The moment my hand closed around the Dagger of Ashes, I felt it. Not heat like the egg in Valyria-no, this was something colder. Hungrier. The metal drank the warmth from my skin, and for a moment, it felt as though my soul teetered on a ledge above a bottomless abyss.
The blade whispered.
Not in words, but in feelings-loss, betrayal, rage. A weapon born not of fire, but of shadow and pain. This was not forged by dragonflame, but by something older. Forgotten. Forbidden.
Otherys stepped warily into the chamber, his hand on his sword. "What is it?" he asked, his voice low.
I turned slowly, the dagger now sheathed across my back. "A relic. A curse. A key."
He didn't press further. He knew better.
-----
We left the temple behind and emerged from the Veil of Screams days later, changed. The crew barely met my eyes. Otherys said little. Even Xyron, when he landed beside me again, seemed to eye the dagger with uneasy recognition.
But something had changed in me too.
Visions haunted my dreams-of cities drowned in shadow, of screaming stars, of dragons with too many wings and too many eyes. I heard voices in the corners of my mind, whispering truths I didn't understand.
The dagger was feeding on something.
Or awakening it.
-----
We made landfall near the outskirts of Asshai.
Not in the city itself-not yet. No sane man walks those blackened streets unless summoned. We made camp near a forgotten monastery, its doors sealed by molten iron and wards scratched deep into the stone. The sky here was always twilight, the sun never more than a faint, bloody smear behind the clouds.
Tessaro had warned me: "In Asshai, knowledge is currency. But the cost is always your soul."
I didn't care.
I had questions. About the First Flame. About the ancient dragonlords that came before Valyria. About the dream that now burned brighter than any fire:
To rebuild what was lost. To become more than a dragonlord. To become fire incarnate.
-----
That night, as I meditated before the fire, the dagger pulsed against my back. A voice rose again-clearer now, sharper.
"You are not yet worthy. But you are closer than any who came before."
The fire before me flared white. And in it, I saw a face.
Not mine.
But the shadow of mine.
Golden eyes. Silver hair soaked in blood. A man who wore a crown of flame and ash, seated atop a throne of bones.
And I knew-
If I kept going, if I took the next step…
That would be me.
Or it would destroy me.
And still-I stood.
And took the step.
-----
Asshai rose before me like a nightmare made stone.
Even from a distance, its black walls loomed impossibly tall, forged from oily, lightless rock that seemed to drink in the twilight. There were no guards, no gates-just a yawning entrance framed by symbols older than any Valyrian script, carved in a dead language whose name had long since crumbled into dust.
Otherys stopped short. "No further," he said, voice low.
I nodded. "Stay with the ship. If I don't return by the third sunset-leave."
He didn't argue.
The city welcomed me with silence.
No birds. No wind. No laughter or shouting. Only the occasional flicker of shadow down a narrow alley, the glint of a lantern behind darkened windows. They watched, the people of Asshai. But they did not greet. They did not speak.
This was a city of whispers.
-----
I followed the directions carved into the edge of the Dagger of Ashes. Symbols that had burned themselves into my mind since I first touched it. They led me through narrow corridors, bridges of obsidian, tunnels where the walls wept black water.
And at last-through a curtain of golden beads-I entered her domain.
The room was warm and scented with bitter incense. Scrolls littered the shelves, and candles burned with purple flame.
She stood before me in a robe of deep indigo, her skin pale as moonlight, hair white as bone. Her eyes… were solid black. No pupils. No whites. Just the abyss.
"You've come, as the dagger willed," she said, voice echoing as if spoken from another realm. "Rhaegis Darharis. Blood of fire, heir of ash."
I bowed slightly. "And you are?"
"Ashkara. The Flame-Widow. Keeper of the Hidden Ember."
-----
She studied me with interest, circling like a cat. "You carry the egg of Xyron. You awaken the Vault of Embers. You draw the attention of… them."
I frowned. "Them?"
She smiled without warmth. "The Dreamers of the Deep Flame. The Watchers Below. The things Valyria sought to master, but could only imprison."
She stepped closer, and the dagger across my back hummed.
"They stir now, because of you. Because you hold one of their keys."
"The dagger," I said.
She nodded. "Forged in the First War. A blade that once drank the blood of gods."
I said nothing. My fingers curled around its hilt, the whispering in my mind now louder-chanting in a tongue I could not yet speak, but understood all the same.
"Why did it call to me?" I asked.
Ashkara reached up and touched my chest with two fingers. A searing pain lanced through me-and visions followed.
A throne of flame. A beast of wings and shadow. A sword of burning ice. A world split between day and night.
"You are more than Valyrian, Rhaegis," she whispered. "You are a convergence. A soul born at the turning of an age."
She turned away, walking toward a basin of silver filled with dark water. "Come. Look."
-----
I stepped forward and peered into the basin. The liquid shimmered, then showed me an image:
A city of glass and flame, floating above a sea of molten light. Armored riders atop dragons of impossible size. And below-deep, deep beneath-something vast, coiled, and dreaming.
Ashkara spoke softly. "This is your future. Or your grave."
I looked up. "What must I do?"
"Three relics. Three flames. Find them. Reignite what was lost. But beware-each fire awakens a shadow. And not all shadows can be burned."
The flames around the chamber flared high, and the basin boiled into steam.
When I looked again-Ashkara was gone.
And I was alone.
-----
Outside, the stars above Asshai had shifted.
The hunt had begun.
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