Inside the obsidian-forging workshop, the air shimmered with unbearable heat. Waves of magic pulsed through the room like living creatures, warping the air into a molten haze.
Damian Thorne, his face calm and expressionless, casually tossed a newly formed obsidian brick onto the cooling rack. It landed with a crisp metallic clang, echoing through the chamber. Without looking up, he spoke in a tone that was half curiosity, half command.
> "Alain, why did you leave Asshai back then?"
Across from him, Alain was hunched over a workbench, meticulously carving intricate runes onto a smooth oval of obsidian. His knife gleamed with faint blue light as it danced across the surface. When he heard the question, his hand paused. He slowly looked up, forcing a pious, almost theatrical expression onto his pale face.
> "To seek the origin of magic," he said solemnly, "and to find my destined path."
Damian didn't even blink.
> "Cut the act."
He set down his hammer and turned to face him. His brown eyes were calm—too calm. The kind of calm that could strip away every pretense.
> "Tell me the truth."
Those three simple words carried a quiet authority that could bend steel.
The sanctimonious façade on Alain's face crumbled instantly. He let out a deep sigh, his shoulders sagging as his usual sullen demeanor returned.
> "I offended too many people with my… experiments in Asshai," he muttered. "They didn't appreciate my genius."
There was bitterness and a trace of fear in his voice. His hands trembled faintly as he continued.
> "A mob of superstitious fools started hunting me down. Before I fled, I paid a fortune for a prophecy."
He glanced nervously at Damian, relief flickering in his eyes like a dying flame.
> "The prophecy said that only if I followed you could I survive."
For the first time, Damian's gaze softened. He nodded slightly. The reason didn't matter to him. What mattered was the result—loyalty born from necessity.
He reached out and picked up the final casting from the cooling rack—a palm-sized badge of pure obsidian, its surface carved with the fierce image of a dragon's head.
> "How is Mataris's potential?" he asked quietly, running his fingers across the cool, flawless surface. "Can these aberrants truly be transformed… into something stable, even benign, with my magic?"
At the mention of his field, Alain's gloom vanished. His spine straightened, his pale eyes shining with fanatic energy.
> "Yes, Your Majesty! Absolutely!" he exclaimed, voice trembling with excitement.
"A portion of Mataris's mutations are inherently benign! The problem isn't them—it's the chaotic magic twisting their nature."
He gestured toward the construction site visible through the workshop's window. Dozens of mutated figures labored there—some grotesque, others magnificent.
> "Your magic, however, is pure order," Alain continued breathlessly. "It's what their distorted bodies crave! Your magic will guide their mutations, reshape them, perfect them. Like plants reaching for sunlight—they will evolve toward you! This will be the birth of a new race—powerful, loyal, and uniquely yours!"
Damian smiled faintly, the corner of his mouth curving upward. A new race, born of order and bound by loyalty—how could he refuse such an idea?
Within days, his direct intervention stabilized the magical nodes beneath the Obsidian Academy's foundation. Once chaotic ley lines now pulsed in rhythmic harmony. Under Damian's will, the grand construction finally began in earnest. Craftsmen, mages, and the mutated people of Mataris worked tirelessly under Alain's command.
The academy was more than a school—it was the heart of a new world.
And now that the foundation was stable, Alain finally had time to focus on his special project—a gift Damian had granted him: a captured Faceless Man of Braavos.
---
The Experiment
The laboratory was dim and cold, illuminated only by the ghostly glow of enchanted lamps. Glass tubes, metal instruments, and strange crystals lined every surface. The air smelled of blood, ozone, and alchemical smoke.
On the stone table lay the Faceless Man—an assassin once devoted to the Many-Faced God. Now, he was a pitiful shell. His limbs had been severed and cauterized with magic, his jaw dislocated to prevent coherent speech. Only broken moans escaped his throat.
Alain circled him like an artist admiring his masterpiece.
> "A Faceless Man," he whispered reverently. "A living envoy of the Many-Faced God. And now, a vessel for our rebirth."
