Ten years later
Near the northern edge of ruined Valyria, not far from the borderlands overlooking the Black Cliffs, stood what remained of the city of Bhonash.
Once, it had belonged to the Freehold.
In the days before the Doom, Bhonash had been a prosperous provincial city built along one of the lesser roads leading toward the Valyrian heartlands. Black stone towers had risen above its walls, dragon roads had carried soldiers and merchants through its gates, and lesser dragonlord families had ruled from estates overlooking the surrounding hills.
Now, it was little more than a corpse that had forgotten to fall.
Entire districts lay abandoned beneath ash, moss, and creeping vines. Most of the old towers had collapsed long ago, leaving jagged foundations and broken arches jutting from the earth like exposed bones. Sections of the outer wall still stood, though barely. Great cracks ran through the fused black stone, and several gates had been replaced with crude wooden barricades assembled from scavenged beams and rusted iron.
Only a few thousand people remained within the ruins.
Most were slaves of Valyrian blood.
Some possessed the pale hair and violet eyes associated with the old Freehold. Others carried only faint remnants of it—silver hidden among darker hair, unusual shades within otherwise ordinary eyes, or features that hinted at bloodlines long since scattered and diluted.
Their ancestry earned them no honor here.
It made them targets.
The ruling families of Bhonash descended from peoples once enslaved by the Valyrians. Generations had passed since the Doom, but the old hatred remained, preserved through stories, punishment, and tradition. The descendants of former slaves now held the whips, while those bearing the blood of their ancestors' masters labored beneath them.
The irony was not lost on anyone.
It simply made the cruelty worse.
The remaining population consisted of merchants, craftsmen, hired blades, and poor free citizens whose status placed them only slightly above the slaves. They possessed no true power, but many still treated those beneath them with contempt, desperate to prove that there was someone in Bhonash worth less than they were.
The slaves worked in ruined quarries, patched the crumbling walls, cleaned homes built from stolen Valyrian stone, and descended into unstable tunnels in search of anything that could be sold. They were beaten for moving too slowly, punished for speaking out of turn, and starved whenever their masters decided obedience required another lesson.
In some ways, they were treated worse than the slaves of Slaver's Bay.
At least the great masters there understood that valuable property had to remain alive.
Bhonash's masters cared more about vengeance than value.
Yet the city was usually quiet.
Its people had learned to lower their eyes, keep their voices soft, and endure whatever the day brought. The guards grew bored at their posts. The masters drank beneath shaded awnings while others worked. Even violence had become routine enough to attract little attention.
That morning was no different.
The sky was clear, the air dry, and the midday sun hung directly over the ruined city. Heat shimmered above the broken stone roads. Slaves carried baskets through the market while overseers shouted at them from beneath cloth canopies.
Then the light began to fade.
At first, most assumed a cloud had crossed in front of the sun.
A few people glanced upward before returning to their work.
The darkness continued spreading.
Shadows deepened across the street. The temperature dropped slightly. Merchants paused in the middle of their bargaining as a great, uneven murmur rolled through the air.
Wings.
Thousands of them.
One by one, heads tilted toward the sky.
The first screams followed shortly after.
Crows and ravens covered the heavens.
There were hundreds at the very least, perhaps several thousand. They moved in dense, shifting formations, circling above Bhonash until scarcely any blue remained visible between their bodies. The sunlight broke through only in brief, flickering gaps as the flock twisted and folded across itself.
Their cries filled the city.
Caws, croaks, and harsh shrieks echoed between the ruined walls until it sounded as though the stones themselves had found voices.
Slaves stopped where they stood.
Some dropped to their knees.
Others backed into doorways or pressed themselves against walls, staring upward with wide eyes. A basket slipped from one woman's hands, scattering hard roots across the street. No one moved to collect them.
The free citizens reacted little better.
People shouted prayers to half a dozen gods. Mothers pulled children indoors. Guards raised spears toward the sky despite having no idea what they intended to do with them.
At the center of the market stood the ruler of Bhonash, Morzhar zo Vhaedar, a broad-bellied man draped in dyed silk and heavy gold chains.
He had been seated beneath an awning while two servants fanned him.
Now he stood, knocking over his chair as he stared at the blackened sky.
"What are you waiting for?" Morzhar roared at the guards surrounding him. "Do something!"
The nearest soldiers exchanged uneasy glances.
One lifted his bow, though there were so many birds overhead that choosing a target seemed pointless.
Then something separated from the flock.
It descended slowly at first, little more than a dark shape against the greater darkness above. As it dropped lower, its wings spread wide enough to cast a shadow across half the market.
People scattered.
The creature landed on the broken rim of an old Valyrian fountain with enough weight to crack the stone beneath its talons.
