The results were a graveyard of digital sirens. Blue hyperlinks promised high-definition glory, but the URLs looked like alphabet soup. Elias clicked the first one. A wall of "Allow Notifications" pop-ups slammed into his screen like a dragon hitting a stone tower. He swiped them away, teeth gritted.

The screen flickered one last time, displaying his bank account balance dropping to zero, redirected to a server in a country he couldn't pronounce. Elias stared at the black screen, the reflection of his own panicked face staring back.

Then he saw it: a massive, pulsating green button that said .

Elias paused. Even in his desperation, he knew a video file shouldn't be an .exe . But the "RSKG" tag—the mysterious digital signature he’d been chasing—felt like a secret handshake. He double-clicked.

The screen didn't show the shores of Dragonstone. Instead, his desktop icons began to dissolve, melting into rows of scrolling green code. A single window popped up in the center of the screen, written in a font that looked uncomfortably like ancient Valyrian.

A grainy image appeared on his screen. It was a live feed of his own room, but filtered in a deep, blood-red hue. Sitting on the couch behind his digital reflection was a figure in a hooded, charcoal cloak—the kind worn by the silent sisters of Westeros. Elias spun around. The room was empty.