The scroll burned in Lysander's grip.
He stood atop the Tower of First Light, the predawn wind whipping his stolen cloak like a war banner. Below, Valyria Prime stretched in all directions—a sprawl of obsidian towers and blood-soaked plazas, where the scent of sulfur clung to everything like a lover's perfume.
Lady Sylanna Belaerys had vanished into the smog-choked streets, leaving only the echo of her dragon's wings and the weight of her proposal.
Steal a dragon egg.
From the Temple of the Fourteen Flames.
Madness.
Yet the dagger at his belt—Daekar's stolen blade—thrummed in agreement, its Valyrian steel singing a song only he could hear.
"Quest Accepted: 'The Egg Thief'"
Objective: Infiltrate the Temple of the Fourteen Flames within 3 nights
Reward: Valyrian Steel Forging Secrets (Basic)
Penalty for Failure: Death by Dragonfire
Lysander exhaled sharply. First, I need allies.
I. The Forge of Fools
The Belaerys Smithy wasn't hidden.
It stood in the heart of the Artisan's Quarter, a sprawling complex of volcanic stone where the air shimmered with heat. Dozens of slaves toiled at the forges, their backs scarred by whip and flame alike. The master smiths wore masks of polished bronze—not to hide their faces, but to reflect the fury of the fires they commanded.
Lysander approached the gates with the confidence of a man who belonged. The guards—hulking brutes in soot-stained leathers—crossed their spears.
"No Vaelarys whelps allowed," the larger one growled. "Lord Belaerys' orders."
Lysander smiled. "Tell your master his new apprentice has arrived."
He flipped the scroll at them. The wax seal—a dragon coiled around a sword—made the guards blanch.
Inside, the heat was a living thing. It clawed at Lysander's lungs with every breath, thick with the stench of molten metal and charred flesh. At the central forge, a figure hunched over an anvil, hammering at a blade that glowed white-hot.
"You're late."
The smith didn't look up. His hands—what remained of them—were a ruin of scar tissue and twisted flesh. Two fingers on the left, three on the right. The rest had been claimed by the fires.
"Galvarro the Maimed," Lysander said.
The smith finally glanced up, his eyes like chips of flint behind his bronze mask. "Aerion Blackscale. Or should I call you 'kinslayer' now?"
Lysander ignored the jab. "Lady Sylanna said you'd help me."
Galvarro snorted. "She said I'd tolerate you." He lifted the blade—a shimmering length of folded steel that seemed to drink the light. "Know what this is?"
"Valyrian steel."
"Wrong." The smith plunged the blade into a barrel of black liquid. The resulting steam smelled of burnt hair and lightning. "This is failed Valyrian steel. The kind that gets men like me killed."
He tossed the cooled blade to Lysander. The metal was beautiful—rippled like a stormy sea—but something about it felt... incomplete.
"System Analysis:
"Material: Folded Volcanic Alloy (Incomplete Fusion)
"Flaw: Missing Blood Magic Catalyst"
Galvarro leaned close. "Steal me an egg from the Temple, and I'll teach you the secret. Fail, and I'll feed your corpse to my forge."
II. The Witch of the Black Cells
The Pits of Oros stank of despair.
Lysander descended the spiral staircase carved into the volcano's flank, each step taking him deeper into the bowels of Valyria. The air grew thicker, hotter, until every breath tasted of ash and iron.
At the bottom, past the cells where rebellious slaves were left to starve, he found her.
Xara of the Burnt Tongue.
The fire-witch sat cross-legged in a circle of salt and bone, her lips sewn shut with threads of silver. When she saw Lysander, she smiled—and the threads melted.
"Little dragon," she croaked. "Come to bargain with the damned?"
Lysander tossed her a pouch of stolen spices. "I need your help."
Xara cackled, her teeth filed to points. "To steal from the Fourteen? Even I am not so mad."
"Not steal." Lysander crouched, meeting her milky gaze. "Swap."
He produced the lump of volcanic rock from his satchel—a near-perfect replica of a dragon egg, carved by a Tyroshi sculptor who now slept with the fishes.
Xara's grin widened. "Ahhh. The old game." She pressed a clawed hand to the stone, whispering in a tongue that made Lysander's ears bleed. The rock shivered, its surface taking on an eerie sheen.
"For three hours, it will fool all but the dragons themselves." She licked her cracked lips. "My price?"
Lysander knew what she wanted. He rolled up his sleeve.
The witch's teeth sank into his forearm, drinking deep. When she pulled back, her eyes were no longer milky—but dragonfire orange.
"Warning: Blood Pact Formed"
"Effect: Xara's Mark (Unknown Curse)"
III. The Faceless Merchant
The Street of Whispers never slept.
Lysander moved through the crowd like a shadow, his hood pulled low. The replica egg weighed heavily in his satchel, wrapped in layers of stolen silk. Ahead, the Temple of the Fourteen Flames loomed—a nightmare of black stone and writhing dragon statues.
"You'll never get past the guardians."
The voice came from a hooded figure leaning against a spice cart. His face shifted as Lysander watched—one moment a young Lysene sailor, the next an old Pentoshi merchant.
"System Alert:
"Entity Detected: Faceless Presence"
Lysander kept walking. The figure fell into step beside him.
"For the right price, I could get you inside."
"And what's your price?" Lysander muttered.
The merchant's smile showed too many teeth. "A memory. The one you cherish most."
Lysander thought of Rome—of standing on the Capitoline Hill at dawn, the city spread before him like a conquest waiting to happen.
"No."
The merchant sighed. "Pity. You'll die, then."
As if on cue, the ground trembled. From the Temple's highest spire, a shadow detached itself—a dragon, its scales black as sin, its eyes burning like coals.
Guardian of the Temple: Vhagar the Wrathful
The Faceless Man melted into the crowd. Lysander stood alone as the dragon's gaze found him.
"Quest Update:
"Temple Infiltration: Commence or Abort?"