It had been four days since Marco opened his eyes in a world that was not his own.
The terror that had nearly consumed him during those first hours had gradually given way to reluctant acceptance. In a place where hesitation could mean death, he had learned to adapt quickly. He ate when food was given, obeyed every command without question, and spoke only when spoken to.
Even so, the memory of his arrival refused to fade.
He had awakened in the midst of countless corpses, their lifeless bodies strewn across a blood-soaked ritual ground. Before panic could overtake him, a group of black-robed figures emerged from the shadows. Their garments bore a sigil he did not recognize, and though their faces remained hidden beneath deep hoods, they regarded the survivors with unmistakable reverence. He was not the only one who had survived, though their numbers were few.
Marco had been dressed in robes identical to theirs and brought back to their sanctuary.
At first, their language was completely incomprehensible. Yet the moment they spoke, unfamiliar memories surfaced within him, allowing him to understand every word and answer without hesitation.
The body remembered.
He did not. Even after inheriting the original owner's memories, he still had no idea where he was. The memories provided familiarity, but no answers.
The boy whose body he now inhabited had been raised within this secluded cult as a servant of the god they worshipped. Upon coming of age, every servant was required to undergo a sacred trial. Those who survived were believed to have received the god's grace, and the elders expected the gift bestowed upon them to awaken soon after.
Marco knew that was not what had happened. The original owner had failed, and somehow he had crossed over into his body. Just like the webnovels he used to read.
No matter how he looked at it, that was the only explanation that made sense.
It had been days, yet Marco still missed the life he had left behind. He missed proper food, the comfort of his own bed, and the cool air of his air conditioner. Never had he imagined that something as ordinary as sleeping through the night without sweating would become a luxury.
The thought brought a faint smile to his lips, but it quickly faded as his mind wandered to those he had truly left behind—his parents, his wife, and his child. A dull ache settled in his chest. Fortunately, he had planned well enough that, even in his absence, they would not be left struggling. They would grieve for him, but they would endure.
Knowing they would be safe brought him some measure of comfort, yet it could not erase the painful truth. He would never watch his child grow up, never share another meal with his family, and never return to the life he had once called home.
Then another familiar face drifted into his thoughts.
Thaddues.
His best friend.
A helpless chuckle escaped him.
"You know, my friend..." he muttered to himself. "Out of the two of us, I was the one who actually got isekai'd."
He shook his head, laughing under his breath.
"If you were here, you'd probably be asking where the System is, whether there are dragons, and if the first thing I did was collect cheat skills."
His smile lingered for a moment before turning wistful.
"...Damn. I actually miss you, idiot."
A sharp knock at the door pulled him back to reality.
"Brother," a voice called from outside. "You have been chosen to serve tonight."
Marco rose from the simple pallet that served as his bed.
During the past days, he had learned that serving was one of the duties expected of every novice. Most attended the kitchens, maintained the storerooms, or waited upon guests during ceremonies. Those selected to serve the higher-ranking members were considered fortunate among the novices, though Marco had never understood why.
After days of waiting, his turn had finally come.
Assuming it would be little more than another feast, he straightened his robes and followed the summons.
He could not have been more wrong.
Marco followed the hooded servant through a maze of narrow stone corridors lit only by flickering torches. The deeper they descended, the colder the air became. A strange metallic scent lingered in the passage, growing stronger with every step.
He frowned.
Blood?
No one spoke as they walked through the ancient corridors, their footsteps echoing against the stone. Whatever lay ahead was evidently forbidden to discuss.
Eventually, they stopped before a pair of towering wooden doors carved with twisted roots and eyes.
The servant beside him lowered his head.
"Remain here until you are called. Speak only when addressed, and let your eyes remain upon the floor unless commanded otherwise."
Marco gave a silent nod.
The doors groaned open.
Warm light spilled into the corridor.
At first glance, it looked exactly as he had expected.
A lavish feast filled the hall. Long tables overflowed with roasted meats, fresh bread, fruit, and overflowing goblets of wine. Dozens of black-robed figures occupied their seats, conversing quietly while servants moved between them.
Marco inwardly sighed.
So it really was just a banquet.
He stepped inside, took a silver pitcher from another servant, and began refilling goblets as instructed.
No one paid him any attention. To them, he was invisible—just another servant moving quietly between the tables.
After several minutes, one of the elders raised an empty cup. Marco stepped forward and refilled it without a word.
The elder did not thank him.
Instead, a faint smile spread across the old man's face.
