Storm Above, Fire Below
Cair Volakar awoke under a veil of lightning.
The mountain roared—not from dragonfire, but from tension rippling through its forged alliances. Messengers darted through wet courtyards with missives from distant fronts. Scrolls stained with wax, blood, and desperation. Whispers of civil unrest in the Naelarys mines. Pirate kings growing bold along the Stepstones. And, more dangerously—silence from Mantarys.
In the grand chamber, Neron stood over a sprawling table littered with sigils, parchments, and pieces carved from weirwood and bone. His eyes were bloodshot, not from fatigue, but from dreams. They had returned—visions of black wings blotting out the sun, mountains cracking like eggshells, a woman in silver armor walking through flame.
Kaerys leaned over the map, arms folded. "Twelve oaths broken in ten days. Naelarys miners rebel. Qorran grain stores burn in port. The eastern river lords argue over tribute. Someone plays this game better than we do."
"No," Neron said, voice hardening. "They simply play it longer. I learn faster."
He swept the map clear, then pointed to a section carved with glyphs none present could read—the Grey Corridor, a strip of unclaimed mountain wilderness between Elyria and Garion.
"We strike here. Secretly. There's something hidden in the Ashvault Peaks. A relic. The Skyshard pulses every time I draw near."
M'Koro, leaning on his ashwood staff, whispered: "There is old death there. Something beyond time. Buried by the first dragonlords."
Kaerys frowned. "You plan to dig up ghosts when living enemies outflank us?"
"No," Neron said. "I plan to become something they can't outflank."
The Vault Opens in Mantarys
Far to the east, in the basalt halls of Mantarys, red-robed priests stood in a circle around a sealed iron door. On the walls, ancient runes pulsed with crimson light. Tyragas Maegyr raised a dagger of dragonglass and cut deep into his palm. His blood hissed as it hit the door.
It opened with a moan of steel and breath of sulfur.
Inside were twenty-five coffins—upright, iron-bound, and singing.
Not with voice, but magic. Old Valyrian sorcery, layered deep. Songs of fire and loyalty. Songs of pain and power.
The Blood-Pledged. Soldiers created, not born. Chosen orphans trained from childhood in both sword and spell, stripped of name and identity, marked by glyphs that glowed with every heartbeat. They did not speak. They obeyed.
Tyragas whispered to the leader—taller than the rest, his face a mask of burnt copper.
"Your prey wears no crown, but he commands dragons. You will end his bloodline before it takes root."
The Pledged gave no reply.
Descent into Ashvault
Neron rode at the head of fifty shadow-knights, Kaerys at his side. They passed into the Ashvault Peaks under cover of night, winding through blackened pine and shale cliffs glowing faintly with volcanic runoff.
The deeper they rode, the more strange the land became—trees twisted backward, rivers steaming in winter cold. In one clearing, they found a field of bones, human and otherwise, picked clean but arranged in patterns.
"It's watching us," Kaerys said.
"Let it watch," Neron muttered.
They reached the ruin by midnight. No castle—just a spire of obsidian thrust from the ground like a dragon's fang. It bore no door, no windows. Only a spiral carved along its surface, like a snake eating itself.
Neron approached, and the Skyshard ignited against his chest, pulsing like a heartbeat.
He placed his palm to the spire—and it opened with a soft gasp, as if it remembered him.
Kaerys unsheathed her sword. "You're sure?"
"No," Neron whispered. "But I must go."
What He Found Beneath
Inside was no crypt—but a trial.
Stone bridges hung in the dark, suspended over black flame. Whispers echoed, voices in a dozen tongues—Old Ghiscari, Asshai'i, forgotten dialects of Valyria. They mocked him. Tested him.
Images flashed in the air: his Earth life—modern cities, machines, memories of a time when magic was myth.
Then came visions of his arrival in this world—his first kill, his first blood-offering, his first command to the system:
[Path Unlocked: Lord of Ash and Glory][New Trait Gained: Soulbrand – Magic woven into will. Charm, break, or dominate lesser mages.][Warning: You are now detectable by entities beyond mortal comprehension.]
The last bridge collapsed as he stepped across it—but the Skyshard bore him forward on wings of pure light.
At the chamber's heart waited a sword, black as night, the runes along its blade pulsing like fireflies.
And beside it—a throne. Small. Forged of melted dragonbone and mortal remains. Waiting.
As he placed his hand on the sword, the flame surged.
[Artifact Gained: Heartcleaver – A blade that devours magic. Cannot be parried. Cannot be reforged. Must be fed.]
Neron stood still, breathing heavily.
And then he smiled.
The Ambush
As Neron and his knights exited the ruin, they found the path home blocked. Dozens of armored figures waited, their bodies tattooed in glowing sigils. At their head—the copper-masked Pledged.
Kaerys swore. "Trap."
Neron stepped forward. "You're Maegyr slaves."
The Pledged raised their blades.
"Wrong," one said, voice like dry stone. "We are Maegyr's judgment."
Battle erupted.
Fire met glyphs. Sword clashed with unbreakable armor. M'Koro summoned shadowbeasts from the flame. Kaerys carved her way through three at once, her white blade singing. But the Blood-Pledged did not tire. They did not bleed. And when they fell, their flesh melted into vapor.
Neron moved like a storm—wielding Heartcleaver, he cut through spells and bone alike. One Pledged tried to hex him from afar—Neron turned his own magic back upon him, incinerating the man from the inside out.
The copper-masked leader charged.
Their blades met in a flare of black light. The earth cracked beneath them. For a moment, time slowed—and Neron's voice whispered through the clash:
"You are not gods. You are broken echoes."
He drove Heartcleaver into the man's chest. It pierced the sigils, fed on the glyphs, and exploded with inner flame.
Silence returned to the Ashvault.
Only ashes remained.
Aftermath
They burned the fallen, except those who had vanished to dust. Neron stood on the cliff's edge, the new sword strapped across his back, eyes glowing faintly.
Kaerys approached. "What was it?"
"A piece of something bigger," he said. "A memory the Freehold buried. A weapon they feared."
"Will it save us?"
"No," Neron said. "But it will make them fear us again."
End of Chapter 15