A full month passed before the group finally emerged from the vast withered forest.
The path beneath their feet grew clearer, and on either side appeared more and more colossal ruins, half-sunken into blackened soil.
Towers that had once pierced the heavens, adorned with dragon-carved sculptures, now stood only as twisted skeletons, leaning askew toward the sky.
They had reached the outer ruins of a city that was once magnificent.
"We're here."
Jaelena tugged at Lo Quen's ash-stained sleeve, her voice low.
In their time together, Lo Quen's High Valyrian had improved quickly—well enough now for conversation.
He stopped and followed Jaelena's lead, peering into the depths of the fog ahead.
What first came into view was a colossal gate, rising like a mountain from the earth.
It was built from countless massive blocks of black stone, each etched with spiraling vortex patterns, each unimaginably vast.
The gate loomed in majesty, though time had scarred its pale surface with deep black stains.
Jagged cracks ran across its face, some thick with putrid green moss, adding a sense of eerie decay.
On either side, ancient walls of the same black stone stretched endlessly into the mist.
The walls bore the marks of devastation—pitted with impact craters, charred by fire, and ripped apart by magical blasts.
Many stretches had collapsed entirely, forming slopes of broken stone.
Yet what remained still rose tall, thick, and unyielding.
Was this the entrance to Tyria?
Lo Quen's heart trembled.
This city gate alone stood as vast and imposing as the Wall.
And this was only one city, in the northern reaches of the Valyrian Freehold.
The power and grandeur of Valyria at its height were beyond imagining.
Through the slit of her helm, Jaelena's violet eyes flicked toward Lo Quen, catching the awe written on his face.
She said nothing. She only raised her hand and pointed toward the base of the massive gate—an arched passage, narrow enough for only a handful to walk side by side.
Set into the gate's foundation, it was like a tiny wound in the body of a giant beast.
"Welcome to Tyria."
Her voice came through the visor, cold and even.
It was impossible to tell if it was welcome or decree.
They stepped out of the oppressive tunnel and into the open city.
Before them stretched a colossal street, straight as an arrow, paved with slabs of white marble cut with uncanny precision.
Even shrouded in a thin coat of ash, the stone still reflected a dim, leaden glow.
On either side rose towering structures of white stone, built in rows as far as the eye could see.
Most were square and heavy, soaring dozens of feet into the air.
Traces of repair were plain—cracks filled with lime, walls patched with newer blocks.
The Doom had shattered this place, yet the people of Tyria had rebuilt it.
As they pressed toward the city's heart, the scene changed.
The grand square towers gave way to ruin and collapse.
Mountains of marble blocks lay strewn and stacked in chaos, forming grim hills of rubble.
Walking among them, Lo Quen felt as though he were treading through a giant's graveyard, a silent testament to the catastrophe that had buried a once-glorious civilization.
"Why haven't these buildings been rebuilt?" Lo Quen asked.
Janice explained, "These were temples. In the past, Tyria's priests came here to pray and praise the gods."
"Temples? Were they dedicated to Valyria's gods?"
"All kinds. Valyria was a city-state of religious freedom. Every god in the world had a place here. Beyond the Valyrian deities, there were temples to the Lord of Light, the Seven, the Patternmakers, the Three-Headed God, the Night Lion, and even the Old Gods of the Forest, among others."
Lo Quen was struck by Valyria's inclusiveness. Perhaps this was the confidence of the Dragonlords.
After some time, the group reached the end of the Pale Giant Street.
There rose Tyria's Mage Tower—massive and dark, its base spanning two to three hundred feet across.
Its spire pierced the leaden sky, vanishing into the mist, so tall it was impossible to see where it ended.
A man's voice, laced with mockery, drifted toward them.
"Jaelena, I didn't expect you to return in one piece. Not hurt, are you?"
Lo Quen turned toward the sound.
From among a squad of red-copper-armored guards emerged a towering man, his frame immense. Like all Valyrians, he bore molten silver hair, tied neatly back to reveal his sharply cut features. At his waist hung a broad-bladed longsword with an ornate guard, its scabbard faintly glowing with runes.
