Chapter 1: The Ash and the Spark
The first sensation was a brutal, searing agony in his lungs. It was as if he'd inhaled molten glass. Then came the cacophony: the rhythmic thud-crack of pickaxes against stone, the grunts of exertion, the lash of a whip, and a guttural language he didn't recognize, yet somehow, distantly, understood.
He tried to open his eyes, but they were crusted shut. Panic, a sensation he hadn't truly felt since his early days on the streets of Palermo, clawed at him. Salvatore "Sal" Moretti, capo di tutti capi, the man who had made presidents tremble and rivals disappear, was not accustomed to panic. Or searing lung pain. Or blindness.
He forced his eyelids apart. The world swam into a blurry, oppressive gloom. Grey. Everything was grey. Rough-hewn rock walls slick with moisture, the flickering orange light of tallow lamps casting long, dancing shadows, and the hunched, sweat-sheened backs of men, their bodies caked in dust and grime. He was one of them.
His own hands, when he managed to lift them, were not his. These were smaller, scarred, the knuckles raw and bloody. He was younger. Much younger. A boy, perhaps no more than sixteen, if the lean, underfed musculature was any indication. He tried to speak, to demand answers, but only a rasping cough escaped, sending fresh waves of fire through his chest.
A heavy blow landed on his back, knocking the wind out of him and sending him sprawling onto the damp, gritty floor. "On your feet, scum!" a voice snarled in the harsh, Valyrian tongue that was slowly filtering into his consciousness, a phantom lexicon from a forgotten dream. "The Fourteen Flames don't stoke themselves with idlers!"
The Fourteen Flames? Valyria?
Sal's mind, the cunning, analytical engine that had built an empire of blood and fear, whirred frantically, trying to piece together the impossible. He remembered… dying. Yes. A rival family, the Volkovs, a carefully orchestrated ambush. He'd taken a dozen bullets, but not before ensuring their entire leadership was annihilated in the ensuing firefight. He remembered the cold, the fading light, a sense of grim satisfaction, and then… nothing. Until the fire in his lungs.
This wasn't Palermo. This wasn't Earth. This was a memory, a fantasy. He was a Game of Thrones fan, had devoured the books and the show. Valyria. Dragonlords. The Doom. This… this couldn't be.
Yet, the pain was real. The gnawing hunger in his belly was real. The sting of the overseer's whip, now a burning line across his shoulders, was terrifyingly real.
He was a slave. In Valyria.
Four thousand years before the Doom, a fragment of knowledge surfaced, unbidden, chilling him to the core. He didn't know how he knew this specific timeframe, but it was there, a certainty lodged deep within his new consciousness.
For days, which bled into weeks, Sal – or rather, the boy whose body he now inhabited, a boy he vaguely recalled was named Davos – endured. He learned. He observed. His cautious nature, honed by decades of navigating treacherous alliances and hidden enemies, took over. He spoke little, worked diligently enough to avoid the worst of the beatings, and hoarded every scrap of information.
These were the geothermal mines beneath a minor volcanic peak, part of the vast network that fed the insatiable magical forges of Valyria. The air was thick with sulfur and other noxious fumes, explaining the constant agony in his chest. Life here was brutal and short. Slaves died daily from accidents, exhaustion, or the casual cruelty of their overseers.
But Sal Moretti was not one to accept fate. He was a survivor. He'd clawed his way up from nothing once; he could do it again. The stakes were just… cosmic now.
One night, huddled in the fetid, overcrowded sleeping cavern, a wave of dizziness and intense nausea washed over him. It was worse than the usual sickness from the fumes. He felt a profound, soul-deep coldness, a pulling sensation, as if his very essence was being unraveled. He remembered the ambush, the bullets, the fading light. He remembered the shift, the sudden plunge into this young, broken body.
And then a new, startling awareness bloomed within him: I am Sal Moretti. But I am also… more.
He focused inward, probing this strange sensation. There was his own soul, hard and ruthless, tempered in the fires of organized crime. But beneath it, or perhaps intertwined with it, was a fainter, almost extinguished spark – the original soul of the boy, Davos. Sal felt an instinct, primal and undeniable, to consume it. He recoiled, momentarily, at the predatory urge. But then, the pragmatist, the ruthless survivor, took over. This was a new game, with new rules. Sentimentality was a weakness.
He focused his will, a lifetime of mental discipline coming to the fore. He visualized his own soul, a dark, condensed star, and pushed it outwards, downwards, into the flickering ember of Davos. There was no resistance, only a sighing dissolution, like mist burning off in the sun. And as Davos's soul vanished, Sal felt a surge. Not of physical strength – this body was still weak – but of… something. A subtle deepening of his own essence, a faint resonance that hadn't been there before. His mind felt clearer, sharper, despite the hellish conditions. And the phantom Valyrian lexicon in his head solidified, becoming as natural as Italian or English. He knew Valyrian now, not just understood it.
A chilling thought, a hypothesis, began to form. What if this is how it works? What if I can be reborn? What if, each time, I become stronger?
The implications were staggering. This wasn't just a second chance. This was a path to power beyond anything he could have imagined in his old life. A path to immortality, perhaps even… godhood. The ancient Valyrians, with their blood magic and dragons, had touched the edges of such power.
But to be reborn, he needed a bloodline. Descendants.
His gaze, sharp and calculating, swept over the sleeping forms of his fellow slaves. No. Not here. Not like this. Slaves bred slaves. He needed to aim higher. Much higher. He needed Valyrian blood. Dragonlord blood, if possible.
