The flame danced upon his extended palm, a small domesticated sun that did not burn his flesh. Ethel contemplated it with renewed fascination while remaining seated on the edge of his bed. The first lights of dawn filtered through the latticed windows, casting geometric patterns across the polished marble floor.
"A phoenix," he thought, closing his fist and extinguishing the flame. "A mythical creature even in this world."
Three days had passed since his death and resurrection in the marketplace. Three days of feverish introspection while his body finished healing completely. The physical wound had disappeared, leaving only a pinkish scar that faded a little more each day. But the wound in his understanding of the world—and of himself—remained open, festering with questions for which he lacked answers.
He rose and walked toward the polished bronze mirror that rested upon an ornate pedestal. The reflection that met his gaze appeared the same: the face he remembered from his previous world, though now more defined by months of physical training and austere nourishment. The same eyes, the same bone structure. And yet...
"What am I really?"
He brought a finger close to the reflective surface, tracing the contour of his face without touching the metal.
"I am not human. At least, not completely anymore."
The thought should have terrified him, but strangely he found it liberating. If he was no longer limited by the restrictions of human mortality, then what other barriers were illusory? What other "impossibles" could he challenge?
He vividly remembered the sensation of death: the initial cold, then an expansive warmth, and finally... nothing. An absolute void that was neither darkness nor light, simply absence. And afterward, the fire. An inner fire that had rebuilt his flesh, reanimated his heart, returned breath to his lungs.
"It was not R'hllor," he understood with sudden clarity. "It was my own power. My own nature manifesting in the critical moment."
The understanding brought with it a wave of vertigo that forced him to sit down again. If his resurrection had not been the work of the Red God, but of his own intrinsic nature, then the implications were staggering. He was not simply a chosen one, a champion, or an avatar. He was something entirely different, something that perhaps this world had never seen before.
A phoenix in human form. A living contradiction: mortal and immortal simultaneously.
A discrete knock at his door interrupted his ruminations.
"Enter," he responded, quickly composing himself.
The door opened revealing a young acolyte of no more than sixteen years, his face contracted in an expression of fearful reverence that Ethel had begun to notice in all the temple servants since his resurrection.
"My lord," murmured the boy with his gaze fixed on the floor, as if contemplating Ethel directly would be a transgression. "High Priestess Kinvara requests your presence in the Garden of Flames when you are ready."
Ethel suppressed a sigh. That treatment—"my lord," deep reverences, evasive glances—had become the norm with alarming speed.
"Thank you," he responded with deliberate informality. "Tell her I will meet with her after breakfast."
The acolyte made a bow so deep his forehead nearly touched the floor, before retreating without turning his back and closing the door silently.
"Is this how it feels to be a god?" Ethel wondered with uncomfortable unease. "Isolated by devotion? Separated by reverence?"
While dressing in the crimson and gold silk robes that now constituted his wardrobe, he reflected on how his position in the temple had changed in just three days. The priests who once treated him as a promising student or curious phenomenon now looked at him with the intensity reserved for sacred relics. Acolytes fell to their knees as he passed. Even Bennero, the most skeptical and pragmatic of the senior priests, now weighed every word before addressing him, as if fearing to offend a capricious divinity.
Only Melisandre maintained a relatively normal attitude, though Ethel had noticed a new gleam in her eyes when she observed him—a mixture of satisfaction, scientific fascination, and something deeper he could not fully identify.
As he walked the corridors toward the dining hall, he noticed how the usual sounds of activity died at his passage. Interrupted conversations, furtive glances, hurried reverences. A side corridor cleared instantly when a group of novice acolytes glimpsed him approaching.
"This is ridiculous," he thought with growing irritation. "Yesterday I was just another student. Today they treat me as if I might incinerate them with a displeased look."
The main dining hall, usually bustling with dozens of priests and acolytes sharing the first meal of the day, fell into sepulchral silence when he crossed the threshold. Fifty pairs of eyes followed him as he advanced toward the table of senior priests, where Bennero dined alone.