Silence spread outward from it.
Even the flock overhead seemed to quiet.
The creature resembled a crow—or perhaps a raven—but no natural bird could have grown so large. Standing upright, its head reached nearly as high as a man's chest. Its wings were broad enough to wrap around several people at once, and its feathers were blacker than midnight, swallowing the sunlight rather than reflecting it.
It possessed three legs.
Two gripped the fountain's edge.
The third rested slightly forward against the stone, its long talons scraping across the ancient surface.
Its eyes moved across the gathered crowd with an awareness no ordinary animal should have possessed.
Then it opened its beak.
"Caw!"
Several people flinched.
The bird tilted its head.
"Surrender or die! Caw!"
For a moment, no one responded.
Then someone laughed.
It began as a nervous sound near the back of the crowd. Another person joined in, followed by several of the guards. Relief passed through the market as fear gave way to disbelief.
The bird was monstrous, unnatural, and more than a little disturbing, but Bhonash stood close enough to the powers ruling Essos that strange creatures were not unheard of. Dragons crossed the skies. Sorcerers passed through distant courts. Travelers told stories of beasts far more unnatural than an oversized bird capable of repeating words.
The laughter grew louder.
Morzhar's fear quickly transformed into anger once he realized others were watching him.
He straightened his robes and pointed toward the creature.
"Kill it."
The laughter faded.
One of the guards hesitated. "My lord?"
"Kill it," Morzhar repeated. "I will have its body displayed above the gate. Let every fool who enters Bhonash see what becomes of creatures that threaten me."
Several archers raised their bows.
The three-legged raven watched them without moving.
The first arrow was loosed.
Its wings opened.
With one powerful beat, the creature rose beyond the reach of the guards. The arrow passed beneath it and shattered against the fountain.
More arrows followed, but the raven climbed only slightly higher, hovering just far enough above the market that none could touch it.
It looked down at Morzhar.
"Caw! Die it is, then! Caw!"
Its beak parted wider.
"See you soon!"
The words were followed by laughter.
Not the rough mimicry of a bird imitating a human sound.
Real laughter.
Wild, delighted, and utterly unhinged.
The noise deepened as it continued, twisting into something that sounded less like an animal and more like a demon struggling to speak through a crow's throat. Several guards lowered their bows. A few slaves made signs against evil.
The raven climbed toward the waiting flock, still laughing.
Then it released one final caw.
The sound struck Bhonash like a physical force.
Windows trembled. Dust spilled from ruined rooftops. Horses screamed and pulled at their restraints while people covered their ears.
Above the city, the entire flock moved at once.
Thousands of birds broke apart in every direction, scattering across the sky in great black streams. Within moments, sunlight returned to the streets, harsh and sudden after the unnatural darkness.
The three-legged raven disappeared with them.
Its laughter lingered over Bhonash long after the final black shape vanished beyond the ruined walls.
Later that night, when the moon reached its highest point and the world slipped into the Hour of Ghosts, figures gathered on a hill overlooking Bhonash.
The ruined city lay below them in uneasy silence.
From that distance, its few surviving lights resembled dying embers scattered between the broken shells of towers. Crude wooden palisades had been fitted into gaps in the ancient black walls, while watchfires burned above the main gate. The guards stationed there were more alert than usual after the events of midday, though none of them understood what they were supposed to be watching for.
The three-legged raven had vanished hours ago.
Its warning had not.
Surrender or die.
Morzhar zo Vhaedar had ordered additional guards onto the walls and doubled the patrols along the streets. He had also commanded every bird found within Bhonash to be killed, as though slaughtering ordinary crows might undo the humiliation he had suffered in front of his people.
The corpses now hung from poles around the market.
The flock had not returned.
Something else had.
Dozens of men and women stood along the crest of the hill, their silhouettes nearly indistinguishable from the night behind them.
They wore armor fashioned from overlapping layers of black leather reinforced with thin plates of dark metal. Each plate had been shaped like a narrow dragon scale, giving their bodies the appearance of being wrapped in the hide of some lean, shadow-born beast. Faint Valyrian markings had been etched along their shoulders, vambraces, and breastplates, though the silver lines had been deliberately dulled to prevent moonlight from betraying their position.
Long, weathered cloaks hung from their shoulders.
Some were dark blue.
Others were black enough to blend into the earth beneath their boots.
The cloth had been cut into uneven strips near the bottom, allowing it to move freely without catching around their legs. High collars and wrapped scarves concealed their throats, while narrow, angular helmets hid most of their faces. The helmets had been designed in the Valyrian fashion, with elongated cheek guards, swept crests, and ridges resembling folded draconic wings.
There was nothing ceremonial about them.
