The ruined docks of Valyria loomed ahead, a stark reminder of a lost empire. The three ships, Prongs, Moony, and Padfoot, groaned as they pulled alongside the decaying stone piers. Once, these docks must have been bustling with life—merchants shouting prices, dockworkers hauling goods, dragonlords disembarking in splendor. Now, they were abandoned, silent save for the whispers of the wind through shattered buildings and broken archways.
Hadrian stepped off the Prongs first, his boots touching ancient stone covered in layers of soot and dust. His dark cloak billowed slightly as he took in the sight before him. The city was massive, sprawling into the distance, its ruins half-consumed by the blackened earth. Here and there, melted stone bore witness to the fury of whatever catastrophe had befallen Valyria. Entire buildings had collapsed into themselves, their structures twisted unnaturally, as if the very ground had boiled beneath them.
The Smoking Sea had been treacherous, a labyrinth of jagged rocks and unseen currents. Even with a map and his own magic guiding them, the journey had been slow, tense. The sea itself had an unnatural stillness, yet it churned beneath the fog, as if something ancient and angry lurked beneath the surface, watching them. The mist was thick, clinging to the ships like ghostly fingers, making it impossible to see more than a few feet beyond the hull. Shadows moved in the fog—illusions, tricks of the mind, or something else entirely.
Hadrian had led the way, standing at the bow of the Prongs, his staff pressed against the deck as he reached out with his magic, feeling the water, sensing the rocks hidden just beneath the waves. More than once, he had called out sudden directions, guiding the fleet away from unseen dangers. The map was useful, but it was old, unreliable. He had trusted his instincts more than ink on parchment.
And now they were here, standing at the edge of the dead empire.
Behind him, Riff and Toff followed, along with a handful of his men. They fanned out across the docks, cautious yet eager. There was no telling what remained of the once-mighty city, no way of knowing what treasures—or horrors—might lurk beneath the layers of ash and time.
Hadrian turned to his two companions. "Split up. Search the ruins. Riff, take five men and search those buildings near the port. They could have been warehouses or storehouses. See if anything remains. Toff, check the harbor master's office. If this was a major port, there might still be records, valuables, something worth retrieving."
The two nodded, each selecting five men to accompany them before setting off in opposite directions. Hadrian, however, would go alone.
Something about this city called to him.
Riff and his men moved quickly, stepping over broken cobblestones and ducking beneath archways that had partially collapsed. The buildings closest to the dock were large and sturdy, their walls thick, built to store goods for trade.
Inside, the air was stale, untouched for centuries. Riff lit a torch, its flickering light revealing the remnants of an age long past. Barrels, now covered in dust and cobwebs, stood stacked against the walls. Many had rotted away, their contents spilling onto the floor in unrecognizable heaps. But some had endured, sealed tightly against time itself.
One of the men pried open a barrel with his dagger. A pungent smell filled the air—something fermented, but still liquid.
"Wine?" one of the men guessed.
"Maybe," Riff said, examining the deep red liquid. He had no desire to drink something this old, but if it had survived, it was valuable.
They moved deeper into the warehouse, searching through crates, trunks, and forgotten chests. Among the decayed goods, they found something remarkable—swords, their edges dulled by time but still gleaming faintly beneath the dust. Those were steel, but others something far rarer. Riff's breath caught as he ran his fingers over a blade that had not rusted or dulled, its dark surface humming with an unnatural sharpness.
"Valyrian steel," he whispered.
The others murmured in awe. Weapons of legend, said to be forged with dragonfire and magic. Even one of these could fetch a kingdom's ransom.
Meanwhile, Toff and his men had discovered the harbor master's office—a grand, half-collapsed structure with a domed ceiling that had partially caved in. The interior was lined with shelves, though many had crumbled. Documents lay strewn across the floor, their ink faded, their words lost to history.
But there was more than parchment here.
In an adjoining chamber, likely a treasury, they found a cache of gold, silver, and gemstones, scattered as if someone had tried to flee with them and failed. The coins bore unfamiliar markings, Valyrian script winding around the edges. These had once been the currency of an empire, now rendered useless except as relics of history.
"Take what we can carry," Toff ordered, though his voice was quiet, reverent. "Lord Hadrian will want to see this."
Hadrian moved through the ruined streets alone, his staff clicking against the blackened stone with each step. He felt it—something here was calling to him. It was not a voice, not words, but a presence, like the remnants of a great storm lingering in the air.
Ahead, through the swirling mist and falling ash, he saw it—a massive estate, its walls cracked but still standing, its gates rusted but intact. It had once been beautiful, no doubt the home of some Valyrian noble, perhaps even a dragonlord.
The grounds stretched wide, what had once been a lush garden now reduced to barren wasteland. The soil was grey, lifeless, covered in a thick layer of soot. Statues, half-melted and unrecognizable, lined the pathway leading to the main entrance. Once, they had likely been figures of power—dragonlords, gods, ancestors. Now, they were twisted, broken things, their faces lost to fire and ruin.
The mansion itself was a marvel, despite its decay. Three great manor houses formed a triangle around the estate, their structures still imposing despite the centuries. Guardhouses lined the perimeter, though their watchmen had long since turned to dust.
And in the center, rising above it all, stood a tower.
Or what remained of it.
Hadrian's eyes trailed upward, taking in the spiraling structure that reached toward the sky. It had once been taller, but the top had collapsed, its broken remnants scattered across the courtyard. Even in ruin, it was a masterpiece of architecture, its base formed from fused stone, its walls carved with intricate Valyrian runes.
As he stepped through the front gate, he felt it—magic.
It was faint, buried beneath layers of time and destruction, but it was there. His staff pulsed in response, the wood warming in his grip.
Hadrian stilled, closing his eyes for a moment. Something in this place still held power.
And he was going to find it.
As the ashen wind whispered around him, he took his first step into the estate, unaware of what awaited him in the heart of Valyria's ruins.