The priest with the burned face gestured toward the seat across from him, which Ethel accepted with a grateful nod.
"How do you find yourself this morning?" asked Bennero, passing him a basket with freshly baked bread.
"Physically, completely recovered," responded Ethel, taking a roll. "Mentally... adapting."
Bennero nodded, his disfigured face impossible to read completely.
"Adaptation requires time," he commented, pouring him a cup of diluted wine. "Especially when what you must assimilate challenges all known limits of existence."
"Do you also now consider me something supernatural?" inquired Ethel, keeping his voice low so only Bennero could hear.
A crooked smile appeared on the priest's burn-marked face.
"I considered you something supernatural from the first day you set foot in this temple," he responded dryly. "The difference is that now I have indisputable evidence."
Ethel nibbled his bread, carefully considering his next words.
"Bennero, I need honesty. What is really happening in the city? The acolytes look at me as if I might disintegrate and reappear at any moment."
The priest drank a long draft of wine before responding, his eyes scanning the dining hall to ensure no one was listening.
"News of your... return has transcended the temple walls," he finally explained. "Volantis seethes with rumors. Some say you are a direct descendant of the Dragon Lords of ancient Valyria. Others, that you are an avatar of R'hllor sent to announce the end of times. The most exalted speak of a new incarnate god."
Ethel closed his eyes momentarily, processing the information.
"And the triarchs?" he asked, referring to the three elected rulers of the city.
"They observe with growing unease," responded Bennero. "The tiger party sees an opportunity to strengthen their position through an alliance with the temple. The elephant party fears you will use your influence to destabilize commerce."
"I have no interest in Volantine politics," protested Ethel.
"What you desire matters less than what others believe you represent," pronounced Bennero with brutal pragmatism. "You have restored hope to the devotees of the Lord of Light in dark times. That alone makes you a political figure, whether you like it or not."
The rest of breakfast passed in contemplative silence, interrupted only by the occasional reverent murmur when some acolyte passed too close to their table.
When Ethel finally made his way to the Garden of Flames, located in an interior courtyard of the temple complex, the sun had already risen considerably in the sky. The garden, despite its name, contained no plants but elaborate metal structures from which controlled flames sprouted, forming patterns that symbolized important episodes in the mythology of the Red God.
Kinvara awaited him beside the central representation: a column of perpetual fire that rose several meters from a circular well. Dressed completely in scarlet, with her black hair gathered in a complex braid and the ruby at her throat pulsing softly, she seemed a living extension of the flames.
"I thank you for coming," she greeted with that ethereal voice that seemed to float in the air. "Have you rested adequately?"
"As well as someone who has just discovered they can return from death can rest," responded Ethel with more bite than he intended.
A fleeting smile crossed Kinvara's habitually impassive face.
"Sardonic humor is a healthy response to the incomprehensible," she observed. "Better than denial or paralyzing fear."
Ethel approached the central column of fire, extending a hand toward the flames without touching them.
"Why have you summoned me, Kinvara?"
The priestess positioned herself beside him, the light of the perpetual fire bathing her face with coppery nuances that accentuated her supernatural beauty.
"To show you something," she responded simply.
With a fluid movement, she extracted a small ceremonial dagger from the folds of her tunic. The blade, of black obsidian with tiny ruby inlays in the hilt, glinted maliciously under the morning sunlight.
Before Ethel could react, Kinvara slid the edge across her own palm, opening a clean cut from which scarlet blood flowed. Without flinching at the pain, she extended her bleeding hand toward the flames.
The fire responded instantly. The flames changed color, acquiring an unnatural bluish tone, and began to rotate in spirals, forming patterns reminiscent of unknown constellations.
"Observe carefully," instructed Kinvara.
Among the blue flames, blurred images began to materialize: multitudes kneeling before a luminous figure; armies marching under flaming standards; a colossal city with scarlet temples dominating its horizon; and finally, a humanoid silhouette completely wrapped in fire, holding what appeared to be a miniature sun between its hands.
"What does all this mean?" asked Ethel, unable to look away from the hypnotic spectacle.