Every piece had been built for war.
Each warrior carried an enormous greatsword across the back or resting against one shoulder. The blades were too long and heavy for ordinary soldiers to wield comfortably, yet the warriors held them without visible strain. Their metal was dark, scarred, and marked by repeated use rather than polished for display.
A curved dagger rested in every left hand.
The smaller blades were narrow and hooked, perfect for slipping beneath armor, catching an enemy's weapon, or cutting into exposed joints once the greatsword had forced them off balance.
None of the warriors spoke.
More unsettlingly, they made no sound.
Their boots pressed into dry grass without producing so much as a whisper. Armor shifted without creaking. Steel never scraped against leather or metal. Even their cloaks moved beneath the night wind with unnatural silence.
They did not resemble an army waiting for battle.
They resembled a pack of ghosts that had already decided where the bodies would fall.
A larger figure stepped through their ranks.
The warriors shifted aside immediately.
He stood taller than nearly every man present, his body enclosed in dark, battered plate. The armor had once been richly worked, but years of violence had scarred its surface. Long grooves crossed the breastplate. Parts of the shoulder guards were chipped, and the blue-black cloth hanging from his neck had been torn into strips by blades, claws, or both.
His helmet rose into a narrow, pointed crest, with a ragged plume trailing down the back.
Only darkness could be seen through the visor.
In his left hand, he carried a massive shield tall enough to cover most of his body. The surface was blackened and uneven, marked by old impacts that would have shattered lesser protection.
Across his right shoulder rested an ultra greatsword.
The weapon was nearly as tall as he was. Its broad blade bore no decorative jewels, only deep scratches and dark stains that polishing had never fully removed.
The knight reached the front of the gathering and lowered the weapon.
Its point struck the earth with a heavy metallic thud.
The sound carried across the hill, the first noise any of the warriors had made since arriving.
He pushed the sword deeper into the soil until it stood upright before him, then rested both hands on its pommel and looked toward Bhonash.
Ser Artorias had come to observe the city he had been ordered to destroy.
He studied the remaining walls, the gate, the positions of the watchfires, and the number of guards moving along the battlements. His helmet concealed any reaction, but his stillness did not resemble hesitation.
It was calculation.
Two younger figures emerged from the silent ranks behind him.
They could not have been more than sixteen or seventeen, yet the warriors moved aside for them with the same immediate obedience they had shown Artorias.
The first was a slender young man with pale skin and thick black hair falling in loose waves around his face. His clothes were more refined than those of the soldiers but no less dark: a fitted black coat with a high collar, silver embroidery at the throat, and layered leather beneath the fabric. He possessed an almost delicate appearance, though the calm way his grey eyes moved across Bhonash suggested he missed very little.
Regulus stopped beside Artorias.
His cousin came to stand on the knight's other side.
Bellatrix wore her dark hair long, wild, and heavy around her shoulders, with several curls drifting across her face whenever the wind shifted. Her black dress had been constructed for movement rather than courtly appearance, fitted closely through the torso before falling into layered skirts split along the sides. Dark leather belts crossed her waist and ribs, securing several small pouches, blades, and magical instruments.
There was elegance in her appearance.
There was also something restless beneath it.
Her eyes remained fixed on Bhonash with the open impatience of someone waiting for permission to break something.
Artorias pulled his sword from the earth and lowered himself onto one knee.
The movement passed through the ranks behind him.
Dozens of armored warriors knelt in complete silence, greatswords planted upright beside them and curved daggers held across their thighs.
Only Regulus and Bellatrix remained standing.
The ruined city stretched before them.
Bellatrix crossed her arms.
"Tell me something, Cousin Regulus."
Regulus released a quiet breath, already recognizing the tone.
"Do I have a choice?"
"No." She gestured toward Bhonash with one hand. "Why does Father continue wasting our time on settlements like this?"
Her nose wrinkled as she looked over the broken walls.
"There are barely enough people down there to call it a city. Half the buildings have already fallen apart, and the rest look as though a strong wind might finish them. We have dragons, magic, soldiers, and enough strength to make the Free Cities panic."
Her gaze sharpened.
"We should take one."
Regulus turned his head toward her.
"We have discussed this."
"You have talked," Bellatrix corrected. "I have been forced to listen."
He stared at her for a moment before looking back toward Bhonash.
"Father wants every nearby settlement emptied before we move against a major power. Their people, supplies, weapons, livestock, magical remnants—anything useful is taken. Anything dangerous is destroyed."
Bellatrix rolled her eyes.
"Yes, I understood the plan the first dozen times."
"Then why do you continue asking?"
"Because it remains boring."
Regulus sighed.
