Chapter 32: Dance of Shadows and Serpent
The last, almost silent click of the vault door's ancient bolts sliding home echoed in the chamber with the finality of a tomb sealing. For a heartbeat, an absolute stillness descended, a perfect vacuum of sound and motion. Baelon Targaryen, still feigning engrossment in the fictitious Valyrian scrolls, felt the subtle shift in the air behind him, the faintest displacement that signaled a presence entering. It was a presence that felt like a void, a carefully constructed emptiness designed to absorb light, sound, and suspicion.
His senses, amplified by Umbraxys and honed by centuries of experience, painted a vivid picture. A figure, wreathed in shadows that seemed to cling to it like a second skin, moved with a liquid grace that was both beautiful and profoundly unsettling. It was of indeterminate height and build, its form mutable, suggesting the polymorphic nature Anathos had hinted at. No discernible features were visible; it was as if a section of the night itself had detached and crept into the chamber.
Ser Corlys Vaelaros and his four Dragon Guard knights tensed, their hands gripping their sword hilts, their disciplined breathing the only faint sound betraying their awareness. They held their positions, as per Baelon's strict instructions, waiting for their King's signal, their loyalty a bulwark against the primal fear that such an entity naturally evoked.
The Voldemort soul within Baelon savored this pregnant moment, this instant before the storm. The meticulous planning, the layers of deception, the anticipation of the clash – it was an intellectual and visceral pleasure, a high-stakes game where his opponent was reputedly peerless. This Faceless Man, this self-proclaimed instrument of a many-faced god, had dared to challenge him. The arrogance was galling; the opportunity to dissect and destroy such a creature, intoxicating.
The shadowy figure glided further into the chamber, its attention seemingly fixed on Baelon's turned back and the glittering, illusory treasures on the dais. It moved with an almost balletic precision, its steps making no sound on the ancient stone floor. It was assessing, calculating, ensuring the target was indeed vulnerable, the moment truly ripe.
Baelon allowed another fraction of a second to pass, drawing out the suspense, letting the assassin commit fully to their entry, to their perceived advantage. Then, as the figure was no more than ten paces from him, he spoke, his voice calm, resonant, cutting through the silence like Valyrian steel.
"Welcome. I trust your journey through the Pyramid's less… hospitable corridors was not overly taxing?"
The Unmasking Chamber Springs Shut
The effect of his words on the shadowy assassin was instantaneous, yet subtle. There was no gasp, no startled jump. Instead, the figure simply… froze. The fluid grace became a predatory stillness, the emptiness within its core seeming to deepen, to sharpen. It had recognized the trap.
And in that same instant, Baelon acted.
With a mental command, a silent thunderclap in the arcane weave of the chamber, he triggered the primary containment wards. Golden glyphs, previously invisible, blazed into existence on the floor, the walls, the ceiling, and most crucially, across the now-sealed vault door, forming a cage of shimmering, incandescent energy. The air crackled, thick with the smell of ozone and raw magic.
Simultaneously, the illusions within the chamber dissolved. The glittering treasures vanished, replaced by the stark reality of what the "Vault of Ancients" truly was: a kill box. Concealed antechambers, previously masked by illusionary walls, irised open with grinding stonework, revealing ranks of heavily armed legionaries, their shields locked, their spears leveled. Centurion Kael and his fiercest Freedmen, their faces grim masks of vengeful anticipation, emerged from other hidden recesses, their blades already drawn, effectively cutting off any conceivable escape route within the chamber itself.
Archmaester Vaellyn's voice, triumphant and strained, echoed in Baelon's mind via the amulet: "Containment field active, Your Grace! All primary wards engaged! The entity is sealed within!"
The shadowy assassin, caught in the sudden glare of the newly activated magical lighting that banished all natural shadows, seemed to recoil slightly, its form flickering, contracting, as if the light itself were anathema. For the first time, a discernible, though still obscured, humanoid shape became more apparent – slender, of medium height, clad in tight-fitting, matte black material that drank the light.