"Possibilities," responded Kinvara enigmatically. "Futures that could materialize, depending on the decisions you make in the coming days."
With an abrupt movement, she withdrew her bleeding hand from the flames. The images dissipated instantly, and the fire recovered its natural color.
"Blood of power reveals hidden truths," she explained while wrapping her wound with a red silk handkerchief. "My blood shows fragments. Yours could reveal the complete tapestry."
Ethel instinctively stepped back.
"I will not cut my hand to feed your prophetic flames," he declared firmly.
Kinvara's smile acquired a slightly condescending nuance.
"It would not be necessary," she clarified. "A single hair of yours contains more power than all the blood in my body. But that is not the purpose of our meeting today."
She gestured toward one of the stone benches surrounding the garden, inviting him to sit.
"We need to discuss your safety and the role you must assume in the coming days," she continued once both were seated. "Rumors of your nature spread beyond Volantis. Soon, emissaries from the Free Cities will begin arriving, seeking to confirm the stories. Afterward will come representatives of the great powers: the Citadel of Oldtown, the Royal Court of King's Landing, perhaps even from Asshai and the lands beyond the Shadow."
"I am not interested in becoming a carnival attraction," protested Ethel.
"What you want and what will happen rarely coincide when dealing with powers that transcend the mundane," responded Kinvara with glacial pragmatism. "You are, possibly, the most extraordinary being to have walked this world since the time of the First Men. Your mere existence alters balances established for centuries."
The weight of her words fell upon Ethel like a stone slab. During his stay in this strange world, he had gradually grown accustomed to the idea of being different, of possessing unusual abilities. But the magnitude of the implications Kinvara described surpassed any scenario he had contemplated.
"What do you suggest then?" he finally asked.
"We must control the narrative," responded Kinvara without hesitation. "Present you to the world on our own terms, before others construct their own distorted version of you."
A bitter laugh escaped Ethel's lips.
"Turn me into a religious figure? A prophet of the Red God?"
Kinvara studied him with that penetrating gaze that seemed to dissect his soul.
"Is that not what you are?"
The question hung between them like a fragile bubble, charged with theological and existential implications that Ethel did not feel prepared to face completely.
"I don't know what I am," he finally admitted. "I only know what I am not: I am not a god, nor a prophet, nor a messianic savior."
"And yet," replied Kinvara with a soft voice, "you died and returned by your own power. You control fire with a thought. You heal wounds that would kill any man. If these are not divine qualities, what are?"
Before Ethel could respond, a breathless acolyte burst into the garden, his face reddened from running.
"My lords," he stammered after a hurried bow. "A multitude has gathered in the plaza before the temple. They are... they are thousands. They demand to see the resurrected one."
"It seems the choice has been made for you," commented the priestess, rising with feline grace. "The question now is: how will you respond?"
The procession of temple members took almost an hour to organize. The highest-ranking priests, led by Kinvara, Bennero, and Melisandre—who had joined the group with her usual air of reserved anticipation—advanced with solemn pace through the long corridors toward the main entrance of the temple complex.
Ethel walked among them, wearing a tunic specially crafted for the occasion: scarlet silk with gold embroideries representing stylized flames, so light it seemed to float around him with each movement. At his waist, the Valyrian steel sword he had wielded during the attack, now in a ceremonial sheath covered with ancient runes.
"You don't need to speak," Melisandre had advised him while the priests prepared. "Your mere presence will be message enough for most."
"And if I want to speak?" he had asked.
An enigmatic smile had curved the Asshai priestess's lips.
"Then the Lord of Light will guide your words," she responded with absolute conviction.
Now, as the enormous bronze door that separated the inner sanctuary from the outer world began to open, Ethel felt a knot forming in his throat. The roar of the multitude gathered in the plaza struck him like a physical wave, making him stagger momentarily.