Bhonash had spent generations scavenging the remains of Valyria while brutalizing the descendants of those who had once ruled it. Its population might have been small compared with the great cities of Essos, but several thousand bodies still represented labor, soldiers, genetic material, and Genesis Points.
Nothing living within the surrounding territory was considered worthless.
Not anymore.
"This is the final settlement along the northern route," Regulus continued. "Once Bhonash falls, we move on Mantarys. What happens after that depends on Father."
Bellatrix's expression shifted slightly at the name.
Mantarys was no crumbling village hiding behind broken walls. It was larger, richer, and far better defended. Rumors spoke of twisted creatures living within it, descendants of the Doom and whatever experiments had survived beneath the ruined Valyrian earth.
That, at least, promised entertainment.
"Fine," she said. "Whatever Father wants."
Regulus gave her a sidelong look.
"You say that as though you ever mean it."
"I mean it often enough."
"You attempted to alter his orders three days ago."
"I improved them."
"You released the prisoners before they were questioned."
"They looked frightened."
"They were supposed to be frightened."
"And they ran much faster because of it."
Regulus closed his eyes for a moment.
There were arguments he had learned not to continue.
Bellatrix turned away from him and looked down at the kneeling knight.
"Ser Artorias."
The armored commander raised his head.
"Begin the invasion."
Artorias reached for his sword.
Before he could rise, Bellatrix lifted one finger.
"Wait."
Regulus looked at her.
"What now?"
"The gate."
"What about it?"
"It is ugly."
"That is not relevant."
"It offends me."
"It has stood for several centuries without your approval."
"Then it has been fortunate until tonight."
Bellatrix stepped past Artorias and approached the edge of the hill.
Her right hand disappeared into the folds of her clothing.
When it emerged, she held a wand.
It was longer than most, its surface pure black and polished to a dull sheen. Thin red cracks ran along the wood from the handle toward the tip, glowing faintly like heat trapped beneath cooled stone. The wand did not resemble something carved from a tree.
It looked as though it had been pulled from the remains of a burned world.
Regulus's attention shifted toward the city.
"Bellatrix."
She ignored the warning in his voice.
The main gate of Bhonash stood several hundred yards away. It had been assembled from enormous wooden beams banded together with rusted iron and fitted between two surviving sections of the old Valyrian wall.
Guards moved above it.
A few had begun pointing toward the hill, though the darkness and silent armor made it difficult for them to understand what they were seeing.
Bellatrix extended the wand.
The red cracks brightened beneath her fingers.
Her wild hair lifted slightly as magical pressure gathered around her. The surrounding grass bent away from her feet, and a low vibration passed through the air.
She smiled.
"Bombarda Maxima."
A brilliant white light erupted from the tip of the wand.
The spell crossed the distance almost instantly, leaving a pale streak across the darkness. For one suspended moment, it illuminated the field, the broken walls, and the horrified faces of the guards standing above the gate.
Then it struck.
The center of the gate vanished inside an explosion.
Wood splintered outward in every direction. Iron bands snapped and twisted through the air. The shockwave struck the surrounding walls hard enough to tear loose chunks of ancient stone, throwing guards from the battlements and extinguishing several watchfires at once.
The sound rolled across the valley like thunder.
Flames rose from the ruined entrance.
Screams followed a heartbeat later.
Bellatrix lowered her wand and admired the breach she had created.
"Well," she said, glancing back at the kneeling army. "There you go."
The assault moves quickly, with Artorias's force behaving less like an army and more like a disciplined execution squad. I kept the massacre brutal and horrifying without lingering graphically on the deaths of children.
The explosion had not finished echoing when Ser Artorias rose.
He pulled the ultra greatsword from the earth in one smooth motion and lifted it toward the burning breach.
The kneeling warriors moved with him.
Dozens of enormous blades rose from the grass at once, catching the firelight spilling from Bhonash. Their curved daggers disappeared beneath cloaks or locked against armored forearms, ready to be drawn the moment the fighting became too close for greatswords.
No one shouted.
There was no battle cry.
No horns announced their advance.
The black-armored soldiers simply began walking down the hill.
That silence unsettled Regulus more than any roar could have.
Most armies needed noise. Men shouted because courage was easier to maintain when everyone around them pretended not to be afraid. Drums gave frightened feet a rhythm to follow. Commanders screamed orders because chaos swallowed quiet voices.
Artorias's soldiers needed none of it.
They spread across the slope in loose groups, each unit maintaining enough space to swing their weapons without striking one another. Their dark cloaks trailed behind them, and their dragonscale armor absorbed the weak moonlight until the approaching formation seemed less like men descending a hill and more like the darkness itself sliding toward Bhonash.
Within the city, bells began to ring.