"The offering is ready."
The hall fell silent as every conversation ceased, the assembled cultists rising from their seats in perfect unison.
Marco's brow furrowed as the massive doors at the far end of the hall slowly creaked open.
Several smaller figures were led inside.
Children.
The oldest could not have been more than ten years old.
Their hands were bound behind their backs, tears streaking their dirt-covered faces. Some struggled against their captors, while others simply stared ahead with hollow, defeated eyes.
Marco froze, his grip tightening around the silver pitcher.
The robed cultists watched the children with eager anticipation as though the true feast had only just begun. A cold chill crept down his spine.
Something was terribly wrong.
The children were herded past the long tables toward the far end of the hall, where a broad dais overlooked the gathering. Upon it stood a massive stone altar, its surface stained a dark crimson that countless years had failed to wash away. Flickering braziers cast long, wavering shadows across the ancient stone, giving the dried blood an almost fresh sheen.
One by one, the children were forced to their knees before the altar.
Marco's breathing grew shallow as his gaze swept across the hall. Around him, no one reacted with shock or pity. The black-robed elders watched in reverent silence, their expressions filled with devotion rather than horror.
To them, this was no atrocity.
It was worship.
One of the elders stepped forward, raising a ceremonial dagger forged from black steel. He lifted both hands toward the ceiling and began chanting in a language even the original owner could not comprehend.
"Vaor na Vōd Gōd. Vōd Gōd, thar us."
The words echoed through the chamber like whispers carried on the wind.
"Vaor na Vōd Gōd. Vōd Gōd, thar us."
As the chant reached its crescendo, the dagger descended.
A scream tore through the hall as warm blood spilled into the stone basin beneath the altar. Marco remained frozen, his body refusing to move as his eyes stayed locked upon the horror before him.
Another child was dragged forward.
Then another.
Each cry echoed through the hall before ending just as abruptly, swallowed by the oppressive silence that followed. Not a single person flinched or protested. The cultists watched with serene expressions, as though they were witnessing the holiest of rites rather than the slaughter of innocent children.
Marco's hands began to tremble.
His nails dug into his palms until blood trickled between his fingers, yet he barely noticed.
Then his gaze fell upon the smallest child.
The boy could not have been older than five. Tears streamed down his face as he desperately searched the chamber, pleading with frightened eyes for someone—anyone—to save him.
For a single, heart-wrenching moment, Marco no longer saw the terrified child before him.
He saw his own son.
The memory crashed into him with unbearable force: his son's laughter, those tiny hands reaching for him, and the promise he had made to always keep him safe.
Something inside him shattered.
"No..." he whispered.
The elder raised the black dagger once more.
"No."
The word escaped through gritted teeth as his whisper hardened into a growl. He lurched forward, but the blade had already begun its descent.
"NO!"
The hall trembled.
Blinding white flames erupted from Marco's body, surging outward like a raging tide. Stone, timber, flesh, and steel vanished beneath the inferno as the fire clung relentlessly to everything it touched.
The cultists screamed in terror. Some desperately invoked their magic while others fled for the exits, but none of it mattered. The white flames devoured every spell and every attempt to escape, burning with neither smoke nor mercy until nothing remained in their wake.
Within moments, the once-grand hall had become a sea of white fire, illuminated by the desperate cries of those who had moments before watched children die without remorse.
Marco stood at its center.
His eyes had turned a brilliant white, reflecting the inferno that raged around him. He neither moved nor spoke, a silent witness as the flames delivered a judgment no human court ever could.
The cries faded one after another until only the dying crackle of the flames remained. Even that sound eventually disappeared, leaving the ruined hall in silence
As the fire receded like the ebbing tide, it left behind only pale ash. Stone, timber, the black-robed cultists, and even the blood that had stained the altar for generations had vanished without a trace.
Only the surviving children remained untouched.
The ropes binding their wrists had burned away, yet not a single one bore so much as a scorch mark.
Marco stood motionless at the center of the ruined hall, his breathing ragged and his heart pounding so violently that each beat thundered in his ears.
He slowly lowered his gaze.
His robes had long since been reduced to ash, leaving him completely naked, yet that realization scarcely registered. Instead, his attention was drawn to his right hand, where a small white flame hovered above his open palm.
No larger than the flame of a candle, it burned with a gentle warmth utterly unlike the merciless inferno that had consumed the chamber moments earlier.
Marco stared at it in stunned silence.
"I..." His voice caught in his throat. "I did this?"