The plaza before the Red Temple, a space that normally could house some hundreds of faithful during important religious festivities, overflowed with humanity. Thousands of people crowded into every available space: Volantine merchants recognizable by their embroidered tunics, slaves with faces tattooed according to their occupation, sailors from distant lands, nobles on elevated palanquins to see above the crowd, and even some Dothraki recognizable by their braids and leather attire.
The midday sun fell mercilessly upon the multitude, but no one seemed willing to abandon their position. The eyes of all—expectant, hopeful, fearful, curious—fixed instantly on Ethel's figure when he emerged behind the principal priests.
An absolute silence descended upon the plaza, so sudden and complete it seemed supernatural. Thousands of people simultaneously holding their breath, waiting.
Kinvara advanced to the edge of the steps, her voice rising with a power that defied her slender figure:
"People of Volantis! Faithful of the Lord of Light! Witnesses of the new era that dawns before us!" Her words resonated in the absolutely silent plaza. "We present to you he who has returned from death's embrace by the power of eternal fire!"
A murmur ran through the multitude like wind through dry leaves.
"Behold Ethel, the Reborn!" continued Kinvara, her voice acquiring almost supernatural tonalities. "The Heart of Fire, the Flame Incarnate, the Herald of R'hllor!"
As if responding to an invisible signal, all the braziers and torches surrounding the plaza burst simultaneously into higher and brighter flames, drawing exclamations of amazement from the multitude. A trick carefully prepared by the priests, Ethel supposed, or perhaps genuine pyromantic magic.
The reaction was instantaneous and overwhelming. A collective roar rose toward the sky while thousands fell to their knees, bowing their foreheads until they touched the cobbled ground. Even some of the nobles on their palanquins descended to kneel, a spectacle that—judging by the astonished expressions of their servants—must be completely unprecedented.
Ethel contemplated the scene with a mixture of amazement and horror. It was not adoration he had sought in coming to this strange world. It was not veneration he desired as reward for his sufferings and adaptations.
He took a step forward, surpassing Kinvara and positioning himself at the very edge of the steps. A solitary figure dressed in red and gold, silhouetted against the blue sky of Volantis, observing thousands kneel before him.
The power of that moment coursed through him like an electric current. If he wished, he could mold these minds, direct this faith. He could become exactly what Kinvara had announced: a divine herald, a walking god. The thought was as tempting as it was terrifying.
"No," he thought with sudden clarity. "I am not a god. Though my body may be different, I am and will remain human."
He raised his hands in a gesture requesting silence. The multitude fell silent instantly.
"Rise," his voice, amplified by the natural acoustics of the plaza, reached the most distant corners. "I do not kneel before you; do not kneel before me."
A confused murmur ran through the multitude, but slowly, obeying his request, they began to rise.
"Yes, I have returned from death," he continued, deciding that honesty, though partial, was better than elaborate religious metaphors. "Yes, I control fire in ways that defy common understanding. But I am not a god."
Beside him, he perceived the sudden tension in Kinvara's body, Bennero's slight frown. Only Melisandre maintained an inscrutable expression, her bright eyes fixed on him with what almost seemed approval.
"I am a seeker of truth," continued Ethel. "A student of the world's mysteries. And if R'hllor has granted me extraordinary gifts, it is so I may serve a purpose greater than simple worship."
He extended his right hand and, with a thought, conjured a flame that danced upon his open palm. The multitude gasped collectively at the demonstration.
"Fire consumes, but it also illuminates," he raised the flame above his head, where it grew to form a resplendent sphere visible from any point in the plaza. "I seek to illuminate, not consume. To understand, not dominate."
With another gesture, he dissipated the sphere of fire, leaving only a trail of golden sparks that descended slowly over the multitude like a tangible blessing.
"Return to your homes with this certainty: something new has come to this world. Something I myself do not yet fully understand. But I promise to use it to protect, not destroy."
For a moment of perfect tension, the plaza remained in absolute silence. Then, like a wave breaking against cliffs, it erupted in deafening cheers. Not silent worship this time, but thunderous celebration. Names and titles that Kinvara had proclaimed were chanted by thousands of throats: "Reborn!" "Heart of Fire!" "Flame Incarnate!"
