"Is this magic?"
Frowning at the strange energy that had abruptly appeared in his vision, Darean murmured to himself.
This was not something he could ask someone else to verify.
Opening his Book of Strange Script again, Darean immediately found those few lines.
Yes, the rest of the book was completely blank.
Even these few words had only recently "grown" there on their own.
After carefully reading the sentence describing the rewards, Darean pondered:
"The revival of the Magic Tide accelerated... if I remember correctly, the world's magic began to revive once the little queen hatched her dragons in Essos, but calling that a Magic Tide wouldn't quite fit."
"So, most likely, they don't refer to the same thing."
"Accelerated by 1.2 hours, but without a countdown, what use is knowing that number?"
"And the intensity of the final White Frost decreased by one percent..."
"Leaving aside how this thing understands percentages, the White Frost will arrive along with the revival of the Magic Tide."
"In that case, this probably won't just be something on the level of the White Walkers' Night's King. The timing doesn't match, and it hardly warrants a description like 'final.'"
"After all, how much of a problem could something be if a Dragonglass dagger could solve it?"
"Lastly, there's the matter of magic concentration."
"Now I understand. What increased probably wasn't my own magic!"
Darean had originally worried that the book was spouting nonsense, but now mysterious, indescribable magic floated around him. That was proof enough.
Unfortunately, he could only control the tiniest trace of it.
He could do nothing with it.
Was it useful?
As good as nothing!
He had no idea how to activate that Sharpness Spell for enchanting weapons, either.
Damn it, there's no one to teach me!
With a self-mocking smile, Darean continued organizing his thoughts:
According to the book, his task was to follow its "instructions" and accomplish certain things to avert the final crisis brought by the White Frost.
Hmm? That description feels familiar.
But for the moment, Darean could not remember where that sense of déjà vu came from.
Forget it. It doesn't matter. I'll understand eventually.
For now, what Darean needed to do was continue being a good lord to these hundred-odd people.
The Book of Strange Script's direction was clear. Perhaps before long, he would learn what was written in the second section of the prologue, Green Lands.
"My lord, your tent is ready."
Having changed out of his heavy armor but still wearing a lighter suit, Clayson Hightower walked over the soft earth to Darean's side.
Darean gathered his thoughts, turned to look at his loyal guard captain by the light of the campfire, and smiled.
"Relax. Don't be so tense. Just find some brave men to form patrols tonight. You all need enough rest."
Clyson nodded slightly. Knowing his lord put on no airs, he offered no insincere pleasantries.
"My lord, you should rest first. But please be careful. It's best not to let your guard down too much."
Darean understood what Clyson meant, so he patted the sword hilt at his waist and replied:
"Don't worry. This will be right beside my bed."
He called it a bed, but it was really just a stone slab covered with a thick pile of gathered wild grass.
Had his father been traveling, they might actually have carried a mattress along for him.
But when Darean left Sunflower Hall, he would rather have brought more food or essential tools than touched such useless things.
He lifted his tent flap. A House Hightower guard stood just outside.
Whatever else might be true, he, Dareon Hightower, was a legitimate member of House Hightower's direct line. Even though he had effectively been "exiled" from the Hightower, Baelor Hightower, as the heir, had still assigned him some men from collateral branches and veterans as guards.
Even covered in dust, noble blood shone as brightly as the moon in the night sky.
Just as a lion could not tolerate its offspring falling into a Direwolf's grasp, even if that cub did not please the lion king.
This was House Hightower's honor, and it could not be sullied!
Slowly closing his eyes, Darean let darkness envelop him as he considered tomorrow's construction plans.
Yet just as drowsiness was about to steal his consciousness, a cacophony of shouts suddenly thundered against his eardrums.
What was happening?
Before he could work out the situation, a sudden sense of danger made Darean's hair stand on end, and he twisted sideways, springing off the grass bedding.
The next instant, a crudely made arrow tore through the tent and buried itself right where Darean had been resting.
Cursing inwardly, Darean snatched up his sword with his right hand and whipped off its scabbard.
There was no time to put on his highly protective full plate armor. Darean could only hurriedly pull on a suit of leather armor.
Just as he finished dressing, the tent flap lifted, and the guard posted outside shouted urgently:
"My lord, we're under attack!"
Darean immediately asked:
"Who? Where are they coming from? How many?"
The guard was clearly no raw recruit. There was little panic on his face as he spoke rapidly:
"We don't know who they are. They came from the south. There aren't many, only twenty or so. Captain Clyson has already taken men to engage them."
Seeing the arrow embedded in the bedding, a flicker of lingering fear crossed the guard's face.
"My lord, it isn't safe here. The people are retreating north. Go with them. We'll deal with these men and then join you."
Hearing that, Darean wanted to kick him.
Retreat, in the pitch-black night, instead of keeping the people where they were?
One wrong move, and the retreat would turn into a rout!
Knowing he could not waste time, Darean shoved the man aside and rushed straight out of the tent.
Sure enough, beneath the bright moonlight, a dense mass of figures was retreating toward the north of the camp in disordered steps.
"You, go find the patrols we organized, right now. Join them and tell the people it's my order: there are enemies to the north as well. They must hold their ground. Reinforcements are already on their way."
The guard tried to say something else, but Darean wasted no more words on him and kicked him hard enough to send him stumbling:
The young lord roared:
"Stop wasting words! Carry out my orders!"
Finally remembering the status of the man before him, the guard reluctantly agreed.
Spotting the Essos warhorse nearby, restlessly pawing the ground with a forehoof, Darean paid his subordinate no further attention. He quickly untied the reins and swung into the saddle.
If his guess was right, the pirates from that afternoon had probably doubled back to attack them.
His dozen or so guards were already caught up in the fighting. If they could not win or pull out, it would all be over.
With the violent pounding of his heart, faint magic slowly gathered in silence.
The warhorse gave a long neigh and galloped toward the open ground to the south.
Before you continue