Its head turned slowly, surveying the sudden appearance of scores of armed men, the blazing cage of golden wards, and finally, settling on Baelon, who had now turned fully, a chilling smile playing on his lips, Truth a silver whisper in his hand.
"You were expecting, perhaps, a more… private audience?" Baelon queried, his voice laced with cold amusement.
The assassin did not reply. Instead, it exploded into motion.
A Dance of Lethal Grace and Arcane Fury
The Faceless Man's reputation was not unearned. It moved with a speed that was almost impossible for the human eye to follow, a blur of black against the suddenly stark, brightly lit chamber. It didn't try to breach the main door, clearly recognizing the power of the wards sealing it. Instead, it flowed towards the nearest group of legionaries, not in a direct charge, but in an evasive, weaving pattern, seeking an opening, a weakness.
Two small, dark projectiles, like obsidian shards, flicked from its hand, aimed with deadly precision at the eyes of the foremost legionaries. Ser Corlys Vaelaros, anticipating such a move, roared, "Shields! Eyes!" His own blade flashed, deflecting one of the shards, which shattered against the stone wall with a puff of acrid green smoke. The other found its mark, and a legionary screamed, clutching his face, before collapsing.
"Impressive reflexes," Baelon commented, almost conversationally, even as he unleashed his own power. He gestured, and a torrent of pure, white-hot arcane fire, hotter than any dragon's breath, erupted from his outstretched hand, aimed not to incinerate the assassin immediately, but to herd it, to restrict its movements, forcing it away from his soldiers and towards the center of the chamber.
The Faceless Man twisted in mid-air, contorting its body with impossible agility to avoid the direct blast, though the edges of its shadowy cloak seemed to sizzle and fray. It landed silently, already spinning, and a near-invisible monofilament wire, unspooling from a device on its wrist, lashed out, aimed at Centurion Kael's throat.
Kael, a veteran of countless pit fights, reacted with brutal instinct, dropping to one knee and bringing his heavy axe up in a defensive arc. The wire sparked against the enchanted Ghiscari steel, then recoiled. But the assassin was already using the move as a feint, pushing off the wall and launching itself towards a section of the ceiling that seemed, for a moment, to shimmer with a different kind of shadow.
"Umbraxys! It seeks an ascent!" Baelon mentally commanded.
The shadow dragon, an unseen but overwhelming presence, acted. The very air in that section of the chamber thickened, becoming a viscous, tangible darkness. The assassin, halfway to its objective, slammed into this invisible barrier as if hitting solid rock, its momentum carrying it downwards. It landed, for the first time, with a slight, audible thud, a testament to the force of Umbraxys's intervention.
Before it could recover, Baelon pressed his attack. He chanted a complex Valyrian incantation, his voice resonating with power, and the golden glyphs on the floor around the assassin pulsed violently. Chains of pure magical energy, crackling with lightning, erupted from the floor, attempting to ensnare the assassin's limbs.
The Faceless Man was a whirlwind of evasion. It moved like smoke, like water, its form seeming to momentarily lose cohesion to slip between the lashing chains. Several chains passed right through it, as if it were not entirely solid. One, however, managed to snag an ankle.
For a split second, the assassin was anchored.
"Now!" Baelon roared.
The legionaries surged forward, spears jabbing, swords flashing. Kael, with a bellow of rage, brought his axe down in a scything blow. But the Faceless Man was not so easily caught. With a soundless, violent wrench, the figure seemed to detach itself from the ensnared ankle – not by breaking the chain, but by its own limb appearing to momentarily dissolve into shadow and then reform, leaving behind only a wisp of black smoke and the scent of cold ash where the chain still held a fragment of… something.
This act of unnatural dismemberment and regeneration, accomplished in the blink of an eye, stunned even Baelon's hardened soldiers.
"Sorcery!" one of the mages cried from the amulet link. "It is not merely skill, Your Grace! Its form is… mutable! Unnatural!"
"Indeed," Baelon murmured, his eyes narrowed in fascination and cold fury. The tales were not exaggerated. This was a creature of profound, alien capabilities.
