Third Bonus Chapter
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It will be a new week tomorrow so I want to give everyone a head start for the bonus chapter goals!
The objectives is to try to break into the power ranking, so we are collecting powerstones. I want us to break into the low 200s so let's go for it!
1st bonus chapter: 120 powerstones
2nd bonus chapter: 200 powerstones
3rd bonus chapter: 250 powerstones
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"Don't the Triarch run the city?" he asked a bit dumbly. He blamed his slowness on his brain trying to play catch up as it was going through fight or flight instinct since it just met the most deadly predator around.
"Those fools? No, they are just the fall people who the mobs can tear apart when things go wrong," the old man shook his head. Jon figured that was the case since they only served for a year and got nothing done except cursed by the common folk and tried to be assassinated by the nobles and merchants.
"The old bastard just had it out for me and is bullying you," Moqorro said. "He must be getting really senile if he doesn't yet know who you are. His assassins should have been on top of us by now to try to put you down. A rare talent like yours should not be let to blossom unless it is under your thumb."
Jon felt a tight knot forming in his chest unsure how to feel that people would be soon trying to take his head with how talented he was. "I take it be is a master mage like you?" Jon asked, since there was no way the Black Flame would treat someone with such cautious respect if they were anything less than extraordinary.
"Yes, he is the old man of the city, if the gossip is to be believed he was around since the fall of Valyria," Moqorro's smile deepened, tinged with amusement.
Jon's eyes widened so sharply it was almost painful, his mind struggling to grasp the weight of the claim. "Since… the fall?" he whispered, disbelief threading his voice. "That would make him… centuries old. That's impossible."
Moqorro laughed, low and warm, the kind of sound that hinted both at amusement and caution. "Impossible, perhaps but not true," he corrected gently. "The old bastard has been around only since the rise of Aegon."
Jon's words faltered, slow and uncertain as he asked the first person that came to his mind. "Aegon… as in Aegon the Conqueror?"
The Black Flame nodded, his expression unchanged, but the sparkle in his eyes suggested he enjoyed Jon's stunned disbelief. "Aye. That makes the man over three hundred years old, if you measure by the calendars of men. A lifetime, a century, a few generations… and he has watched them all, shaping the city from the shadows, bending it to his will."
Jon felt his stomach churn. The fire inside him, usually a calm, obedient pulse, flickered with unease. Jon was really worried for his life now, if that old terrifying man ever found out who he was. Could he even survive such a old being who had been ruling this city from the shadows for a couple centuries.
Moqorro placed a hand lightly on Jon's shoulder. The warmth of it, familiar and grounding, was enough to steady his racing heart. "Do not be afraid, Jon. You are my student. I will make sure no harm comes to you."
Jon swallowed, heart hammering, and nodded. The fire within him surged, warm and alive, affirming his presence. He would not kneel. He would not flinch. He nodded, swallowing the fear that had threatened to overwhelm him. He was a Red Priest, an adept of the flame, and he would face whatever power Volantis could throw at him, unbroken.
Jon's gaze shifted from the bustling streets of Volantis to the distant spires. As the carriage ascended the terraced roads toward the higher quarters, the grandeur became overwhelming. Towers of pale marble rose in elegant spirals, crowned with gilded domes shaped like braziers and braids of flame etched into their surfaces. Bridges arched over wide canals that gleamed with fiery reflections, and fountains sprayed water that shimmered like liquid sunlight, yet never doused the heat of the city; they seemed instead to glow in harmony with it.
He turned to Moqorro, curiosity gnawing at him. "So Master… the old man, the one who just watched us… he must not be the only one, right?" Jon's fingers twitched slightly, almost imperceptibly, as if he could already sense other currents of magic in the city. "There must be more… powerful figures among the Old Bloods. Who else holds sway here? Who are the others that the Faith contends with?"
Moqorro's eyes glimmered, "Besides the old man, there are three others who are at the Master rank."
Jon leaned closer, his heartbeat quickening. That meant that the Red Faith was outnumbered by the Old Bloods which was not a good sign of things to come.
