The Free Cities had not changed-but I had.
When our ship docked in Lys, word had already spread. Sailors whispered of a black-winged beast soaring over the Smoking Sea, its roar loud enough to wake the drowned gods. Most dismissed it as madness brought on by bad wine or sunstroke.
But I knew the truth.
Xyron stayed hidden in the hills beyond the city, his presence cloaked beneath dense jungle and ancient caves. He hated cities. I could feel his unease through the bond-a smoldering irritation that mirrored my own.
Lys was soft. Beautiful, yes, but decadent and bloated. Its nobles still obsessed over perfumes, pleasures, and profit. To them, Valyria was a graveyard-distant and irrelevant.
But that would change.
I returned to the estate I had left months ago. The servants gasped when they saw me. Some fell to their knees. Otherys followed behind, his hand never straying far from his sword. He didn't trust this place, and neither did I.
Inside, Lord Caldarus-a merchant prince and my former benefactor-waited.
He rose from his cushioned seat, eyes narrowing. "You've returned. And you bring… fire."
He said it not with fear, but interest.
I gave him a single nod. "Valyria lives."
A long silence passed between us. Then Caldarus motioned to the guards. "Leave us."
When we were alone, he poured wine with trembling fingers. "Tell me what you found."
I didn't tell him everything. Not about the Keeper, not about the ancient power I felt sleeping beneath Valyria's bones. But I told him about the egg. About the Vault. About Xyron.
He listened in stunned silence, and when I finished, he only said, "You'll start a war."
I met his gaze. "Then let it burn."
-----
That night, as I stood on the balcony overlooking the sea, I felt Xyron stir. He was dreaming-of flight, of fire, of the great sky that stretched beyond even Valyria's reach.
And I felt something else too.
Watching.
Not a man. Not a beast. Something older.
A memory, perhaps.
Or a promise.
Behind me, Otherys spoke. "You've drawn eyes, Rhaegis. From across the Narrow Sea. From Westeros. From Essos. Some worshippers. Some enemies."
"I know."
He hesitated. "What now?"
I turned to him. "Now we gather strength. Gold. Steel. Knowledge. The flame has returned, Otherys. We must decide whether to hide it…"
My eyes drifted back to the dark sky.
"…or wield it."
-----
Chapter Title: Wyrm and Flame
The days that followed were a flurry of whispers, meetings, and veiled threats. The word had spread faster than wildfire—a dragon had been seen. And not just any beast, but one with eyes like molten gold and fire that glowed white with a kiss of green.
Xyron.
Some scoffed. Others sharpened their knives.
But the smart ones? The ones who remembered what dragons meant to the world? They began to move.
-----
In the dead of night, I left Lys with Otherys and a small company of trusted sellswords. Our destination: Valysar, another Free City, lesser known, once home to a cadet branch of House Velaryon. In its hidden archives, it was said, rested the remnants of Valyrian war-magic and sea-dragon lore long thought lost.
I didn't go seeking glory. I went to learn how to win.
The journey was quiet. Xyron shadowed us from the sky, distant and unseen save for the occasional gust of unnatural wind. When we arrived, the city's outer lights shimmered against the waves-but the deeper we rode into its narrow streets, the more I felt it.
Something was watching.
Otherys noticed too. "We're being followed."
"I know," I muttered.
We were intercepted at the gates of the old Velaryon estate by a cloaked man with pale skin and eyes the color of frozen sapphire.
"You tread on forbidden ground," he warned.
I dismounted. "I have come for the Scroll of Thiraxes. I know it's here."
He stared at me. "Only dragonlords may read it."
"I am a dragonlord."
The man said nothing-but he turned and opened the gate.
-----
The Scroll was older than anything I'd ever seen. It was wrapped in cloth of faded crimson, sealed with obsidian wax marked by a sigil I didn't recognize. When I broke it open, the very air seemed to hum.
Valyrian glyphs swam across the parchment, written in flame-ink that shifted with the candlelight. It spoke of bindings, of soul-bonds, of rituals used to awaken not only dragons, but ancient weapons forged in fire and blood.
It spoke of Daemonfire Blades-swords that fed on the strength of the rider, and grew more powerful the closer they were to their bonded beast.
And it spoke of a name long buried: Thiraxes the Devourer.
A dragon once too great, too wild, even for Valyria.
Slain not by sword, but sealed in chains of red steel deep in the Shadow Lands.
-----
As I finished the Scroll, I knew what I had to do.
There were more relics out there.
More truths.
If Xyron was to become the greatest of his kind-and I the truest heir of Valyria-I would need every scrap of knowledge, every rune, every spell that the world had forgotten.
I looked to Otherys.
"We sail again."
"To where?" he asked.
My voice was low. Steady.
"To the ends of the world."
-----
Shadows In The East
The wind howled across the open deck of the Ashen Wing as we sailed eastward. Behind us lay Valysar, the ruins still smoldering from the battle. Before us, only uncertainty and whispers-of the Shadow Lands, Asshai, and the forgotten horrors that dwelled in the mists beyond.
Xyron flew overhead, a streak of crimson and silver against the twilight sky, his molten eyes scanning the sea like a god reborn. He had grown faster since Valyria, more willful, more aware. Our bond had deepened-sharpened by blood and fire.
Otherys leaned against the railing beside me, his gaze fixed ahead. "The men speak of nightmares," he said. "Of cities that never see the sun. Of things that crawl beneath the ground, drinking the minds of men."
"Let them speak," I replied. "We're not sailing into stories-we're sailing into truth."
He gave a dry laugh. "That's what worries me."
-----
We reached the port of Samarra two weeks later. It was the last true harbor before the lands men feared to name. Traders here wore lacquered masks, spoke in hushed tones, and sold maps scrawled with warnings instead of names.
It was there I met Tessaro the Black, a scholar-or what passed for one this far from civilization. He wore robes of dark silk and his teeth were filed to points. Yet his mind was sharp, and he spoke Valyrian as fluently as any Maester of Oldtown.
"You seek the Dagger of Ashes," he said, pouring black tea into cups carved from obsidian. "A relic forged not with flame, but with shadow. It is not a weapon of men. It kills not the body-but the soul."
I nodded. "And where is it kept?"
Tessaro smiled, his eyes glittering like polished jet. "You must pass through the Veil of Screams. And only those who walk the path of the flameborn may survive it."
I placed a pouch of starlight sapphires on the table. "Then tell me how."
-----
The Veil ofScreams was not a place, but a passage-a long, winding canyon choked in black fog and whispers. As we passed through it days later, Otherys staggered and vomited twice. The crew behind us wept, cursed, or turned back.
I did not.
Because the deeper we went, the more the whispers began to speak in Valyrian.
"You are not the first."
"You will not be the last."
"But you are closest to what was lost."
At the canyon's heart lay a shattered temple built into the bones of a dead leviathan. And there, surrounded by twisted statues of dragons and faceless gods, was the blade.
Curved like a scythe, black as midnight. It pulsed with a life of its own.
As I reached for it, a voice-the same that had spoken in the Vault of Embers-returned once more.
"Claim the blade… and take the next step toward the First Flame."
My fingers closed around the hilt.
The Dagger of Ashes was mine.
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