The tiny flame swayed as though answering him.
Almost instinctively, he closed his fingers around it. Rather than burning him, it flowed into his body like a stream returning to its source. A soothing warmth spread through his limbs, carrying with it a strange sense of familiarity he could neither explain nor understand.
The elders had spoken often of an awakening.
They had been right.
Only not in the way they had expected.
A weak laugh escaped him, born less from amusement than sheer disbelief.
"So... I really have powers."
His thoughts drifted to a certain friend.
"Thaddues..."
A grin slowly spread across his face despite the devastation around him.
"You know what's funny?" he murmured, staring at the white flame dancing above his palm. "Out of the two of us, I'm the Harry Potter fanatic..."
"And I'm the one who actually gets magic."
A helpless laugh escaped him.
"Look at this!"
He held up the tiny white flame as though showing it to an invisible audience.
"I don't even need a wand!"
His eyes lit up with childlike excitement.
"Is this Incendio? No... way too strong."
He glanced around the ruined hall, now blanketed in pale ash.
"...Actually, scratch that."
"This is practically Fiendfyre."
Another laugh escaped him.
"Merlin's beard..."
"If eleven-year-old me could see this, he'd probably pass out on the spot."
He shook his head, unable to contain his grin.
"And you'd never believe me. I'd spend hours trying to convince you this really happened, and you'd still think I'd finally gone insane."
The laughter gradually faded, leaving only a quiet ache.
"...I wish you were here, buddy."
The soft patter of timid footsteps drew Marco's attention.
He turned to see the surviving children gathered together at the edge of the ruined hall. Their tear-streaked faces reflected equal measures of awe and fear as they looked upon the man who had reduced their captors to ash. None dared to speak, as though a single word might break the fragile silence that followed.
Then the youngest girl took a hesitant step forward, clutching the hem of her ragged tunic.
"W-Were you... sent by the Old Gods?"
Old Gods?
Marco looked at the child for a long moment before lowering his gaze.
"I don't know."
It was the only honest answer he could give.
Then a deafening horn echoed through the sanctuary, its mournful cry reverberating through every stone corridor.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
The children flinched.
"They know," one of the older boys whispered, his voice trembling. "They know something happened."
Hurried footsteps soon thundered through the passage beyond the ritual hall.
Marco's expression hardened. There was no time to think. His gaze swept over the frightened children. Some were barely old enough to walk without stumbling, while others clung desperately to one another, too terrified to move.
"We're leaving."
The children stared at him.
"O-Outside?" a little girl asked.
Marco gave a single nod.
"Can you run?"
A few nodded. Others hesitated until one boy lowered his head.
"They'll catch us."
Marco crouched until they were eye level.
"Not if I can help it."
As the footsteps drew nearer, he scooped the youngest child into his arms.
Before he could move, one of the older boys hurried forward. The child untied the long strip of coarse linen wrapped around his own body and held it out with trembling hands.
"You... you'll need this," he whispered.
Only then did Marco remember he was still completely naked.
A faint, embarrassed smile flickered across his face despite the urgency of the moment.
"...Thanks."
He quickly wrapped the linen around his waist and secured it as best he could. It was little more than a length of cloth, but it was enough.
Looking back at the children, his expression turned serious once more.
"Stay close," he said. "No matter what happens, don't let go of each other."
They quickly formed a line behind him.
The first group of cultists burst through the doorway.
"There!"
Marco thrust out his hand, and a white flame sprang to life at his fingertips before erupting into a towering wall of fire that engulfed the corridor. Though nowhere near the all-consuming inferno from before, it spread with terrifying speed, sealing the passage and forcing the pursuing cultists back amid agonized screams.
Marco didn't wait to see the outcome.
"Run!"
The children sprinted after him as he led them through winding tunnels and forgotten passages, guided only by the scattered memories of the body he now possessed. More than once, shouts echoed through intersecting corridors, forcing him to change direction before their pursuers could cut them off.
The sanctuary became a maze of stone and shadow, the mournful horns continuing to echo behind them as the entire cult joined the hunt.
Then, after what felt like an eternity, a cool breeze brushed against Marco's face.
Fresh air.
His heart leaped.
"There!"
A narrow fissure in the mountainside admitted a shaft of afternoon sunlight. One by one, the children squeezed through the opening, with Marco following behind them.
For the first time since transmigrating, he stood beneath an open sky.
The afternoon sun hung high above the mountains, its warmth a welcome contrast to the cold, suffocating darkness of the sanctuary. Marco squinted against the sudden brightness, drawing a deep breath as the crisp air filled his lungs.