"First, there is Lord Draxor Paenymion, called the Wyvern Lord…Many say he is insane, but there is method to his madness. He traveled to Sothoryos… specifically to a place called Wyvern Point. There, he captured wyverns—creatures of claw, wing, and poison. Fierce, untamable, and deadly. He keeps them in a private menagerie, and he has attempted to ride them, as the old dragonlords once rode dragons."
Jon's eyebrows shot up. "Wyverns? Are… are you serious? He actually tried to ride them?"
Moqorro's grin was thin, dangerous. "He did and commands one fierce one. He is ambitious and tries to have his many children emulate him. Most die in the attempt. But he seeks just a fraction of the power the old dragons once held. He has no patience for caution. To him, life is a tool, and the wyverns… they are a means to reclaim the majesty that has long been lost to men."
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Jon's mind spun at the thought. That was truly the high of insanity and ambition. He wondered if the man could truly do that. He recalled his foes up North beyond the wall. They had command of wyverns, snowy ones which were little children compared to the great and powerful dragons but it was a start.
"The city humors him," Moqorro stated. "His family is ancient. His influence is rooted deep. And, perhaps, they fear what might happen if he were denied his… toys. But also they too wish he can succeed so they can also try to tame them."
Jon shuddered slightly, the thought of immense, flying beasts…twice or thrice the size of a man bound to the will of these slavers. They would reign over a very terrible, dark time much like the old dragonlords but much more contained. Still it sent a chill and he couldn't deny a thrill down his spine.
Moqorro didn't pause. "Then there is Lady Vrolka Vhassar, known as the Forger. She is… formidable when it comes to crafts and also a woman of great stature. The fire smiths of Volantis, nearly all of them, bend to her will. She is said to carry the blood of fire giants. Her hands alone can craft weapons, armor, and tools that bear power beyond mortal comprehension."
Jon blinked, astonished. "Wait… fire giants? They were real?" These were only myths whispered about in his home in the North.
Moqorro's gaze was steady. "Yes, but they have died out. They were creatures of Valyria, enslaved by the dragonlords to build their monumental structures. They were wiped out in the Doom, but traces of their strength survive in the veins of some of their descendants like Lady Vrolka."
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Jon's pulse raced. He tried to imagine standing in the same room as a woman who carried the might of fire giants in her blood. "And the last?" Jon asked, leaning forward as the carriage rattled past a cluster of stone towers
"The Maiden," Moqorro said simply, his tone dropping, grave and measured. "Lady Kynvarra Aerteris, called the Maiden for reasons many fail to understand until it is far too late. She is trapped in eternal youth; a girl's form, sweet and unassuming, but a trap. Beneath that surface lies cunning, cruelty, and magic twisted to prolong life and punish those who oppose her. She commands the Eternal Flame cult, a sect devoted to the pursuit of immortality at any cost. Her influence is subtle, pervasive, and lethal in the city."
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Jon's brow furrowed. He heard of that cult and it was nice to figure out who was in charge of it but something bothered him. "Her name sounds familiar."
"Yes, that is because she and Kinvara are sisters," the old man answered.
His mind connected the dots immediately, "So she is a flame scion?"
"No, she is an actual Old Blood. Her house was faithful to the faith with their father long ago giving one of his daughters to us."
"How… how does the Faith contend with them?" Jon asked finally, his voice quiet, almost reverent.
Moqorro's lips curved slightly. "Carefully," he said. "The Faith is powerful, yes but even the Red Priests must respect the foundations upon which the Old Bloods built their strength. This city does not bend easily, Jon. It does not forgive the reckless. The Faith has influence, devotion, and our god…but the Old Bloods have knowledge, bloodlines, and ancient treasures of the dragonlords that have survived the Doom. To navigate them, one must be patient, observant, and cunning."
Moqorro's dark-skinned face was impassive, but his eyes held a faint glimmer, like coals glowing beneath ash. "Don't worry though, our time will come soon. And when it does, we will save all these lost flocks of our lord,"
Looking at his eyes and seeing the zeal, Jon sometimes forgot this man was a priest and not just a researcher. He really believed all this unlike him who was just opportunistically coming here to learn their knowledge on fire magic.