The assassin's eyes burned with hatred, glowing with feverish intensity. If he could speak, he would have cursed Alain with every name his god knew.
But Alain only smiled. He had dealt with cultists before—fanatics of all kinds. None had ever stopped his ambition.
He reached for a row of glowing vials, each filled with strange liquids—red, blue, green, and one that shimmered with dark violet light.
> "Don't worry," he murmured, drawing the violet potion into a syringe. "You'll be reborn soon."
Holding the syringe up to the light, he admired the way the fluid shimmered like amethyst under starlight.
> "You will become… an evolved Shadow Assassin," he said with an almost childlike glee.
The Faceless Man's muffled screams intensified as the needle pierced his neck.
Alain's lips curled into a mad grin.
> "Hehehe…"
His laughter echoed through the chamber, distorted by the magic-laden air until it sounded less like a man—and more like something monstrous being born.
---
The New People of Mataris
While Alain immersed himself in his experiments, Damian traveled with the Governor of Mataris to the city's western district—a vast quarantine zone transformed under his decree.
Unlike the rest of Mataris—where chaos and filth reigned—this zone was orderly and clean. Food and water flowed freely, and the air felt… different. Calm. Stable.
Here lived the chosen ones—those born with benign mutations. The potential seeds of a new race. Some had extra limbs, others extra eyes, and yet others gifts of uncanny strength, speed, or perception. They were feared elsewhere—but here, under Damian's magic, they thrived.
When Damian entered the square, silence fell. Hundreds of eyes turned toward him—eyes filled not with fear, but awe and devotion.
A tall man stepped forward and bowed deeply.
He had two heads. Both identical, yet each bearing its own expression—one stern, the other curious. When they spoke, their voices merged into one deep, harmonious tone.
> "Greetings, Your Majesty."
The Governor leaned close and whispered,
> "Two heads, two brains, one consciousness. Their minds work twice as fast as ordinary men. They can see in all directions at once."
Damian nodded thoughtfully, then his gaze shifted to a massive figure in the distance—a slender giant nearly three meters tall. From his ribs extended two smaller arms, moving with inhuman grace. The giant lifted a stone weighing several hundred pounds with his upper arms while the lower pair delicately chiseled the edges, sculpting it into perfect form.
> "Four-armed individuals," the Governor explained, pride in his tone. "They're natural craftsmen… and unmatched warriors. Their coordination is beyond human comprehension."
All around, others toiled—men and women with wings, heightened senses, or unbreakable skin. Each one, once called a monster, now carried purpose.
Damian looked upon them and saw not deformity—but possibility.
---
The Birth of Hope
An attendant approached with a tray. Upon it lay rows of obsidian badges, each carved with the image of a dragon's head—the sigil of Damian Thorne.
Taking the tray himself, Damian walked among the gathered people. He stopped before a little girl with four eyes—two bright and two faintly glowing gold. She was no more than eight years old. Nervously, she clutched her tattered dress as he knelt before her.
He smiled gently and handed her a badge.
> "From today onward," he said softly, "you are one of the first students of the Obsidian Academy."
The girl's eyes widened, trembling as she accepted the emblem with both hands.
Damian stood and turned to address the crowd.
> "You are also the last generation shaped by the chaos of Mataris's wild magic," he declared. His voice was calm, yet it carried through the air like thunder.
"When the magic relay tower is completed, all children born thereafter will carry my order within their blood. The chaos will end—and a new people will rise."
The words struck like divine revelation. For the aberrants gathered before him—outcasts and experiments—the declaration was more than hope. It was salvation.
One by one, they fell to their knees. The square filled with the sound of weeping, of laughter, of prayers whispered to the man who had become their god.
They clutched the cold obsidian emblems to their chests, and though the stone was icy to the touch, their hearts burned with warmth.
A warmth they had never known before.
A warmth called hope.
---
In the distance, the black tower of the Obsidian Academy pierced the sky, its sha
dow stretching over the land. Magic pulsed from its heart—Damian's magic—taming the chaotic ley lines that once cursed Mataris.
A new era was dawning.
The age of the Dragon King had begun.