Interlude 1 : Embers of Valyria
The air inside the Qorynys forge was a living, heavy, suffocating entity. Each breath burned the lungs with searing heat, coal smoke, and the metallic scent of old sweat impregnating the black stone walls. The Qorynys fortress in New Valyria, built deep within the mountains, did not care for beauty or delicacy. There was no polished marble, no ornamental gardens — only thick walls, narrow corridors, and the constant sound of metal being tamed by fire. It was a fortress built to endure, not to impress.
Here, fire was not merely a tool.
It was a doctrine.
Baelor Qorynys remained motionless before the main furnace, arms crossed over a thick leather apron, observing each strike of the apprentices like a hawk watches its prey. Master of Arms of the Lhaerys and the second greatest smith of his House, Baelor carried in his eyes the same hardness as the steel he shaped. The rhythm of the hammers — precise, almost ritualistic — echoed through the forge, marking time like a heart of iron.
Forging Valyrian steel had never been just technique. It was an ancient pact between fire, magic, and discipline. The metal, still in its early stage, rested incandescent on the anvil, radiating a spectral, almost unnatural glow, as if something inside it were alive and aware. Every fold had to be exact. Every cooling, calculated. One mistake, and months of work would turn to useless slag.
Baelor gave a slight gesture with his hand, and one of the apprentices immediately stepped back, sweating in silence. No words were necessary. In the Qorynys forge, mistakes were corrected before they happened.
Then a different presence made itself felt.
The hammering continued, but something in the air changed. Baelor did not need to turn to know who it was. Lord Corlys Qorynys, patriarch of the House, approached with heavy, steady steps. Corlys was an older — and even more imposing — version of Baelor and the greatest smith of the Qorynys. His gray hair was short, trimmed close to the scalp so as not to risk the flames. His arms, thick as ancient tree trunks, bore scars not from battles, but from decades before the fire. His face, permanently marked with soot, was a badge of pride, not carelessness. Even if for a noble it might not seem appropriate.
He stopped beside his brother and remained silent for long moments, observing the incandescent steel as if evaluating something beyond the metal. Then, without saying a single word, he inclined his head toward the distant Lhaerys fortress.
Baelor understood immediately.
There were matters that did not belong to the forge.
He stepped away from the furnace, wiping his hands on the apron before speaking, his voice hoarse from the constant heat.
"The goblins are impatient, Corlys. They want more than we can deliver."
Corlys let out a deep, almost restrained chuckle.
"Their impatience is an acceptable mental state for them. Perhaps the closest thing to a compliment that species can offer. They pay in pure gold and ask no questions. That is all that matters."
The agreement with the goblins — silent intermediaries who made the metal circulate through tortuous paths, many passing through Gringotts' deep vaults — had transformed House Qorynys into more than mere smiths in this world.
"And they are not the only ones," Baelor continued in a lower tone. "Other clients have appeared. From the far side of the world. The Japanese."
Corlys raised an eyebrow, intrigued.
"Those who fight with swords? I heard other countries in the East use them as well."
Baelor nodded.
"They treat our blades as if they were magic wands. They understand the potential of Valyrian steel in a way that's almost instinctive."
A rare smile appeared on his lips.
"The profit is good. Very good. But the process remains the same. At most, two Valyrian swords per month. To force more would be to profane the metal."
"And that will never happen," Corlys said firmly.
The patriarch remained silent for a moment, as if measuring the weight of what was to come. Then he leaned slightly toward his brother, his voice reduced to a grave, almost solemn tone.
"I did not come to talk about trade. It is about family. Vaelis' son… Costantin Qorynys. He has had a magical awakening."
Baelor blinked, shock breaking through his controlled expression.
"Costantin?"
Of all those he expected to have a magical awakening in House Qorynys, it was Costantin, the boy — who, let's say, lacked many of the family's usual qualities.
It surprised Baelor that he was the first to awaken magic from this world.
Vaelis, the younger brother, had always been different. Little interested in the forge, he preferred to deal with contracts, trade routes, and agreements beyond the mountains.
"A… awakening," murmured Baelor. "I did not expect this."
"It is a blessing," Corlys corrected, his pride contained. "And an opportunity. He will probably be the first Qorynys to attend one of the three great magical institutions. It strengthens our position."
Baelor nodded slowly.
"The Vharanor have already made their move. Their daughter, Rhaella, excels at Beauxbatons."
"Exactly. We cannot allow them alone to shape New Valyria's future."
The patriarch's gaze darkened for a brief moment.
"And there is the bastard. Sylara."
The name hung in the air like a dangerous spark.
"The girl will likely be summoned as well, whether they like it or not. Even with the treatment she receives. Even with Kaelan Vharanor's prejudice. Once the letter arrives, everything changes. Kaelan will come to value her. After all, despite everything, she bears the Vharanor name."
With a brief pause, Corlys continued:
"That girl, behind that frightened face, has a blade extremely sharp. They do not realize it yet, but soon they will."
Baelor took a deep breath.
"So we will have new players on the board. Costantin. Rhaella. Sylara."
Corlys observed the steel still glowing as it was removed from the furnace.
"And the fire will decide who is to be forged… and who is to be broken."
The sound of hammers returned to dominate the forge. But Baelor knew: steel was not the only thing being worked there. The future of the Valyrian Houses was beginning to take shape — folded by fire, ambition, and the magic awakening in their descendants' veins. Unlike the magic they had in Old Valyria, the new generation was born with a mixture of this world's magic and that of the old.
