During the reign of the Bloodmage, this was his private dominion, full of hidden secrets.
Climbing the spiral staircase, they saw the outer wall of the tower had been nearly destroyed by Lo Quen's Dragonfire, leaving the blackened interior exposed.
The sisters were shaken, able to imagine how fierce the battle must have been.
They reached the second level.
This floor was mostly intact, its walls lined with niches. Each niche held a black candle, about a foot long.
The candles were made of a strange material—like polished black glass, or perhaps a deep crystal—gleaming faintly in the dimness, as if absorbing light itself.
"Glass candles," Lo Quen recognized. "Valyrian sorcerers used them to send messages across great distances, to glimpse distant sights, and even to enter the dreams of others."
He exhaled Dragonfire, golden-red flames lashing at the black wick. But the candle stayed cold and unyielding, not even releasing a wisp of smoke.
"Since the Doom, no glass candle has ever been lit again."
Janice shook her head.
"Perhaps lighting them requires a specific blood magic ritual, or..." Lo Quen mused, "the uncontrolled eruption of Valyrian blood magic corrupted the very source of these creations."
They continued upward.
The third level was a vast storeroom, the air heavy with the dusty scent of dried plants.
Bundles of ghost grass were stacked into small mountains, bound tightly with tough vines. It was clear the Bloodmage had ordered Tyria soldiers to gather them endlessly from the deadly ruins.
The fourth level was a sealed dark chamber, lit only by thin shafts of daylight filtering through vents high in the walls, making torches necessary.
Massive stone tables were crowded with glass jars and bottles of different sizes, filled with strange, bubbling liquids—some dark red like blood, some thick and murky as sludge, others glowing with a sickly green light.
A faint but lingering scent of iron, like old blood, hung in the air. This was clearly another place where blood magic and terrible experiments had been carried out.
In the corners lay fragments of bones, their origin unrecognizable.
The next few levels were the apprentices' quarters. They gave them only a glance before moving on.
At the tenth level, they stopped.
A much heavier door, forged from black iron, sealed one of the rooms.
Its lock was a complex mechanism, with faint traces of magic still clinging to it.
The three exchanged a glance. Whatever lay within was something the Bloodmage had guarded closely.
Lo Quen had no patience for lockpicking.
He gestured for the sisters to step back, then opened his mouth and unleashed Dragonfire.
The blazing golden flames seared the lock directly. Under the terrible heat, the black iron glowed red, softened, and melted.
With a heavy clang, the bolt fell to the floor.
Lo Quen kicked the door open. It crashed inward with a thunderous boom, sending dust swirling.
Inside was a narrow study.
Books, ink, and papers lay scattered across the desk.
Against the wall stood a glass-fronted bookcase displaying nine silver trays. Each was engraved with a flying dragon motif, but every tray was empty.
Lo Quen lifted one of them, his brow furrowing.
If his guess was right, these trays should have held...
"Look, it's the wizard's journal!" Janice lifted a heavy tome and began to read:
Experiment 313: Sacrificed one Tyria resident and one wizard apprentice in an attempt to awaken a black dragon egg fossil. The egg cracked open, revealing a dead, scaled maggot. Failure. Suspected cause: the resident's bloodline was cursed and tainted...
Experiment 314: Sacrificed an outsider and one wizard apprentice in an attempt to awaken a green dragon egg fossil. The egg shattered in flames. Failure. Suspected cause: the outsider's bloodline was impure...
As they listened to the cold, brutal entries, shock was all that remained on their faces.
The Bloodmage had used living people as sacrifices to hatch dragon eggs!
Not just outsiders, but the very residents of Tyria!
His claim that captives were made to clear ruins was nothing but a lie—it was all to gather offerings for sacrifice!
"No wonder he told us to bring outsiders from the ruins back to Tyria..." Jaelena's voice shook with fury. "After working only a few days, they'd 'disappear.' We thought they'd been infected and burned away by Firewyrms... but they were taken for sacrifice! And worse, he didn't even spare Tyria's own people!"
All she felt was a deep, bitter sense of betrayal.
Lo Quen stared at the bloodstained notebook, his heart aching.
This madman had desecrated dragon eggs! Hundreds of experiments had nearly exhausted the reserves.
Then Janice pointed to the following page. "Look here!"
Lo Quen and Jaelena leaned in. The Bloodmage's scrawl read:
Nine high-quality dragon egg fossils, reserved as backups, not yet used for experiments.
Lo Quen's heart leapt. Nine more! He immediately looked toward the nine empty silver trays in the bookcase.
Were they meant to hold them? But where were the eggs?
As if hope itself had been rekindled, the three began searching the cramped study from top to bottom.
They overturned books, checked beneath the desk, tapped along the walls for hidden compartments.
Time slipped by, but all they found was dust and scattered papers.
"It won't be that simple," Lo Quen said.
His eyes stayed on the notes until a sudden thought struck him. "This was written after the 314th experiment. The next number is 315... The tower is three thousand feet tall—what if the answer lies on the 315th floor?"
Jaelena and Janice exchanged a glance. "The 315th floor? That should be the very top, shouldn't it?"
Lo Quen smiled. "Don't forget—I'm a dragon."
Without hesitation, he left the room. Leaping from the broken outer wall, he transformed mid-air into a dragon and shot skyward.
He had replenished much of his Magic in the Ghost Grass storeroom, enough to sustain another transformation.
One hundred floors... two hundred... three hundred...
He soared to the summit—the 315th floor!
The wizard's tower stood at precisely 315 levels, no more, no less.
Hope burned in his chest.
He glanced at the charred remains of the chimera on the rooftop platform, then shifted back into human form and stepped into the top chamber.
There was no lock on the door.
In the center of the room stood a solitary, large chest.
Lo Quen approached and lifted the lid.
A shadow, swift as lightning, burst from within and lunged at his face.
Startled, Lo Quen felt the Dragonblood within him surge. His instincts took hold, and he spat a torrent of Dragonfire.
A concentrated jet of golden flame shot forth like a high-pressure stream, instantly engulfing the attacking shadow.
From within the blaze came a piercing, inhuman shriek, mingled with the sizzling of burning flesh.
The creature, wrapped in fire, slammed into the stone wall and dropped to the ground with a heavy thud, curling into a smoldering, blackened husk.
Breathing hard, Lo Quen steadied himself and fixed his eyes on the charred remains of his attacker.
It was about a foot long, its body shaped like a scorpion. But instead of a stinger at the tip of its tail, there was a human face—burned beyond recognition, yet still twisted with hatred and agony. Its grotesque form was enough to make the skin crawl.
A Manticore Chimera.
Lo Quen cursed his carelessness.
Even in death, this Bloodmage sought to ensnare the living.
He looked back into the chest. No further traps remained.
At the bottom, resting on a thick layer of black velvet, lay nine oval objects.
Nine dragon eggs.
Or rather, nine dragon egg fossils.
Their shells were covered in fine, hard, scale-like ridges, but they had lost all vitality, dulled into the texture of stone.
Even in the dim light, nine distinct colors were clearly visible: silver, blood red, purple, bronze, dark red, sea blue, light green, gray-brown, and yellow-brown.