his mouth betrayed his emotions.
The silver-haired disciple motioned for Jon to follow her.
She took him to a dimly lit corner, where a few disciples sat and practiced. Their faces were intent, and their movements slow and controlled as they weaved their hands through the air in fluid patterns. Coren, across the room, sat half-shrouded in shadow, but the glint in his eyes was unmistakable.
Jon settled on the floor and leaned against the wooden wall of the chamber.
He clenched his fists and grounded himself in the subtle pressure of his fingers against his palms. His breathing steadied. His muscles relaxed. The heat and lightning flowed out of his system. Let Coren glare. Harsh words and cold glares were nothing to Jon. He'd come too far to be brought low by the scorn of another boy's insecurity.
He'd succeed in his journey, and rats like Coren would not stop him.
That's a wrap for Chapter 5!
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See you in Chapter 6!