Chapter 11: Echoes of the Past, Fires of the Future
A Rift in the World (Circa 4,800 BC)
Centuries had passed since the Great Other's defeat, since the Wall rose, and since the Valyrian Freehold began its terrifying ascent from the distant east. My vigil on the Isle of Faces, intertwined with the profound consciousness of the Old Gods, had given me a unique perspective on the world's unfolding fate. I saw the rise and fall of petty kingdoms in Westeros, the shifting tides of the Andal invasion, and the horrifying, yet undeniably potent, expansion of the dragon-riding Valyrians. Their conflicts with the old Ghiscari Empire, fought with legions of brick-hard men against winged fire, were distant, yet distinct, echoes in my aetheric senses. I watched them raze Old Ghis to the ground, sow its fields with salt – a brutal display of power, a testament to mortal ambition unleashed by unnatural might.
My gaze, however, was pulled from these worldly machinations by a more subtle, yet profoundly compelling, anomaly. Far to the south-east, deep within the heart of Aethelgard, the vast, verdant continent I had mapped centuries ago, a disturbance began to bloom in the aether. It wasn't the slow, creeping decay of the Great Other, nor the volatile, destructive pulse of Valyrian dragon-fire. This was… different. A familiar dissonance. A tear.
My Asuran heart, which had known millennia of profound, solitary peace, suddenly quickened. A spatial anomaly. My own displacement had been a tear. Could it be…?
I took to the skies, my fully manifested Asuran form shimmering in the high atmosphere, cloaked by aetheric illusions that rendered me invisible to any mundane perception below. The journey was immense, spanning continents and oceans I had mapped in solitude. As I neared the source, the aetheric signature grew stronger, a persistent ripple in reality. It was a wound in space, bleeding subtle energies into this world.
I descended into Aethelgard's deepest jungles, a place of immense, primal mana, untouched by significant human presence. The tear was a shimmering, almost invisible crack in the air, barely larger than my hand, but it pulsed with an impossible pressure. My aetheric senses screamed with recognition. This was a direct, albeit unstable, connection to my own reality.
The Impossible Reunion
I pushed my hand through the tear, aether flowing from my core to stabilize it, to prevent it from tearing wider or collapsing entirely. And then, I felt it. A presence. Two presences. Familiar. Unmistakable.
With a final, desperate surge of will, I tore the rift open just enough. From within, two figures tumbled out, landing roughly on the jungle floor.
My breath hitched. My heart, an Asuran's heart, pounded with a ferocity I hadn't felt in millennia.
"Princess! You always know how to make an entrance, don't you?"
The voice was unmistakable. Sarcastic, profound, utterly irreplaceable. Regis. He picked himself up, brushing off imaginary dust from his shadowy form, his crimson eyes glowing with their characteristic mischief.
And then, I saw her. Lying beside him, disoriented but stirring, was Ceara. Her auburn hair, once bound in a practical braid, was disheveled, her familiar armor scuffed. She groaned, pushing herself up, her amber eyes fluttering open. When they landed on me, wide with disbelief, a silent gasp escaped her lips.
"Arthur…?" Her voice was a fragile whisper, laced with shock and a profound, raw emotion.
I knelt, my massive Asuran form suddenly feeling strangely vulnerable. "Ceara. Regis." My voice was thick, unfamiliar with such raw emotion. I reached out, my hand trembling slightly, not for her, but for Regis, who promptly solidified enough to whack my leg playfully.
"Took you long enough, Princess. We've been bouncing around like stray mana beasts since… well, since everything went to shit." Regis glanced at Ceara, then back at me. "Looks like you had a slight growth spurt, though. Last I checked, you were more 'scrawny human' than 'scaled demigod'."
Ceara, now fully upright, stared. Her eyes swept over my Asuran features, my scales, the sheer raw power that pulsed from me. "Arthur… what are you?" she whispered, her voice barely audible.
"It's a long story, Ceara," I managed, a faint smile touching my lips. "A very long story. It seems we were all… displaced. Thrown into different corners of reality after the war." I looked at Regis, my bond with him thrumming, stronger than any aetheric current. "It's good to see you both. I thought… I thought I was alone."
Regis scoffed, circling my massive form. "Alone? Please, Princess. Did you really think you could get rid of me that easily? Besides, I needed someone to talk to for the last few centuries. Ceara's a good listener, but she lacks a certain… panache when it comes to sarcastic commentary."
Ceara, surprisingly, gave a soft, watery laugh. "Centuries? What are you talking about?"
"Another long story," I repeated, my gaze sweeping over the endless jungle around us. "But for now… you're safe. And we're not alone anymore."
The reunion was not just a solace, but a profound shift. For millennia, I had been the sole conscious link to my past life. Now, two crucial anchors had returned. The very presence of Regis, his sarcastic quips and unwavering loyalty, grounded me in a way I hadn't realized I needed. Ceara, with her steadfast nature and practical mind, offered a different kind of stability. The "three horny trio," as Regis would undoubtedly dub us, was reunited, albeit in a world far removed from our own, ready to face whatever came next.