Still the enormity of it pressed on him. The city he had once thought he knew; the streets, the spires, the temples, and the merchants hawking their wares was now a living chessboard. He felt now as if every shadow might conceal a master of the old bloods; every glance from a window might hold the gaze of someone capable of bending fire, blood, or shadows itself to their will. The weight of history, of rivalry, of long-brewing enmity between the Faith and these families, settled on his shoulders like a mantle of iron.
The carriage rumbled closer to the towering silhouette of the main temple that appeared in the horizon. The massive bronze gates gleamed, reflecting the afternoon sun in streaks of gold, and the spires soared high above the city like fingers of metal reaching toward the heavens. The smell of incense, of blood, and of burning candles seeped from the temple's doors, mingling with the scent of the city.
Moqorro stepped out of th carriage when they came before the steps. Jon inhaled deeply, the scent of incense and smoke filling his lungs, and felt the heat of the flame that coursed through him, steady and tamed.
He would get through this life and see it to the end, he already reached heights in power he only did near the end. Now he wanted to take the next step and become an actual Master. Here he would see to that, and here he wished to also maybe aim for something much higher.
A rank that children of the forest only whispered about that the Great Elders reached, High Mage. A Grandmaster.
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The Temple of the Lord of Light was the highlight of the city, its vast domes and spires burning crimson beneath the late afternoon sky. Within its deepest sanctum, beyond halls of chanting acolytes and corridors lit by braziers that never dimmed, the Red Council gathered.
It was not a meeting called lightly. Deep in the volcanic bedrock beneath Volantis there was a grand gathering. The chamber itself was circular, immense, its ceiling lost in a haze of incense and heat. Rings of carved black stone descended toward a vast central pyre, a controlled inferno contained within a sunken basin of obsidian and red-gold metal. The flames did not merely burn, they moved with strange purpose, rising and folding inward as if listening.
Many powerful people gathered today for the rite that was about to happen and this very important meeting that was going to unfold.
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Some stood in person upon the descending tiers, robed in crimson, scarlet, or deep wine. Others appeared within towering braziers placed evenly along the outer ring; manifestations formed of fire, their faces flickering in orange light as they projected themselves from distant temples across Essos. The flames shaped their features imperfectly yet recognizably; eyes glowed like coals, mouths moved in silent murmurs before sound reached the chamber.
All were Red Priests and Priestesses. All were mages of flame. Adepts each and every single one of them. A grand total of 28 of them! And at the highest tier, upon three elevated thrones carved from black volcanic stone veined with red crystal, sat the three who ruled the Faith.
At the center was Benerro, the High Priest of Volantis and acknowledged Voice of the Lord of Light. His bald head gleamed in the firelight, and his eyes burned with unsettling intensity. Fervor radiated from him like heat from a furnace. It was said his sermons could move armies and cause entire districts to fall to their knees in ecstasy or terror.
To his right sat Kinvara, serene and composed. Unlike Benerro's overt blaze, her presence was controlled. She oversaw the temples, the academies, the rituals, the vast administrative machinery of the Faith. Where Benerro inspired devotion, she ensured obedience. Her eyes swept the chamber with quiet calculation.
To Benerro's left sat Moqorro, the Black Flame, massive and solemn, his presence like a banked volcano waiting to stir. His gaze drifted briefly downward toward Jon who just entered.
Jon stood at the lowest tier, just before the central pyre. He was to become the new Red Priest of the Faith, the 29th in the order.
He could feel it, the weight of attention. Many pairs of eyes, some curious, some skeptical, some openly measuring. He saw some familiar faces including Azula and his teachers from the Flame Hall.
He could see it in most of their faces, they thought he was young. He was younger than all present. Yet the air around him shimmered faintly with heat, subtle distortions rippling from his body. His crimson regalia gleamed in the firelight, gold threads alive with ember-glow.
He was an adept. The fastest rise in known history. Whispers had preceded him of a Northern boy who had walked through lava, whose only joined the faith two years ago as a uninitiated, whose body had elementalized without madness or death. Some believed it exaggeration. Others feared it was not.
Benerro spoke first. The chamber fell silent. "Brothers and sisters of the Faith," his voice boomed, magnified not by spell but by sheer force of presence, "we gather beneath the gaze of R'hllor to witness what has not been seen in generations."