The first was frantic and uneven.
Then another joined it.
By the time Artorias reached the base of the hill, every surviving bell in Bhonash had begun screaming into the night.
Guards poured toward the shattered gate.
Some arrived half-armored, fastening belts as they ran. Others carried spears, hooked swords, axes, or scavenged Valyrian weapons they barely understood. Archers climbed the damaged walls and released arrows into the field before they had proper targets.
The first volley fell wide.
The second did not.
Arrows hissed toward Artorias's advancing soldiers.
Several warriors raised their greatswords rather than shields. Steel moved in short, controlled arcs, knocking shafts from the air. Other arrows struck dragonscale armor and snapped or glanced away.
One pierced the gap beneath a woman's shoulder guard.
She staggered.
The man beside her caught her before she fell, snapped the shaft close to the wound, and pushed her back toward the rear without breaking stride. Another warrior immediately filled the opening she left behind.
No panic.
No angry retaliation.
The formation simply corrected itself.
Bellatrix watched from the hill, her wand still raised.
"They are shooting at us."
Regulus gave her a flat look. "That is generally what defenders do during an invasion."
"I dislike it," Bellatrix said, her voice tight with irritation, eyes narrowing as another arrow struck the invisible barrier.
Regulus let out a quiet breath, almost weary. "You dislike most things," he replied, though there was a faint edge of concern beneath the dryness.
Her gaze flicked toward him, sharp and defiant. "That's not true," she snapped, a flicker of something more vulnerable passing through her expression before it hardened again. "I like plenty of things."
"Do you?" Regulus asked, studying her now, as if trying to see past the mask she wore. "Then name three."
Bellatrix hesitated—just for a heartbeat—before turning back toward the battlements, lifting her wand as if the act itself steadied her.
"Fire," she said, quieter now, almost reverent.
Her lips curled into a thin, dangerous smile.
"Screaming."
Her eyes gleamed, something fierce and unyielding burning behind them.
"Winning."
Before Regulus could answer, she flicked her wand.
"Confringo."
A red-white bolt struck the top of the wall.
Stone burst outward. The archers standing there vanished behind dust and flame, several thrown into the streets below. The remaining defenders ducked behind the battlements, their hurried shots becoming even less accurate.
Bellatrix smiled.
"Three."
Regulus exhaled slowly through his nose, then lifted his own wand.
His was slimmer than hers, dark wood marked by faint silver veins. Rather than aiming at the defenders, he pointed toward the open field between the army and the gate.
"Protego Maxima."
A translucent barrier unfolded ahead of the advancing warriors.
Arrows struck it and stopped in the air, shivering against an invisible surface before dropping harmlessly into the grass. The shield moved forward with the formation, curving wide enough to shelter the leading ranks.
Bellatrix glanced toward him.
"You could have done that earlier."
"You could have left the wall intact."
"It was in the way."
"So are mountains."
Her eyes brightened. "Are we destroying one of those next?"
Regulus ignored her.
Artorias reached the breach first.
The remains of the gate burned around him. Broken beams leaned against each other, and twisted iron lay scattered across the road. Smoke poured through the opening, carrying the scent of charred wood, dust, and scorched flesh.
A line of Bhonashi guards waited behind it.
They had planted long spears in the rubble, creating a wall of points aimed directly at the entrance. More soldiers crowded behind them, while men on the rooftops prepared stones and jars of burning oil.
Their captain shouted something in a local Valyrian dialect.
Artorias did not respond.
He shifted the greatsword into both hands.
The guards braced.
For a moment, neither side moved.
Then Artorias charged.
He crossed the broken gate with terrifying speed for a man carrying so much armor. The defenders thrust their spears together, expecting weight and momentum to carry him onto the points.
Artorias slammed his shield forward.
Spearheads struck black metal.
Several snapped.
Others slid aside as he twisted his body, turning the shield into a wedge. He crashed into the front rank with enough force to lift men from their feet and drive them backward into those behind them.
Before they could recover, his sword came around.
The first swing struck shields, spears, and bodies together.
The defenders' line folded.
Wood exploded beneath the blade. Iron bent. Men were thrown into walls or knocked beneath the feet of those behind them. Artorias stepped into the space he had created and swung again, cutting a path wide enough for the silent warriors to enter.
They poured through the breach.
The greatswords did not move like ordinary heavy weapons.
The soldiers used them in broad rotational cuts, changing the angle midway through each swing. One blade forced an opponent's guard aside; the curved dagger in the opposite hand found the opening. Another warrior caught a spear beneath his greatsword's crossguard, twisted it out of the wielder's hands, then drove his armored shoulder into the man behind him.
They fought in groups of three.
One pressured.
One guarded.
One killed.