Wars from Afar and the Rhoynar
As Ceara and Regis slowly processed their new reality – my transformation, the vast timeline that had passed, the very existence of Westeros and its fledgling cultures – I continued to monitor the broader world, sharing what I knew. The Valyrian and Ghiscari Wars had largely concluded, the dragonlords utterly dominant, Ghis razed to the ground, a chilling testament to the power of dragons and the hubris of empire. I explained the brutality of their conquests, the horrific reality of their slavery, the sheer, destructive force they wielded.
"They're a volatile force," I explained to Ceara, who listened with grim fascination. "Their magic is powerful, but rooted in fire and blood, a chaotic, dangerous energy. The Old Gods of this world perceive them as a disruption to the natural balance."
Then, a new conflict began to flare. The Valyrian and Rhoynar Wars. This was a clash of civilizations, not just empires. The Rhoynar, a river-faring people with a reverence for water magic, stood in stark contrast to the fire-wielding Valyrians. I observed the growing tensions, the raids, the eventual full-scale invasions. The Rhoynar, though numerous and magically potent in their own right, were simply outmatched by the dragons. I foresaw their inevitable migration, their desperate flight across the seas, a scattering that would eventually bring them to Westeros, albeit in a time far from my current presence.
Regis, ever the astute observer, chimed in. "So, Princess, these dragon-riders seem to be the biggest problem child on the block. You going to smack them down, or what?"
"My purpose here is to protect the world from a greater, existential threat," I replied, glancing at the distant, shimmering glow that marked Valyria. "But understanding their power might be crucial. Their forging techniques… the way they imbue steel with magic… it's something I need to see firsthand."
Ceara looked at me, a flicker of concern in her eyes. "Going into the heart of a dragon-riding empire? Sounds like a suicide mission, Arthur."
"Not when I have a sassy talking weapon and a sharp-witted battlemage with me," I countered, a rare, genuine smile touching my lips. "Besides, I won't be going as a conqueror. Just a curious observer."
Into the Dragon's Den: Unveiling the Blade's Secrets
Our journey to Valyria was a meticulous process of stealth and observation. My aetheric camouflage ensured our invisibility, even from the keen eyes of dragons. We settled on the periphery of the Freehold, observing their society, their magic, their terrifying power.
My focus, however, was on their forges. Through countless hours of unseen observation, I witnessed the Valyrians' intricate smithing processes. It wasn't merely high heat and skilled hammering. It was a complex ritual, involving blood sacrifice, draconian fire, and intricate spells woven into the very molecular structure of the metal. Their magic, tied to their dragons, flowed into the steel, giving it its impossible sharpness, its lightness, its unique ripple pattern, and its inherent enchantment.
I observed with a detached, almost academic interest. I did not need their "blood magic," a primitive and crude application of mana manipulation to my understanding. Nor did I need their dragons to replicate, or even surpass, their results. My Djinn heritage and aetheric mastery allowed me to see the fundamental principles of their enchantment – how energy was fused with matter, how properties were imbued at a molecular level. It was a less efficient, more volatile version of what my Aether could accomplish with ease.
I didn't learn their methods to emulate them; I studied them to understand their limitations and the underlying principles that my own powers could far outstrip. In secret, within hidden, aetherically-shielded caverns beneath the Valyrian peninsula, I experimented. Using concentrated aetheric intent and my elemental fire deviant, refined to temperatures and pressures that dwarfed draconian breath, I began to forge. My blades didn't merely absorb enchantments; they were created from pure aether, infused with durability, sharpness, and protective qualities that made Valyrian steel seem like common iron by comparison. I could alter atomic structures, imbue permanent conceptual properties. I was not replicating Valyrian steel; I was creating something fundamentally superior, aether-forged weapons that hummed with a power unknown to this world.
"So, Princess, you're learning how to make glorified butter knives now?" Regis quipped one night, watching me forge a shimmering blade, its very edge glowing with an inner, ethereal light. He immediately recognized the difference. "Wait, no. That's… that's 'cut through anything, even a dragon's ego' kind of knife. Impressive."
"It's about understanding the core mechanics of magic in this world," I replied, turning the blade over in my hand, its weight perfect, its balance flawless. "Knowledge is power, Regis. And understanding their 'magic' confirms just how primitive it is compared to Aether. If I so chose, I could unravel this entire peninsula with a single thought." My gaze swept over the distant, fiery glow of Valyria, a silent, stark truth in my words. "But that is not my purpose. Not yet."
Ceara, pragmatic as ever, whistled softly. "Well, that's certainly reassuring to know. Especially if these dragons ever decide to cross the Narrow Sea. We'll have more than just dragonglass to greet them."
The thought of Valyria's dragons ever coming to Westeros was a chilling one, but now, it felt less like a threat and more like a potential nuisance. My time in the wider world had come to a close. Westeros, my adopted home, called to me once more, its fate still waiting for its Master. We turned our faces westward, towards the familiar chill of the North, our purpose clearer, our bond rekindled. The game had just grown infinitely more complex, and I, Arthur Leywin, finally had my companions back.