The horns still echoed from within the mountain.
They had escaped the sanctuary.
Now they only had to survive the hunt.
Far to the west, beneath a different sky, another group of children struggled to survive.
Their suffering had not come at the hands of a hidden cult.
It had descended from the heavens.
The banners of House Targaryen fluttered gently in the afternoon breeze as a long procession wound its way through the Reach. Wagons laden with grain, salted meat, blankets, medicine, and fresh water stretched as far as the eye could see, escorted by knights, maesters, septas, and servants from King's Landing.
At the head of the convoy rode the Realms Delight, Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen and Lady Alicent Hightower.
Neither girl spoke as they passed through the devastated countryside.
Fields that should have been heavy with grain had been scorched into lifeless black plains. Entire orchards stood as forests of charred trunks, while farmhouses had collapsed into heaps of blackened timber. Here and there, the twisted skeletons of wagons and plows lay abandoned beside the road, silent reminders of lives interrupted in an instant.
The fires had long since died, yet the scent of ash still lingered in the air.
There could be no mistaking it. This was dragonfire. Though weeks had passed since the flames had swept across the Reach, the land still smoldered, as if the earth itself refused to forget.
Rhaenyra tightened her grip upon the reins, her eyes tracing the charred remains of fields that had once promised a rich harvest.
"No account brought before my father could have conveyed the true measure of this devastation," she said in a hushed voice.
Alicent's gaze drifted toward a hillside where dozens of villagers worked in silence, burying those whose bodies had only recently been recovered from the ruins.
"...No," She replied quietly. "No words could ever do justice to such ruin."
The convoy entered what remained of the village.
One by one, the survivors emerged from makeshift shelters fashioned from broken wagons and torn canvas. Hunger and exhaustion were etched upon every face, yet hope flickered in their eyes as they saw the wagons carrying provisions.
Knights began unloading sacks of grain while servants distributed bread and fresh water. Septas comforted grieving families, and maesters hurried to treat burns that still had not healed.
Ignoring Ser Harrold Westerling's attempt to stop her, Rhaenyra swung down from her horse.
"Princess," Ser Harrold called, stepping after her. "It may not be safe."
Rhaenyra did not slow her steps.
"They have waited long enough."
She took a basket of warm bread into her own hands and joined the servants in their work.
An elderly man, overcome with gratitude, lowered himself as if to kneel before her.
Rhaenyra quickly stepped forward and caught him by the shoulders.
"Please," she said softly. "Keep your strength. There is no need for such things."
She placed a loaf into his weathered hands before moving farther into the crowd.
Near the remains of a stone well, a little girl sat alone, clutching the only thing she had managed to save—a small doll stitched together from scraps of cloth, its once-bright fabric blackened by ash.
Her eyes never left the ground.
Rhaenyra knelt before her.
"Are you hungry?"
The child hesitated before giving the smallest nod.
Rhaenyra offered her the bread.
The girl's trembling hands accepted it as though she feared it might vanish before her eyes.
"Thank you..."
Her voice was little more than a whisper.
Yet before taking even a bite, the child carefully broke it in two. She carried half of it toward a younger boy hiding behind the remains of a collapsed wall.
"My brother has not eaten since yesterday," she explained.
Rhaenyra watched them share the bread in silence.
With so little left to them, the girl had still chosen to give half away.
A tightness formed in Rhaenyra's chest.
Her gaze drifted across the village.
Children searched through the ashes for belongings that no longer remained. Parents sifted through the ruins of homes they had raised with their own hands, finding only charred stones and broken timber. Livestock lay where they had fallen, their bodies left untouched because those who remained had neither the strength nor the means to bury them.
This was the true cost of dragons.
Not the songs sung by singers.
Not the glory spoken of in the halls of lords.
But fire.
Ash.
And the innocent left behind to gather what pieces of their lives they could.
Rhaenyra lowered her gaze.
She had loved dragons for as long as she could remember. Their majesty, their power, their ancient beauty—it had always seemed like something wondrous.
She still loved them.
But for the first time, she understood why so many feared them.
Her eyes turned toward the distant horizon, where the scars of dragonfire stretched across the land.
Quietly, she made herself a vow.
If she was ever to inherit the power of House Targaryen, then she would also bear the burden that came with it.
And if the day came when she wore the crown, she would do everything within her power to ensure that no child would ever again suffer beneath the shadow of dragonfire.
TBC
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