The assassin, now free, pressed its own desperate counter-attack. It didn't attempt to engage the mass of soldiers directly. Instead, it became a phantom, darting through their ranks, its movements too quick, too unpredictable for coordinated defense. A legionary here would suddenly collapse, a single, almost invisible needle protruding from his neck. Another would scream as a corrosive liquid, flicked from the assassin's fingertips, ate through his armor and flesh. It used the legionaries themselves as moving shields, its objective clearly to sow chaos and find a weakness in the containment.
Baelon, frustrated by its elusiveness and unwilling to risk too many of his own men in a chaotic melee, decided to escalate. "Umbraxys, bind it in shadow! Suffocate its light!"
The temperature in the chamber plummeted. The magical lights flickered violently as Umbraxys truly began to manifest its power. Tendrils of absolute darkness, colder than the grave, thicker than starless night, erupted from the floor and walls, seeking to engulf the Faceless Man. These were not mere illusions; they were constructs of pure shadow-magic, capable of crushing, of suffocating, of draining life itself.
The assassin, for the first time, showed a visible sign of distress. Its shadowy form seemed to dim, to shrink, as the tendrils of Umbraxys's power wrapped around it. It thrashed, its movements losing some of their impossible grace, becoming more desperate.
Baelon seized the opportunity. He strode forward, Truth gleaming in his hand, his eyes blazing with arcane light. "You have danced long enough in my shadows, creature of Braavos! Now, face your unmasking!"
He lunged, his Valyrian steel blade aimed not for a killing blow, but to shear away the cloying shadows that served as the assassin's cloak and, perhaps, its very face.
The Serpent and the Void
The clash was immediate. The Faceless Man, even constricted by Umbraxys's shadow-tendrils, met Baelon's attack with a pair of short, wickedly curved blades that seemed to appear from nowhere, their edges shimmering with a faint, sickly green luminescence – poison, undoubtedly.
Sparks flew as Valyrian steel met the assassin's enigmatic weapons. The Faceless Man fought with a desperate, silent fury, its style a whirlwind of deflections, feints, and lightning-fast counters. It was clear this entity was not just a master of stealth, but a supremely skilled martial artist, its every move economical and lethal.
Baelon, however, was more than its match in pure swordsmanship, augmented by his centuries of experience and his unnatural strength and speed. But the assassin's true weapon was its terrifying unpredictability and its seemingly mutable form. Several times, Baelon's blade should have found purchase, only for the assassin's body to ripple, to become momentarily insubstantial, allowing the blow to pass harmlessly through.
"You cannot fight a shadow with steel alone, Dragon King!" a voice suddenly hissed, seeming to come from all around them, yet also directly from the struggling figure. It was a sibilant, genderless whisper, cold as the grave, and it carried an undercurrent of mocking defiance. The assassin spoke.
"A shadow that bleeds is no shadow at all," Baelon retorted, pressing his attack, his own magic now weaving around his blade, causing Truth to glow with an inner fire, anathema to creatures of darkness.
He feinted high, then brought Truth around in a devastating low sweep. The assassin, anticipating a direct magical assault, tried to phase again, but Umbraxys, at Baelon's silent urging, tightened its shadowy grip, making the assassin's form momentarily more… solid.
Truth connected. Not deeply, but it drew a ichorous, blackish substance from the assassin's leg. The creature let out a soundless gasp, its movements faltering for a fraction of a second.
In that instant, Larys Strong, who had been observing with predatory stillness from a newly opened vantage point, acted. He raised a small, intricately carved dragonbone crossbow, a weapon Baelon himself had gifted him, and fired. The bolt was not aimed to kill, but was tipped with a potent alchemical mixture developed by the Royal Academy, designed to disrupt magical cohesion and force transfiguration.
The bolt struck the assassin squarely in the shoulder.
The effect was dramatic. The shadowy aura around the Faceless Man flickered violently, like a dying flame. Its form spasmed, and for a heart-stopping moment, it seemed to solidify, to become truly, unequivocally… female. A young woman, her face pale and contorted in pain, her eyes wide with shock and fury, visible for less than a second before the shadows surged back, attempting to reassert their hold. But the image was burned into Baelon's mind, and Larys's.
