A tiny black dot appeared far above the walls of Myr, drifting in the sky like a speck of dust. Yet within seconds, that speck grew—swelling, stretching, expanding—until every soldier and merchant beneath the walls fell silent.
Daqqa and Mazo instinctively held their breath. Behind them, Rios and the Myrish officers tensed, their bodies stiffening as a cold wave of fear washed over them. Not a single person dared to whisper. Not one dared even to blink.
All eyes were locked upward.
The wind howled like a beast as the black dot swelled at a terrifying speed, revealing the outline of wings—massive wings—unfurling like storm clouds blotting out the sun. In moments, the shape solidified into a colossal black dragon, its entire seventy-meter body shimmering with the cold, sharp gleam of obsidian plates.
Then—
"ROAR—!"
The heavens themselves trembled.
The dragon's roar shattered the sky, rolling through the city like thunder from an angry god. The sound smashed into chests, ribcages, and lungs. A few merchants crumpled to the ground, legs turning to water. Some even lost control of their bowels, the stink of fear leaking into the air.
Still the dragon did not slow.
It folded its great wings against its sides, turning its fall into a near-vertical dive. Like a black meteor tearing through the heavens, it plunged toward the city square. The pressure from the descent pressed down on the people so violently that they couldn't lift their heads. Cobbles ripped from the square and flew like shrapnel.
BOOM!
The impact shook the entire city.
Ground trembled. Dust erupted in a choking cloud. Even the walls trembled as though Myr itself feared this arrival.
When the dust finally settled, the monstrous black dragon stood firm in the center of the square—immovable, unchallengeable—its molten-gold pupils sweeping over the crowd like a cold, divine judgment.
"W-welcome… Y-Your Majesty!"
Rios was the first to drop, throwing himself forward and pressing his forehead to the stone in a posture nearing worship. The sharp crack of people kneeling spread like falling dominoes.
Clatter!
Daqqa, Mazo, and every officer behind them fell to their knees as though crushed by an unseen titan's hand. Their heads lowered. Their bodies trembled. None dared to look directly upon the dragon—or the being who controlled it.
A wave of black light shimmered along the dragon's enormous body. Air twisted, rippled, and then collapsed inward.
The dragon shrank.
Wings folded inward and dissolved. Scales melted like shadows pulling back. The towering form condensed into a silhouette—a human silhouette.
In only a few breaths, the divine monster vanished.
In its place stood a tall young man with black hair, wearing an expression of cold indifference: Damian Thorne, the Emperor of the rising empire.
He brushed nonexistent dust from his shoulder and walked forward, each quiet footstep landing on the square like a weight on everyone's hearts.
"Rios," he said, voice low and emotionless.
"Your subordinate is here!" Rios scrambled forward again, practically crawling. He held up two thick parchment scrolls with both trembling hands.
"Your Majesty, these are Myr's financial ledger and the census of artisans."
Damian glanced at them, uninterested, and tossed them back.
"You will act as the temporary Governor of Myr."
Rios froze, as though struck by lightning. His eyes widened, a rush of ecstasy tearing across his face. He opened his mouth, but only stammers came out.
"Once the situation stabilizes, someone else will take your place," Damian continued coolly. "Until then, your task is simple: restore this city."
"Y-yes! Yes, Your Majesty! I will not fail you!"
Damian ignored the frantic nodding and walked past him.
His gaze fell upon the gathered forces: the scarred Tiger Cloaks, the wild and fierce Dothraki, and the still, silent formation of Unsullied—their spears upright, their movements rigid with discipline.
Damian lifted a hand, tapping the ledger with a casual gesture.
"Half of the wealth listed here will be distributed to the Tiger Cloaks, the Dothraki, and to all of you who participated in this battle."
The final words were directed squarely at the Unsullied.
Daqqa and Mazo erupted in visceral joy. The Dothraki bellowed like beasts. Tiger Cloaks shouted their battle cries, pounding their armor.
