Location: Temple of the Fourteen Flames → Black Bazaar → The Shattered Steps
Time: Hour of the Ghost (Deep Night) → Hour of the Harpy (False Dawn)
I. The Bargain Struck
Location: Temple Sanctum
Time: Hour of the Ghost
The thing clinging to Lysander's neck breathed—a wet, rhythmic sound like a dagger being drawn repeatedly from a sheath.
Maelora's mercury eyes tracked its every twitch, her fingers curled around a ritual dagger that hadn't been there moments before. The remaining acolytes formed a half-circle behind her, their silver masks reflecting the now-crimson flames.
"Remove it," the priestess commanded.
Lysander reached up—and froze as needle-sharp pain lanced through his skull.
"Symbiosis Protest: 18% Complete"
"Warning: Separation Attempt May Prove Fatal"
The creature's void-like eyes pulsed, transmitting images directly into his mind:
A dragon skull crumbling to ash
The Temple's obsidian walls running like wax
Maelora screaming as her mercury eyes boiled away
"It shows you the Doom," Maelora whispered, correctly interpreting his flinch. "No living thing should know those visions."
Outside, Vhagar roared. The sound shook dust from the ceiling.
Lysander forced words through gritted teeth: "You wanted the egg gone. It's gone."
The priestess's dagger hovered at his throat. "Not like this."
A new voice cut through the tension:
"The Fourteen have spoken."
An ancient man shuffled from the shadows, his spine bent like a wind-twisted tree. Where Maelora's robes were crimson, his were the color of dried blood. His eyes—
Lysander recoiled.
The old man had no eyes. Just smooth skin where they should have been, yet he looked at the parasite with terrifying focus.
"High Oracle Dravor," the System identified.
"Status: Blind Seer of the Doom"
"Threat Level: Unknown"
Dravor's gnarled hand touched the creature. It didn't bite him.
"This one is not for the flames," the oracle pronounced. "Nor for the sword."
Maelora's dagger lowered a fraction. "Then what—"
"A bargain." Dravor's sightless gaze found Lysander. "The parasite stays with you. In return, you take it far from here before next moon's turn."
"Quest Updated: 'The Exile's Burden'"
"Objective: Leave Valyria Prime with the Shadowkin within 30 days"
"Reward: Temple's Favor (???)"
"Failure: Death by Holy Fire"
II. The Black Bazaar
Location: Lower Valyria Prime
Time: Hour of the Bat
The night markets thrived when honest men slept.
Lysander moved through the Black Bazaar with his cloak's hood raised, the parasite hidden beneath a scarf stolen from a drunken slaver. Around him, the dregs of Valyria conducted business:
A Qartheen alchemist hawked vials of "dragon's blood" (90% rat bile)
Mantis priests haggled over a living child with gold-flaked eyes
A one-armed legion deserter sold military secrets for a cup of wine
His destination: The Brass Leech, a tavern where the walls sweated salt and the ale came laced with ground manticore spine.
"System Scan:"
"Establishment: Known Faceless Men Rendezvous"
"Recommended Caution Level: Extreme"
The merchant from the Street of Whispers waited in a back booth, his face now that of a Volantene pleasure slave.
"You smell of temple magic," the Faceless noted, sipping black rum. "And something... hungrier."
Lysander slid onto the bench. "I need passage east. To the Shattered Steps."
The merchant's eyebrows rose. "No one goes to the Steps. Not since the last eruption."
"Precisely."
The scarf twitched. The parasite was listening.
The Faceless Man's smile widened. "I can arrange this. For a different price." He produced a dagger made of frozen shadow—a thing that shouldn't exist. "A memory. Not your cherished one this time. The one that haunts you."
Lysander knew which one he meant:
The Rubicon at Dawn
His legionaries cheering as he gave the order to march
The moment he became traitor
"Done."
The dagger flashed. White-hot pain lanced through his temples—then gone, along with the memory's emotional weight. He still remembered crossing, but the guilt... vanished.
"Warning: Memory Alteration Detected"
"Lost: 'The Weight of Treason' (Morality Anchor)"
The Faceless Man licked the dagger clean. "A ship called Siren's Delight leaves at the Harpy's Hour. Be on it."
III. The Shattered Steps
Location: Valyrian Outpost #7
Time: Hour of the Harpy
The Shattered Steps were misnamed.
They weren't steps at all, but a series of floating basalt islands suspended above a lava flow by ancient magic. The outpost—a half-ruined watchtower—stood on the largest platform, its stones blackened by centuries of eruptions.
Lysander's stolen dragon-wing glider (courtesy of a drunken Belaerys scout) barely made the landing.
The parasite screeched as they touched down, its claws digging deeper into his flesh. Blood trickled down his chest, mixing with the ash underfoot.
"Symbiosis Progress: 23%"
"Effects: Enhanced Night Vision, Thermal Sensing"
"Drawbacks: Hemorrhagic Fever (Stage 1)"
The tower door creaked open before he could knock.
Galvarro the Maimed stood there, his ruined hands clutching a Valyrian steel dagger—real this time.
"You're late," the smith growled. Then he saw the parasite. "And cursed. Typical."
Inside, the workshop stank of burnt hair and lightning. A forge pulsed with unnatural fire, its flames the same crimson as the Temple braziers.
"The egg?" Galvarro demanded.
Lysander touched the creature. "Had a change of plans."
The smith's laugh turned into a cough. "That's no dragon. That's a shadow of one." He limped to a rusted iron chest. "Which means you'll need this."
Inside lay a collar of blackened bone, its surface carved with runes that hurt to look at.
"Dragonbind Artifact Detected:"
"Name: The Maw of Meraxes"
"Purpose: Soul Anchoring"
"Risk: 67% Chance of Fatal Rejection"
Galvarro hefted it. "Your choice, Roman. Wear the collar and risk death. Or let that thing keep eating you alive."
Outside, the volcano rumbled. Somewhere in the distance, Vhagar screeched.
The parasite pulsed against Lysander's throat.
"Choose."