"The child of dust and whispers…" Baelon breathed, a grim triumph in his voice. Helaena's prophecy, however mad, had once again proven true.
The assassin, its disguise compromised, its physical form perhaps truly injured for the first time, seemed to realize its position was untenable. It let out a piercing, unnatural shriek that resonated not in the ears, but directly in the minds of everyone in the chamber, causing a moment of disorienting pain.
In that moment of confusion, it did something utterly unexpected. It drove one of its own poisoned blades deeply into its own side.
A Desperate Exit, A Lingering Clue
Baelon, Ser Corlys, and even Kael recoiled in momentary shock at the act of self-impalement. Was this a final act of defiance? Suicide to prevent capture?
But as the assassin crumpled, its form dissolving rapidly into a roiling cloud of black smoke, Baelon realized its intent. The smoke was not dissipating; it was coalescing, then imploding inwards with a sickening lurch that warped the light and air around it.
"It's a transference, Speaker!" Umbraxys hissed in Baelon's mind. "A sacrificial escape! Its life-force… it's being drawn elsewhere!"
The containment wards around the chamber flared, straining against an immense, unseen pressure. One of the glyphs on the far wall, one specifically designed to detect teleportation or dimensional shifting, shattered with a deafening crack, showering the area with sparks.
And then, as quickly as it had begun, it was over. The black smoke vanished. The Faceless Man was gone.
A stunned silence descended upon the Unmasking Chamber, broken only by the groans of the injured legionaries and the ragged breathing of Baelon's men. The scent of ozone, cold ash, and the faint, sickly sweet aroma of the assassin's poison hung heavy in the air.
Baelon stood panting slightly, not from exertion, but from the sheer intensity of the confrontation. His gambit had succeeded, in part. He had faced the Faceless Man. He had forced it to reveal a sliver of its true nature, its gender, its desperation. He had wounded it. But it had escaped.
Ser Corlys rushed to his side. "Your Grace! Are you harmed?"
Baelon waved him off, his gaze fixed on the spot where the assassin had vanished. "Only my pride, Ser Corlys. It seems the rats of Braavos have more than one bolthole." He looked at the shattered glyph. "It escaped via a method that overwhelmed a Valyrian teleportation ward. Impressive. Costly, too, I imagine, given the self-inflicted wound and the energy required."
Larys Strong approached, his face grim. "We have a partial image, Your Grace. A young woman. Dark hair, pale skin. Her eyes… they were full of a fanatic's light. And this…" He held up a small, almost invisible shard of dark, obsidian-like material, presumably from one of the assassin's projectiles that had shattered. "And the bolt from my crossbow. It drew blood. Blackish, viscous. Not entirely human, perhaps."
Baelon nodded slowly. "The unmasking was incomplete, but not without fruit." He then noticed something on the floor where the assassin had self-emancipated its ankle from the magical chain. A tiny object, overlooked in the chaos. He bent and picked it up.
It was a coin. Small, ancient, made of a dark, oily-looking metal he didn't immediately recognize. One side bore the unmistakable, multi-faceted symbol of the Many-Faced God. The other side, however, was more intriguing. It depicted a kraken, but a kraken with nine arms instead of the usual eight, its tentacles entwined around a submerged, barnacle-encrusted skull.
"A drowned city's coin," Baelon murmured, recalling Anathos's words. But this was no Valyrian Baqalion. This was something else. Something older, perhaps. Something linked directly to their god, and now, directly to their escaped agent.
He closed his fist around the coin, its edges biting into his palm. The Faceless Man had escaped his immediate trap, but they had left behind more than just questions. They had left behind a trail. A trail that Baelon Targaryen, the Serpent King, would follow, even if it led him into the deepest, darkest waters of Braavosi deceit. The dance was far from over. It had merely changed venues. And the next steps would be taken on Baelon's terms, with a vengeance sharpened by this night's revelations.