The void split.
No sound could name the tearing of reality that followed — not thunder, not wind, not even the wrath of gods. It was older than any voice that had ever spoken, a silence so profound it screamed across the planes of existence. Through that fracture, a shape fell — shrouded in shadow and wrapped in the memory of stars.
The descent carved a wound into the sky itself. Fire followed in his wake, painting the heavens with streaks of molten red that rained down upon the Smoking Sea. The impact came moments later — a cataclysm that split stone and sea alike. When the tremors faded, the land itself seemed to shudder in recognition.
From the heart of the crater, the Nameless One rose.
Ash clung to his form like a cloak. Around him, molten rivers crawled through the blackened ground, lighting the ruins of Valyria with a dim, hellish glow. The air was thick with smoke and whispers — as though the land still remembered what it had once been, and what it had lost.
Even without memory of this realm, he knew where he stood. Its name drifted to him unbidden, as if carried by the ashes themselves.
Valyria.
The once-great Freehold — cradle of dragons, empire of flame, and now, a tomb of hubris.
He looked around, his eyes two cold voids reflecting the burning world. Obsidian towers jutted from the earth like broken fangs, half-submerged in rivers of lava. The air shimmered with residual magic — raw, wounded, and unstable. Every breath carried the faint metallic tang of death and the ghostly cries of those who perished in the Doom.
"How fitting," he murmured, voice echoing softly in the dead air. "To fall where the world first learned to burn."
A wisp of amusement touched his lips — faint, fleeting. He began to walk, each step steady and deliberate.
The ground trembled underfoot as if recognizing him. Shadows stretched toward him like worshippers to a forgotten god. His darkness stirred — not summoned, but alive — coiling and uncoiling in ripples of obsidian mist. It drank from the lightless sky, whispered to the dead soil, and crawled through the ruins in search of memory.
He passed the wreckage of ships that had once dared to cross the Smoking Sea — their hulls warped, their crews now little more than ash and bone. Expedition after expedition, devoured by time and madness.
He paused beside a half-buried corpse, its armor fused to its flesh, a sword still clutched in skeletal fingers. With a gesture, a tendril of shadow flowed from his hand, wrapping around the remains. The metal, the bone, even the faint echo of the man's soul — all sank into the void.
"The greed of men," he whispered. "Eternal, even in damnation."
He moved on.
Each step took him deeper into the heart of the fallen empire. The landscape shifted from ruin to something darker — ancient architecture half-swallowed by molten stone, archways inscribed with glyphs that pulsed faintly in defiance of death. The air was alive with whispers, faint remnants of sorcery that refused to die.
At last, the Nameless One came upon it: a vault of Valyrian steel, its enormous doors warped but not broken. The sigils etched upon its surface glimmered faintly, as though aware of his presence. Even shattered by the Doom, the craftsmanship was magnificent — a final testament to Valyria's arrogance.
He placed his palm upon the door. For a moment, it resisted, vibrating with a low, mournful hum. Then it screamed.
Darkness spilled from his hand like a living ocean, flooding over the steel. The symbols flared once in protest before being swallowed whole. A soundless pressure filled the air, and the doors bent inward like paper before being devoured entirely.
Inside lay a domain of splendor and sin — the hidden treasury of the Dragon-lords. Mountains of gold and silver glimmered beneath the dull glow of dying enchantments. Crystals pulsed faintly, lighting the chamber in shades of red and violet. Helms, crowns, and blades of impossible craftsmanship were scattered like the bones of gods.
He stood amid it all, silent. The treasures whispered to him, as though remembering the hands that forged them, the wars they funded, the empires they built and broke.
Then, he lifted his hand. The darkness moved.
It poured forth like a tide, sweeping through the chamber. Gold tarnished, jewels dulled, relics crumbled — all sinking into the shadow that birthed them. When the last echo faded, nothing remained. The air was colder, emptier.
"Wealth," he said, almost gently. "A lie that outlives its believers."
Turning deeper into the vault, he found another door — smaller, but unblemished. Unlike the rest, it hummed faintly with life. Even through the steel, he felt the pulse of something ancient — something waiting.
He extended his hand once more. Shadows spiraled out, wrapping around the door like serpents. Metal dissolved under their touch.
Inside, the darkness gave way to a soft, reddish glow. The chamber was small, circular, lined with carvings of dragons and flames. At its center rested a single dragon egg, enormous, perfect, alive.
Its shell shimmered with veins of molten gold, and beneath them, a faint rhythm — a heartbeat.
The Nameless One stood motionless. The shadows around him stilled, as if even they dared not disturb what slept here.
For a long time, he simply looked — expression unreadable, eyes reflecting the faint light that pulsed from the egg's shell.
"Still breathing," he whispered at last. "Even after the world has burned."