Ethel turned toward the priests, finding expressions ranging from Kinvara's calculated approval to the poorly disguised surprise of some acolytes. Melisandre, however, studied him with an intensity that was almost physical in its weight.
"Interesting choice of words," commented the Asshai priestess as they returned to the temple's interior, leaving the lesser priests to handle the exalted multitude. "You neither confirmed nor denied your divine nature. You simply redirected their worship toward a higher purpose."
"It wasn't intentional," responded Ethel honestly. "I simply said what I felt in that moment."
Melisandre nodded slowly, as if she had just confirmed a long-harbored suspicion.
"And that is precisely why your words proved so effective," she noted. "The multitude sought authenticity, not doctrine. Truth, not dogma."
As they advanced through the temple corridors, Ethel noticed that even the priests and acolytes who had remained inside bowed deeply as he passed. No longer with the reverent curiosity of previous days, but with the absolute devotion reserved for confirmed divine manifestations.
"This is going to get worse, isn't it?" he asked, gesturing toward a group of acolytes who had fallen to their knees upon seeing him pass.
"That depends on your definition of 'worse,'" responded Melisandre with pragmatism. "Faith is the most powerful force in this world, Ethel. More than armies, more than gold, more even than magic. You channeled that force today, though it was not your intention."
They arrived at a side door that led to a small meditation room rarely used. Melisandre opened it and gestured for him to enter.
The interior was austere: a small central brazier, cushions arranged in a circle, and bare walls of red stone. The only light came from the dancing flames of the brazier, casting restless shadows against the walls.
"We have pending matters to discuss," said Melisandre while closing the door behind them. "And I prefer to do so away from anxious ears."
"What matters?" asked Ethel, taking a seat on one of the cushions.
The priestess settled across from him, the firelight accentuating the perfect planes of her face.
"Your nature," she responded directly. "We need to understand its limits and possibilities."
A sensation of unease settled in Ethel's stomach.
"What exactly do you propose?"
Melisandre extracted a ceremonial dagger from the folds of her tunic—similar to the one Kinvara had used that morning, but with an older design, the handle carved from some material that seemed petrified bone.
"Systematic experimentation," she responded with the tranquility of one proposing a routine academic exercise. "We must document your regenerative capacity under different conditions. Evaluate its limits, its speed, its triggers."
"You want to... hurt me?" incredulity tinged Ethel's voice.
"I want to understand you," corrected Melisandre. "And for that, we need concrete data, not speculation."
She placed the dagger on the floor between them, the blade reflecting the flames like liquid mirror.
"If we are to prepare you adequately for what is coming, we need to know exactly what you are capable of surviving," she continued. "A stab wound? We already know yes. Poison? Dismemberment? Fire itself? These are questions that require answers."
Ethel contemplated the dagger, considering the implications of what Melisandre proposed. A part of him—the rational part formed during a lifetime in a world where science predominated over superstition—recognized the logic behind the proposal. Concrete data about his abilities would provide incalculable strategic advantages.
Another part—more visceral, more human—rebelled against the idea of voluntarily submitting to pain, to mutilation, to possible death, even knowing he could return.
"I'm not sure I'm ready for this," he finally admitted.
Melisandre studied him in silence for several heartbeats, the ruby at her throat pulsing rhythmically like a second heart.
"Fear is natural, even for beings like you," she finally responded. "But consider this: every test we overcome under controlled conditions could mean lives saved in the future. Your understanding of your own capabilities may be the difference between victory and defeat in the war that approaches."
Ethel closed his eyes, weighing his options. Finally, with a resigned sigh, he extended his left arm over the brazier, the sleeve rolled up to expose the skin.
"Let's start with something simple," he conceded. "A superficial cut."
Melisandre's smile widened with barely disguised satisfaction. She took the dagger and, with expert movement, traced a precise line on Ethel's extended forearm.
Blood flowed instantly, but in the same way the wound began to close until it disappeared completely.
"You don't happen to have a taste for this type of practice, do you?" asked the young man.