"LONG LIVE HIS MAJESTY!"
But the Unsullied…
They remained silent. Unmoving. A forest of statues carved from flesh.
It was only when piles of gold, jewels, and silver were brought out into the sunlight that one Unsullied finally stepped forward. His comrades nudged him. He knelt, stiff and hesitant.
"Your Majesty," he said, voice flat and empty, "where should these valuables be transported?"
To him, treasure was cargo.
He was a tool.
A weapon.
Damian looked down at him, and a brief flicker of amusement touched his eyes.
"These are not goods."
His voice cut through the air like a blade.
"These are your rewards. From this day forward… you are no longer slaves."
The square fell utterly silent.
Only the wind dared move.
Damian's gaze swept over their helmeted faces.
"You are my soldiers. Warriors who guard the empire."
A pause.
"You. Are. Free."
Free?
The word was a storm ripping through the Unsullied.
Their training had ripped away identity, emotion, childhood, desire. They were built as obedient machines. Slaves who fought until death.
Freedom was a concept so foreign it felt like a myth.
The Unsullied who had spoken trembled—barely, but unmistakably. His knuckles whitened around his spear.
Slaves. Weapons. Tools.
That was all they had ever been.
But now?
No one cheered.
No one spoke gratitude.
They stood in silence, staring at one another, seeing confusion reflected back at them for the first time in their lives.
It was the beginning of something terrifying and new.
---
Under Rios's direction, Myr quickly returned to order. Artisans, escorted by the Unsullied, returned to their workshops. The furnaces flared to life once more. The ringing of hammers replaced cries of panic.
Mazo's Dothraki moved south to encamp near the Myr River, eating and laughing around great fires. Daqqa's thirty thousand cavalry remained around the city, their presence a constant reminder of the new order.
Ten thousand Tiger Cloaks garrisoned the walls, their blood-stained scimitars and brutal discipline keeping the peace across the city.
But inside the Unsullied camp…
Something was happening.
Something unseen.
Something profound.
The air felt heavy, strange, charged with an emotion none of them could name.
"We… are free," one murmured, touching a gold coin as though it were fire.
The coin was cold, yet burned in his palm.
"We are no longer slaves," another added, voice equally stiff.
"Then what are we?"
Silence swallowed them again.
Their past had been stripped away. Their future had been emptiness. They were conditioned to see themselves as nothing but weapons.
Now that identity had been shattered.
Who were they?
At last, the officer from earlier spoke, his tone steady yet altered—something new leaking into it.
"We are the Emperor's warriors."
The words settled over them like a mantle.
"The Good Masters ruled us with whips and chains," he continued. "But His Majesty has given us something we have never known. Freedom. And… rewards."
He said the new word slowly, almost clumsily.
"We once prayed to the Lady of Spears, begging for release in battle."
His voice dropped.
"But release never came."
"We lived without meaning."
"Until His Majesty came."
The logic was simple. Brutally simple.
But it was undeniable.
Their only god had been war.
And war had never answered them.
But Damian Thorne had.
He had given them what no god ever had.
A new life.
A new identity.
A new purpose.
One Unsullied stood without a word. He drew a dagger, turned his shield over, and began carving into the metal.
Scrape.
Scrape.
Scrape.
Slow, crude strokes.
A dragon—distorted, unrefined, but unmistakable.
The emblem of the man who had given them freedom.
Another Unsullied stood.
Then another.
And another.
Shields turned over.
Daggers drawn.
Dragons carved.
One by one, silently, the Unsullied marked themselves anew.
Not as tools.
Not as slaves.
Not as machines.
But as followers.
A belief began to form in the quiet of that camp, not through preaching, but through a shared, wordless understanding.
They needed no gods.
They had found a living one.
Thus, from the ashes of broken identity, a new faith was born:
The Emperor Worship Sect.
And its one and only deity—
Damian Thorne.
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