The central pyre flared. Jon felt it respond not to Benerro but to him. He kept his breathing steady. "This child of the North," Benerro continued, "has endured the trials. He has walked the crucible. He has mastered the inner flame and shaped it without corruption. He stands before us as an adept."
A murmur rippled through the tiers. Some of the brazier projections leaned forward slightly, flame-face narrowing. Kinvara's gaze lingered on Jon with faint approval.
Moqorro remained still. Benerro gestured. "Step forward, Jon Snow." Jon descended the final steps until he stood at the very edge of the central inferno. The heat would have killed an ordinary man within seconds. Even seasoned priests felt discomfort so close.
Kinvara's voice carried next. "Do you present yourself willingly to the Lord of Light?"
Jon's throat felt dry. "I do."
"Do you surrender your former allegiances?" Moqorro asked, eyes sharp. "Your house, your land, your blood?"
The North flashed in his mind of snow, direwolves, cold winds, his siblings. The ache in his chest returned. He did not wish to let go of them but for this life he would give himself to the flame to see where it took him. "I serve the Lord of Light."
Benerro extended his hands toward the flames. "Then you will be judged not by us but by Him." The initiation began. Two priests stepped forward carrying a shallow obsidian bowl filled with oil infused with powdered fireroot and crushed rubies. The liquid shimmered faintly red as though embers slept beneath its surface, waiting to wake.
Kinvara spoke the Invocation calling upon something. A language that tasted of ash and sunfire, of cities drowned in magma and skies blackened by wings. The air tightened. The flames stilled.
Moqorro stepped forward then. From within his sleeve he withdrew a small obsidian blade. He grasped Jon's left hand. "The fire requires blood." The blade sliced across Jon's palm. Pain flared brief and hot. Blood welled. Moqorro guided Jon's hand above the flame as it dripped down.
The pyre surged upward in a violent column of scarlet and gold, roaring high enough to brush the domed ceiling. Heat crashed outward in a wave, forcing several lesser priests to shield their faces. The two attendants stumbled back.
Benerro's voice rose. "Enter and meet your Maker!" With no hesitation. Jon stepped into the fire. The inferno swallowed him whole. The flame recognized him and welcomed him into their embrace.
For a breathless moment, he disappeared. He stood within the inferno and then—nothing. Jon stood within a world of fire but it was not the chamber anymore. The stone, the priests, the dome all were gone.
He stood upon an endless expanse of blazing horizon. A sky of molten gold churned overhead, threaded with rivers of crimson lightning. Beneath his feet stretched a sea of living flame, rolling in silent waves. There was no wind. No sound. Only presence.
Then it came. An awareness descending from beyond comprehension. The golden sky darkened into deeper brilliance, as though another sun had risen behind it. The sea of flame bowed inward. Jon felt it before he saw anything. A weight vast enough to crush mountains. Ancient and powerful beyond reckoning.
The fire did not belong to it. The fire was it. The horizon parted before it as it descended just a tiny portion of it. Wings not of flesh, but of solar prominence unfurled across eternity. Eyes like twin collapsing stars opened. A crown of flares spiraled around a head formed of condensed radiance. It was not dragon. Not a man. Not any creature language could define.
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When its awareness fell fully upon him. Jon fell to one knee. Not from force. But from instinct. His mortal frame trembled, not in fear alone but in recognition as if something buried in his blood had always known this moment would come.
The being did not speak. Speech was too small. Instead, the flames around Jon shifted. Visions erupted in the air.
He saw snowfields drowned in darkness. A wall of ice cracking beneath shadow. Kingdoms shattering. Cities burning. A sword of flame raised against a tide of night. He saw himself older, harder standing amid ruin and fire. He saw death, so much death and his true foe. Also the foe of R'hllor.
The being's gaze did not command. It measured. Judged. Tested.
The awareness withdrew. Not fully. Never fully. But enough.
The sea of fire steadied. The sky returned to molten gold.
Jon gasped. The vision collapsed. The chamber roared back into existence around him. The inferno still towered high, but now its color had changed. No longer simple red and gold. Now streaked with white-hot brilliance at its core.
Within the flames, his silhouette stood upright. Slowly, deliberately, Jon stepped forward out of the pyre. The fire clung to him not only burning but also crowning him in a mantle of living flames. His eyes blazed no mere orange color or red but bright gold.