Dawn in Valyria brought no comfort
The sky, tinged with a sickly crimson, cast its radiance over the ruins as if the entire city were burning under an eternal fire. Amid fractured columns and statues of forgotten gods, the group moved forward with a steady stride. Behind them, the first tower sank into shadow, its silence broken only by the distant hissing of the worm that had stalked them.
Vaemor led the way, his Valyrian steel sword drawn. Its weight felt familiar, almost as if the blade had been forged for his hands. Beside him, Kaelyth kept her gaze fixed on the horizon, her spear ready. The others followed cautiously, weapons drawn and senses heightened.
"It seems the entire continent is dead," Zaryon murmured softly.
"Dead does not mean empty," Aerys replied gravely. "You saw the worm."
Maekor spat on the blackened ground. "If we encounter another like that, we will not flee. This time, we will split it in two."
No one answered. What they needed was not courage, but prudence.
The path to the second tower was unmarked. They advanced through cracked streets where the stone seemed melted by fire, and the shadows of once-proud buildings loomed over them like petrified specters. Occasionally, they crossed open spaces: plazas where statues of dragons stood watch, their jaws agape, blackened by time and heat.
Aerys paused before one of the statues; its violet eyes reflected the red light of dawn.
"They were not just ornaments," he said. "They were guardians. The ancient Valyrians placed them at key points, places of power."
"Well, they're just rocks now," Maekor snarled. "And none of them will save us if something attacks." Vaemor didn't let the conversation drag on. "Keep walking."
They hadn't gone far when something found them.
Daenyr heard it first: a crunching sound, like bones breaking under something heavy.
"Did you hear that?" she asked, gripping her sword tighter.
Before anyone could answer, they emerged from the rubble. Small creatures, slender and covered in gray scales, with yellow eyes and razor-sharp claws. They were the size of large dogs, but moved like packs of wolves.
"Drakelings?" Kaelyth ventured.
"No," Aerys said, taking a step back. "They're remnants. Deformities of what was once Valyrian life."
The first attacked without warning, launching itself at Zaryon. He barely raised his sword in time when its claws grazed his shoulder. Another slashed at Maekor, who responded with an axe blow, cleaving it in two with a snarl.
Vaemor didn't hesitate. He stepped forward and drove his Valyrian sword into one of the creatures, slicing it like soft flesh. The monster screeched—a high-pitched cry that echoed through the ruins.
They were fast. Coordinated. Not mindless: they moved with purpose.
"Stay together!" Vaemor shouted.
The battle lasted only a few minutes, but the strain exhausted them. When the last creature fell, its skull crushed by Kaelyth spear, the group stood silent, panting.
"It was no ordinary ambush," Aerys said, cleaning his sword. "They were hunting us."
Vaemor studied the deformed corpses. Their bodies bore remnants of molten armor plates, fused to their skin: a grotesque reminder of what Valyria had been. "There will be more," he said.
They saw the second tower at dusk.
Across a rubble-strewn expanse, it rose like a dark finger pointing at the blood-red sky. There were no doors, only an open entrance that seemed to beckon them… or challenge them.
The air around the tower was warmer than anywhere else. Each breath felt like inhaling hot coals.
"I feel this tower watching us," Zaryon murmured uneasily.
"It's not the tower," Vaemor replied. "It's Valyria."
No one argued. They knew he was right.
Before entering, they rested. A small fire crackled with the remains of charred wood, and they ate in silence. No one was hungry, but they needed strength.
"Do you think the next ritual will be like the last?" Kaelyth asked.
Aerys shook his head. No. Every tower is different. What they seek is to change us. To transform us into what we must be.
The words hung heavy in the air. No one refuted them.
As night fell over Valyria, they entered the tower.
The air inside was stifling. The walls were covered with ancient runes, glowing faintly as if a dormant force coursed through them. In the center, once again, the black stone altar awaited them.
Vaemor was the first to advance.
We will do this together. As before.
He placed his hand on the altar, feeling the burning heat sear through his skin to the bone. The others followed suit.
The pain came, intense, raw, as if the flames themselves were seeping into their veins. None of them cried out. They knew they shouldn't.
When the heat subsided, the six fell to the ground, exhausted, trembling.
Vaemor looked up and saw something new in them: their eyes, once gray or brown, were beginning to tinge with shades of lilac and violet. The change continued.
"We are closer," he murmured, barely aware of what he was saying.
But the hiss, the same hiss of the fireworm, echoed in the distance. They were never alone.