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Twelve years after arriving in Romania.
The sound of rain relentlessly beating against the stone windows of the fortress was constant, almost hypnotic. Thick drops ran down the darkened panes, mixing with the mist that enveloped the outer towers, as if the very sky wept for House Lhaerys. Inside the room, however, the world was reduced to something far more fragile: the weak, irregular breath of Saenra Lhaerys.
The air was cold, heavy, saturated with the bitter scent of medicinal herbs, infusions, and alchemical oils that had not worked for days. Thick curtains barely contained the damp, and the low flame of a few candles cast trembling shadows on the walls, like silent specters watching the end approach.
On the bed lay the wife of Aelarion, Lord of House Lhaerys. She was now only a pale shadow of the woman she had once been, yet still retained, even at the brink of death, the unmistakable traits of the old Valyrian aristocracy — a beauty that seemed not of this world.
Even consumed by illness, Saenra maintained an ethereal elegance. Her platinum-blonde hair, once radiant as sunlight reflected in gold, now bordered on silvery white, spreading over the pillow like lifeless lunar silk threads. Her skin, thin as ancient parchment, betrayed years of melancholy and longing, revealing the delicate bone structure of her face: high cheekbones, fine features, almost sculpted by time. But it was her eyes that still captivated — a deep amethyst violet, now cloudy, yet still carrying the secrets of lost empires and skies full of dragons.
For Aelarion, seeing her in that state was like watching a rare jewel slowly covered by the dust of time.
Twelve years had passed since they escaped the Doom of Valyria. Twelve years since fire had swallowed their homeland, its cities, gods, and pride. They fled with few survivors, crossing seas and destinies, until finding refuge in these cold, unknown lands of Romania. At first, the need to survive kept them upright. They built walls, forged alliances, and raised a New Valyria among hostile mountains.
But while Aelarion found purpose in reconstruction, Saenra slowly faded away.
She had never felt at home under gray skies and dense forests. The cold wind brought her no comfort, only longing. Melancholy nestled in her heart like a silent serpent, and her body gradually gave way over the years. After the birth of Maeric, two years ago, her fragility became evident, as if the last spark of her strength had been given to her son.
Aelarion remained by her side, holding her cold hand firmly, as if he could keep her tethered to this world by sheer will. He, who had saved his people from extinction and faced chaos and fire, now felt like the most powerless man in the world.
How could he save so many… and fail with her?
Where did I go wrong?
The guilt weighed heavier than any responsibility.
With a visible effort, Saenra turned her face toward him. Her pale lips moved with difficulty, forming words that barely cut through the room's air, but struck Aelarion like blades:
"Protect Maeric… love him for me… and for you."
Aelarion leaned immediately, clutching her hand with desperate care.
"I promise, Saenra. I swear."
She sighed, but before her final breath, another phrase escaped her lips, fragile and almost to herself, filled with nostalgia:
"One day… one day I wish to see the sky again… full of dragons… as it was in Valyria… before it all was lost…"
Aelarion squeezed her hand tighter, moved, feeling the pain and longing of Valyria reflected in that simple wish.
The moment the words were spoken, her hand relaxed. Her last breath escaped silently. Her body lay still.
And then, while Aelarion still held her hand, the world shattered.
Reality around him dissolved like ashes in the wind.
An overwhelming vision enveloped him. He was no longer in the dark room, but under a blazing sun illuminating vast, golden plains. In the sky, cutting through the clouds, flew two Valyrian dragons — and upon them, two Valyrian children.
A boy rode a golden dragon, its scales shining like living metal under the sunlight. Beside him, a girl guided a black dragon, so dark it seemed to absorb the light around it. They flew in perfect harmony, laughing, free — as Aelarion had not seen since the glory days of Valyria.
Then the vision broke.
The laughter gave way to the deafening roar of a cataclysmic battle. The sky was filled with smoke, and fire consumed the horizon in a place he did not recognize. The flames roared like living creatures. At the center of the destruction were the two figures — now young adults — wrapped in fire.
Golden and black flames intertwined around them, not consuming, but obeying. The fire seemed part of them.
The young man lifted his gaze, piercing time and destiny, and his lips moved slowly. The words echoed not in Aelarion's ears, but in his soul:
"In the flames, we hear beyond Death."
The vision vanished as abruptly as it had appeared.
Aelarion blinked, his heart racing, returning to the silent room. The rain still pelted the windows. The candles still flickered. But Saenra… Saenra was dead.
A single tear ran down his exhausted, worn face. He did not fully understand what he had seen, nor the exact weight of that prophecy, but a certainty burned in his chest like ancient fire:
The figures he had seen were the Lhaerys.
He looked at his wife one last time, feeling destiny settle upon his shoulders like enormous wings. They had survived the Doom for a reason. The world that now harbored them did not yet understand the power stirring in Valyrian blood.
But one day, it would.
And he felt, deep in his heart, that these young ones would be the first step in fulfilling Saenra's wish: to see the skies again, as in Old Valyria.
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Author's Note:
First chapter of the week, 1/2. Remember, if we reach the goal of 60 Power Stones, we'll have an extra chapter this week — we're already at 20.
Well, the interludes will serve to explain parts of the story that I ended up rushing because I wanted to get to Hogwarts quickly 😂
I'm not sure how often they will appear, but it won't be very frequent. The next chapter, we'll return to the main story.