When a defender attempted to retreat, the formation changed. The nearest warrior hooked a curved dagger around the man's ankle and dragged him backward while another finished him without slowing.
They advanced street by street.
Behind them, the gate became a graveyard of broken weapons and motionless bodies.
The people of Bhonash fled before the fighting reached them.
Doors slammed.
Families crowded into cellars and ruined temples. Merchants abandoned their stalls, leaving coins and goods scattered across the market. Slaves were dragged from sleeping quarters by frightened masters who suddenly remembered the value of human shields.
The black-armored invaders did not slow.
A group of defenders tried to form a barricade between two collapsed buildings. Tables, wagons, and stone blocks had been piled across the road, with crossbowmen waiting behind them.
Artorias raised one fist.
His warriors stopped.
The crossbowmen fired.
Regulus's shield caught most of the bolts, but one crossed beneath its lower edge and struck a soldier through the thigh.
He dropped to one knee.
The warriors beside him did not rush forward.
Instead, they stepped apart.
Bellatrix came walking through the formation.
Her expression had lost its earlier amusement.
She looked at the bolt protruding from the soldier's leg, then toward the barricade.
"You ruined the symmetry."
The crossbowmen stared at her.
Bellatrix pointed her wand at the ground beneath them.
"Expulso."
The street erupted.
The barricade lifted into the air with the men behind it. Wagons broke apart. Tables spun through smoke and dust. The front of one building collapsed inward, burying the retreat route beneath black stone.
Artorias lowered his fist.
The warriors resumed their advance.
Bellatrix stepped aside as though she had merely opened a door.
The slaughter spread outward from the main road.
Orders passed through the attackers without words. Hand signs, sword positions, and brief flashes of colored light directed units toward predetermined sections of the city.
One group seized the walls.
Another took the wells.
A third surrounded the slave quarters and prevented anyone from leaving until each person could be examined.
The three-legged raven returned above the city.
It circled low over the rooftops, its laughter mixing with the bells and screams.
"Caw! Told you! Caw!"
Morzhar zo Vhaedar heard it from the courtyard of his estate.
He had abandoned the market almost as soon as the gate exploded. His gold chains were gone, replaced with a plain cloak stolen from a servant. Two guards hurried beside him while a third carried a chest filled with coins and gemstones.
A hidden passage beneath the estate led toward an old drainage tunnel outside the walls.
Morzhar shoved slaves aside as he descended.
"Move!"
An elderly woman fell against the steps.
He kicked her until she rolled out of his path.
The tunnel door waited at the bottom, an ancient slab of black stone hidden behind rotting shelves. One guard pulled the release chain.
Nothing happened.
He pulled again.
The chain came loose in his hands.
Morzhar stared.
A sound came from the darkness behind them.
Metal scraping softly over stone.
The guards turned.
Artorias stood at the top of the stairway.
His greatsword rested across one shoulder.
Behind him, firelight flickered through the broken estate, illuminating the dark gaps in his armor.
Morzhar's guards drew their weapons.
The first rushed him.
Artorias caught the man's blade against his shield, shoved it upward, and drove the edge of the shield into his chest. The impact threw him back down the stairs.
The second guard tried to escape through a side chamber.
A curved dagger spun out of the darkness and struck him between the shoulders.
One of Artorias's warriors stepped into view and pulled the weapon free.
Morzhar backed against the sealed tunnel door.
"Wait."
Artorias descended.
"I am the ruler of Bhonash."
The knight continued down the stairs.
"I can pay you."
No response.
"Gold. Gems. Slaves. Whatever your master wants."
Artorias reached the bottom.
Morzhar's voice broke.
"There are Valyrians here. Thousands of them. Take them."
Artorias stopped.
For one hopeful instant, Morzhar believed he had said the correct thing.
Then the knight reached down, took the chest of gold from the dead guard's hands, and passed it to one of his soldiers.
Morzhar swallowed.
"I helped you."
Artorias planted the point of his greatsword against the floor.
His voice emerged from behind the helmet, low and ruined.
"You were warned."
Morzhar's eyes lifted toward the ceiling as the three-legged raven landed on a beam above them.
It tilted its head.
"Caw! Surrender or die."
Morzhar opened his mouth.
The raven laughed.
Artorias's sword moved once.
Above ground, the sorting had begun.
The Valyrian-descended slaves were gathered in the old market under armed protection. Many did not understand why they had been separated. Some expected execution. Others believed they were being claimed as spoils by new masters.
The soldiers examined faces, eyes, hair, and family records.
Those with obvious Valyrian traits were taken immediately.
Silver hair.
Violet eyes.
Pale lashes.
Features preserved through isolated bloodlines.
