The setting sun filtered through the dome, casting its last glow upon the council hall.
With the arrival of the physicians escorted by guards, a scene of death awaited them—a macabre banquet. Highborn nobles slumped lifelessly over toppled chairs, goblets, silver plates, and scattered food strewn across the floor.
Under the watchful eyes of all present, the scribe Aslan gently entrusted the lifeless body of his master to the hooded physician, before collapsing to the ground himself. His vacant gaze betrayed the despair of a heart frozen by grief.
Witnessing this, the nobles who had survived the massacre were seized with both fear and fury. They raged hysterically, demanding the immediate execution of the conspirator, Salo Kort.
Through the haze of shock, Aslan seemed to hear their voices. Stumbling to his feet, dazed and broken, he forced himself forward.
With a sorrowful sigh, regaining a measure of his old composure, he offered a grave reminder:
"My lords, it is truly a blessing from the gods that you remain unharmed. The gods still watch over Qohor. I urge you—secure the city's inner defenses quickly, lest lawless men or the Dothraki seize the opportunity."
His words struck fear into their hearts. Faces blanched, eyes burned with resentment as they glared at Salo Kort.
But soon, their minds turned elsewhere, greed flashing behind their once-terrified eyes.
"Aslan, the traitor Salo Kort murdered your master with venomous deceit. The Council of Nobles will not forgive him. This courtyard, we entrust to you. As for us—we must see to the future of Qohor."
With hurried excuses, the surviving nobles abandoned the hall, eager not for duty, but for ambition.
The grand chamber fell silent once more. Only the hooded physician remained, quietly examining the corpses.
The dying glow from the dome cast an eerie serenity upon the bloodstained scene.
Then came the physician's sharp exclamation:
"This is… the Tears of Lys."
At once, all eyes turned.
The prisoner Salo Kort jerked his head up, confusion and dread flickering across his face. He knew well what the Tears of Lys were—an impossibly rare and costly poison, sweet as water, undetectable in wine. It mimicked a wasting illness, leaving no trace behind.
"Aslan Makenning… was it you?"
His desperate accusation rang out. The fragile bond between nobles and their slaves was as brittle as dry leaves—easily torn by the slightest wind. And Aslan, after all, was of pure Lysene blood, a detail far too suspicious to ignore.
Aslan, handsome and composed, neither admitted nor denied. He merely murmured:
"True loyalty… lies in its unmatched nobility."
With those cryptic words, he strode to the doors. The fiery dusk spilled over him, gilding his figure in radiant crimson as he left the hall behind.
Salo Kort roared in fury, thrashing against Unsullied restraints:
"Answer me, Aslan! How dare you murder your own master?!"
"Damn slave, release me!"
Yet the Unsullied obeyed orders with unshakable discipline.
The physician finally lowered his hood. His face was pale, dreadful—marked by scars of suffering.
"House Kort—keepers of one of Qohor's secrets, the reforging of Valyrian steel."
Salo's eyes widened in horror.
"You… You are the blood mage Bas Bort! You would sacrifice the lives of highborn lords to the Black Goat for Qohor's protection!"
The blood mage ignored him, speaking instead in recollection:
He told of meetings with Salo's father, of betrayals and punishments, of false identities as a maester once flogged and maimed in Qohor. He revealed how Kort's father pursued the forbidden art of blood sacrifice in hopes of replicating Valyrian steel… murdering slaves, even infants, in his desperate quest.
Salo fell silent, stricken. For the first time, he heard truths about his father—truths others had long shrouded in secrecy.
The blood mage's words dripped like venom, recounting lies, misdirections, and blasphemous rites, until finally he declared with a cruel smile:
"Every noble here was complicit. Their blood is foul, their sins unending. Only vengeance was lacking. But now—the son of the Lysene merchant has come for his revenge."
He laughed wildly, turning his back on the chamber, striding out into the blood-red twilight.
The sun drowned the western sky in crimson. The lake mirrored the eternal memory of fire and blood.
In the courtyard, beneath painted marble statues, the son of Lys stood resplendent—armored, cloaked in orange, spear blazing like flame.
Aslan bowed deeply before his teacher, smiling at last with the unburdened radiance of youth:
"Master, thank you. This statue—I carved it from memory, of a boy once happy in Lys with his family."
The blood mage looked upon him with sorrow.
"So… you mean to open the gates, welcome the Dothraki horde, and offer Valyrian steel to the King of Men?"
Aslan's bright eyes shone with determination:
"Yes. My loyalty, my father's dream—I will see them fulfilled."
The blood mage sighed, gazing at the Valyrian sword strapped across the boy's back.
"So this is the truth? To step beyond this courtyard… is to slay the boy within, and shoulder the burden of your house. The gods are cruel indeed."