Most striking was the copper-colored full plate he wore, identical to Jaelena's, its surface etched with intricate spirals and ancient glyphs.
"Spare me the pretense, Terys."
Jaelena's voice was cold as ice. "I encountered an outsider beyond the walls. I need to report him to the Bloodmage Lord."
Terys followed her gaze toward Lo Quen.
His black hair and dark eyes, so distinctly Eastern, stood out sharply amid the sea of silver and gold heads that marked the people of Tyria.
He looked Lo Quen up and down with a sneer. "Another outsider. Looks like you're built for hard labor."
"Oh, and my men spotted a chimera to the south, along with some stirrings among the Scaled Claws. Best be careful if you step outside the walls—wouldn't want you dying out there."
Jaelena's reply was icy.
Terys's face flickered with surprise, then he shook his head, voice sharp with mockery. "Sorry to disappoint you, but I won't be leaving the city anytime soon. And even if I did, I wouldn't be so easily hurt. After all, I wouldn't be dragging my sister along."
Jaelena glared at him with venom, the air between them heavy with hostility.
Just then, a pale young man in a long robe called down from the steps of the Mage Tower.
"The Great Bloodmage of Tyria, Lord Osarion, commands the outsider to enter!"
Lo Quen understood enough of the words and began climbing the steps. Jaelena made to follow, but Terys blocked her.
"The Bloodmage ordered only him inside."
Jaelena frowned, then stepped back.
Janice tugged at her arm. "Sister, he'll be all right, won't he?"
Jaelena stroked her head gently. "Don't worry. He'll come out."
But in truth, unease gnawed at her.
Terys, ever ill-timed, added, "And when he does, he'd better get to work. The city walls still need plenty of fortifications cleared. We can't do it all ourselves."
...
Following the young man, Lo Quen entered the Mage Tower.
Through a series of heavy metal doors, he came at last into a vast circular hall that made his heart pound. The stone walls were set with glowing gemstones, flooding the chamber with clear, cold light.
"Lord Osarion asks you to wait here. He will come shortly."
With that, the young man departed, leaving Lo Quen alone.
The hall was empty, bare of furniture or ornament.
Only four enormous murals adorned the black stone walls.
Lo Quen studied them closely.
The background of each was crimson.
The first mural showed countless people prostrate on the ground, bowing to seven central figures. Each wore robes of a different hue—pearl white, amber, sky blue, emerald, and deep violet. At the center towered a far larger, more imposing figure, its form split cleanly into two colors: black and white.
What were they doing?
He turned to the second mural.
On the red backdrop, people stretched their strides wide, as though running—or fleeing. Terror twisted their faces. Behind them loomed a massive black square structure, smeared with jagged streaks of red, as if dripping with blood.
Lo Quen's brow furrowed. He moved on to the third.
This one stood apart from the second, a gap of bare black stone left between them.
The scene showed silver-haired, violet-eyed figures tangled together with others wearing horned helmets, locked in obscene, grotesque poses.
He studied them more carefully. The silver-haired figures were all men. The horned ones—all women.
Was this the origin of Valyria?
His gaze shifted to the final mural.
It followed on from the horned figures, now depicting the silver-haired, violet-eyed ancestors of Valyria beneath a dozen fiery volcanoes.
Some wielded fire magic to carve stone; others used intricate tools to move heavy slabs of white marble, raising magnificent structures.
Towering, roofless spires sprouted across the city like shoots of bamboo. White temples, vast as crouching beasts, sprawled at its core. The Dragonlord Council was filled to bursting. Dragons wheeled across the skies, while slaves dug ore from the molten rivers below.
It was a vision of glory at its height.
Lo Quen stepped back, unsettled. The last two murals were clear enough, but the first two defied his understanding.
Yet one detail stood out: aside from the gap between the second and third murals, all the others were seamlessly joined.
He ran his hand across the black void, smooth as glass, its chill seeping into his skin.
Had there once been a mural here?
And if so—what had it shown?
The question whispered in his mind.
"It was the Long Night..."
The rasp of an ancient, withered voice sounded behind him. Lo Quen froze, sweat breaking across his back.
...
[Up to 40 chapters ahead for now]
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