Those without visible signs were brought before masked women carrying shallow black bowls. A small cut was made across each person's palm, and a single drop of blood was allowed to fall into the liquid.
Valyrian blood caused the surface to shine red and silver.
Anything else remained dark.
Not everyone accepted the test quietly.
Some free citizens lied, claiming lost dragonlord ancestry.
Some masters dragged forward their pale-haired children and insisted their families had always possessed Valyrian blood.
The bowls decided.
Those confirmed were marked with a thin silver line across the wrist and moved behind the soldiers.
Everyone else was forced to the opposite side of the square.
Regulus supervised from the steps of the ruined fountain.
"Record every confirmed bloodline," he ordered. "Separate families only when necessary. Healers inspect the sick before transport. Anyone capable of smithing, masonry, medicine, navigation, languages, or magical study is to be identified."
One of the officers inclined her head.
"And the others?"
Regulus looked across the city.
Screams echoed from the residential districts.
Flames climbed above the rooftops.
"Follow Father's order."
The officer hesitated for less than a second.
Then she turned away.
Bellatrix stood nearby, watching several prisoners being brought into the market.
Most were non-Valyrian craftsmen, guards, or merchants whose skills had earned them temporary survival. Their hands had been bound with black cord, and iron collars rested around their necks.
A man dropped to his knees before her.
"My children."
Bellatrix looked down.
"They were taken to the eastern square. Please. I will do anything."
"Were they Valyrian?"
He stared at her.
"No."
Bellatrix's expression did not change.
"Then you already know."
He lunged.
Regulus moved first.
His wand snapped upward, and the man froze in place, his body held rigid by invisible force.
Bellatrix looked toward her cousin.
"I could have handled that."
"I know."
"Then why interfere?"
"Because we need him alive. He designed the city's underground cisterns."
She studied the prisoner again, her gaze lingering not just on his face but on the trembling of his hands, the way his breath came in shallow, uneven pulls.
"Useful?"
"Potentially."
Bellatrix crouched until they were eye level, her movements slow, deliberate, as though she were examining something fragile rather than a man on the edge of breaking.
"Do you understand what that means?" she asked softly.
He swallowed, eyes darting between her and Regulus, searching for something—mercy, perhaps, or a lie he could believe.
Bellatrix tilted her head, almost curious.
"It means your life has been weighed," she continued, her voice calm, almost gentle. "Not by what you are, but by what you can give."
The man's lips parted, but no words came.
She leaned a fraction closer.
"Congratulations," she said, a faint smile touching her mouth. "You are one of the fortunate ones."
The man's face twisted, relief and horror colliding in equal measure, as if he had just realized that survival might demand more from him than death ever could.
She stood and walked away before he could answer.
Across Bhonash, doors were broken open.
People who resisted were killed where they stood. Those who surrendered were dragged into streets and examined. Valyrians were pulled away from the violence, sometimes by the same soldiers who had just killed their masters.
The rest received little mercy.
Age did not protect them.
Neither did sex, wealth, prayer, or surrender.
The invaders had not come to rule Bhonash.
They had come to empty it.
Some soldiers hesitated when they found children hiding beneath beds or clinging to the bodies of their parents. The hesitation never lasted long. Orders had been given, and Artorias's warriors were disciplined enough to obey even when obedience disgusted them.
The horror lay not in frenzy but in method.
No one was allowed to run.
No one was killed for amusement.
No one was spared from pity.
The city was processed one building at a time.
By the Hour of the Wolf, organized resistance had ended.
The remaining Bhonashi guards made their final stand in the old temple overlooking the market. Barely sixty remained, joined by merchants, overseers, and anyone else desperate enough to hold a weapon.
They barricaded the entrance and filled the stairs with oil, the slick sheen catching the firelight in trembling reflections. The scent of it hung thick in the air—sharp, choking, and unmistakable. It was not merely a defense. It was a promise that anyone who tried to climb would burn.
Inside the temple, voices murmured in strained whispers. Some prayed. Others argued. A few wept openly. The defenders knew what had happened at the gate. They had heard the bells falter, the screams rise and then fade into something worse—silence broken only by fire.
Artorias approached alone.
The defenders shouted curses from behind the doors, their voices cracking between fury and fear.
He stopped at the base of the steps.
For a moment, he simply stood there, looking upward. The oil glistened. The doors loomed. The temple itself—once a place of reverence—had become a final refuge for men who understood they would not leave it alive.
Regulus joined him, his boots crunching softly over scattered debris.
"They intend to ignite the entrance once we climb."
Artorias looked toward the oil, then toward the doors, as though measuring distance, weight, resistance—calculating not whether he could break them, but how quickly.
Bellatrix appeared on his other side, her gaze already drifting toward the structure itself, assessing weaknesses with idle curiosity.
"I can collapse the temple."
"There may be records inside," Regulus said, his tone clipped but controlled.
"There are records everywhere. Most are boring."
"We require these."
Bellatrix clicked her tongue, irritation flickering across her face before fading just as quickly.
Artorias lifted his shield and began climbing.
Each step pressed into the oil-slick stone with deliberate weight. He did not rush. He did not hesitate.
The defenders lit the oil.
Fire raced down the steps in a sudden, roaring cascade, devouring the slick surface in an instant. Heat surged outward, warping the air, turning the stairway into a descending wall of flame.
Artorias walked through it.
The flames wrapped around his greaves and climbed his cloak, licking at the edges of his armor. Firelight reflected across the black metal, turning him into something almost unreal—a figure forged from shadow and flame.
Regulus's magic formed a thin barrier around him, shimmering faintly as it bent the worst of the heat away. Even so, the air shimmered violently, and the smell of burning cloth and oil filled the space.
Still, Artorias did not slow.
The temple doors opened.
The defenders poured out, driven by desperation more than strategy. Some screamed as they charged. Others moved in grim silence, their faces pale and set. They knew what waited behind them if they failed.
Artorias met them halfway.
His shield broke the first charge, slamming into bodies with crushing force. Men stumbled backward, their formation collapsing before it could fully form.
His sword dismantled the second.
Each swing was precise, controlled, devastating. He did not waste motion. He did not overextend. Every strike created space, and every step forward claimed it.
The black-armored warriors followed through the fire behind him, emerging from the smoke like figures dragged from some ancient Valyrian nightmare. Their silhouettes flickered in the flames, blades rising and falling in silent coordination.
The defenders fought with everything they had left.
It was not enough.
The final battle lasted less than five minutes.
When it ended, the bells of Bhonash stopped ringing.
The sudden absence of sound felt heavier than the noise had ever been.
The city burned quietly beneath the moon.
Valyrian survivors filled the market, watched by silent guards. Some wept openly, clutching one another as though afraid they might vanish if they let go. Some stared at the streets where they had spent their entire lives, their expressions hollow, unable to reconcile what they had been with what they had become. Others looked toward the bodies of masters who had beaten them only hours before and felt nothing they were willing to name—no relief, no grief, only a strange, empty stillness.
A few hundred non-Valyrian prisoners knelt in chains nearby.
Craftsmen.
Navigators.
Healers.
Scholars.
Engineers.
People whose knowledge had purchased them another sunrise.
They watched the survivors with a mixture of resentment, fear, and fragile hope, knowing their lives now depended on usefulness rather than birth.
Everyone else was dead or dying.
Bellatrix stood atop the shattered fountain, her black wand resting against one shoulder, her posture relaxed as though she were observing a performance rather than its aftermath.
The three-legged raven landed beside her, claws scraping lightly against broken stone.
"Caw! City taken! Caw!"
She glanced toward it, unimpressed.
"You were late."
The raven ruffled its feathers, indignant.
"Caw! Dramatic entrance!"
"You missed most of the killing."
Its eyes gleamed with unsettling intelligence.
"Caw! Saw from above."
Regulus approached through the smoke, carrying several recovered ledgers beneath one arm. Ash clung to his cloak, and faint lines of exhaustion marked his face, though his posture remained rigid.
"Artorias has secured the eastern quarter. The tunnels are being searched now."
Bellatrix looked around the ruined city, her gaze drifting over the fires, the bodies, the survivors.
"So that is it?"
"For Bhonash."
"And Mantarys?"
Regulus's gaze shifted south, beyond the Black Cliffs and the darkness surrounding the shattered remnants of old Valyria. For a moment, something unreadable passed through his expression—anticipation, perhaps, or calculation.
"At dawn, we send word to Father."
Bellatrix smiled, slow and sharp.
Below them, Artorias pulled his greatsword free from the last defender and turned toward the gathered survivors.
The Valyrians fell silent as he approached.
His armor was covered in ash, blood, and fragments of burned cloth. His shield was cracked. The edge of his sword had been darkened by the night's work, its surface dulled by heat and use.
He stopped before them.
No one moved.
Some lowered their eyes. Others stared at him as though trying to decide whether he was savior or executioner.
Artorias rested the blade against his shoulder.
Behind him, Bhonash burned.
Ahead of him, the people who had survived waited to learn whether rescue would prove any kinder than slavery.
Above them all, crows and ravens began returning to the city.
One by one at first.
Then by the hundreds.
They settled along the ruined walls, the rooftops, and the bodies in the streets, watching in perfect silence as the last flames consumed what remained of Bhonash.