His chance, or the seed of it, came a few weeks later. A section of the mine, deemed dangerously unstable, was to be cleared of some vital enchanted crystals before its controlled collapse. It was a suicide mission, offered to slaves with the false promise of better rations if they succeeded, certain death if they refused.
Sal, or Davos as he was known, volunteered. The overseers, surprised a scrawny youth would step forward, sneered but accepted. His fellow slaves looked at him with pity.
Inside the groaning, cracking tunnel, Sal wasn't focused on the crystals. His enhanced senses, a subtle gift from the absorption of Davos's soul, picked up on faint tremors the others missed. He knew, with a certainty that transcended logic, which sections would hold and which would fall. He directed the handful of other condemned slaves, his voice surprisingly authoritative for one so young. He led them to the richest veins of crystals, then guided them out through a narrow, overlooked passage just moments before the main tunnel imploded with a deafening roar.
They emerged, covered in dust but alive, bearing an unprecedented haul of the precious crystals.
The chief overseer, a brutish man named Gargos, stared at Davos with a new, unsettling expression. Not respect, but a flicker of something akin to suspicion, and perhaps a touch of fear. "You have keen eyes, boy," Gargos grunted. "Or the luck of the demons."
Sal kept his expression neutral, subservient. "The mountain spoke, Master. I listened."
This feat, small as it was, got him noticed. He was moved from the deepest, most hazardous sections to a slightly less lethal area, and occasionally tasked with scouting new tunnels. It was still hell, but it was a hell with a slightly better view.
And it was during one of these scouting missions, weeks later, that he saw her.
He was mapping a series of old, partially collapsed lava tubes that the overseers thought might connect to a new geothermal vent. These tubes led closer to the surface, near the foothills of the volcano where the lesser estates of some of the, well, lesser Dragonlord families were situated. Not the grand, sprawling manors of the Forty Families, but more modest holdings, often on the fringes of the Valyrian heartland.
She was alone, sketching in a notebook, seated on a weathered stone bench in a small, overgrown garden that seemed to cling precariously to the mountainside. She looked to be of a similar age to his current body, perhaps seventeen or eighteen. Her hair was the silver-gold of Old Valyria, though not as incandescently bright as some he'd glimpsed from afar. Her features were delicate, pretty rather than stunningly beautiful, and there was a certain melancholy in her violet eyes as she stared out over the smoke-hazed landscape. She wore simple, though well-made, linen robes – nothing like the ostentatious silks and jewels he'd imagined all Dragonlords wore.
A lesser family, then. Perhaps one struggling, or on the wane. Perfect.
For days, Sal observed her from the concealed mouth of a lava tube. He learned her routine. She came to the garden most afternoons, always alone. She read, she sketched, sometimes she just sat, lost in thought. She seemed… lonely. Naive, perhaps. Untouched by the true harshness of the world he now inhabited, yet clearly not entirely happy in her own.
His mind, the mind of Sal Moretti, began to spin a web. This was his chance. A desperate, dangerous gamble, but the only one he had. He needed to get her pregnant. He needed his bloodline to enter the Valyrian aristocracy, however minor.
The first step was to engineer an encounter. He couldn't just walk up to her; a filthy mine slave approaching a Dragonlord's daughter, however minor, would mean a swift and agonizing death.
He started leaving small, intriguing objects where she might find them. A perfectly formed, unusually colored crystal he'd "found" in the mines. A strange, fossilized insect trapped in amber. Nothing valuable enough to be considered a gift, just curiosities. He saw her find them, her brow furrowed in puzzlement, a flicker of interest in her eyes.
Then, he escalated. He began to hum, very softly, an old Sicilian folk tune – a melody of longing and lost love. He made sure the wind carried it towards her, faint and haunting. He saw her pause, listen, a wistful expression on her face.
The day he chose for the "meeting" was overcast, the air heavy with the promise of rain. He'd made sure his appearance was as presentable as possible – which wasn't saying much. He'd used hoarded water to wash the worst of the grime from his face and hair, and his slave rags were at least not freshly torn.
He waited until she was settled on her bench, lost in a book. Then, feigning an accidental stumble, he emerged from the shadows of a dense thicket near her garden, clutching a bundle of rare herbs he "happened" to be collecting for the mine's apothecary (a fiction, but a plausible one).
She gasped, startled, her hand flying to her chest. Her violet eyes, wide with surprise, fixed on him. Up close, he could see the purity of her features, the Valyrian heritage clear, even if it wasn't the most potent strain.
"Forgive me, my lady," Sal said, his voice carefully pitched to sound respectful, humble, and slightly breathless. He used the formal Valyrian address. He bowed his head low. "I did not mean to intrude. I was foraging for… for healing herbs. I seem to have lost my way."
Her initial fear seemed to recede slightly, replaced by curiosity. He was young, not overtly threatening, and his Valyrian, though accented by his slave origins, was surprisingly articulate.
"You are… from the mines?" she asked, her voice softer than he expected.
"Yes, my lady. Davos, at your service." He risked a quick glance up, meeting her eyes for a fleeting second, then looking down again, the picture of humility.
"Davos," she repeated, tasting the name. "I am Lyra. Lyra Vaerion."
Vaerion. He filed the name away. It sounded Valyrian enough. Likely one of the families with a distant claim to dragon's blood, perhaps owning no dragons themselves, or at best, a runt.
"You speak very well… for a miner," she observed, a hint of surprise in her tone.
Sal allowed a small, sad smile to touch his lips. "I listen, my lady. And I learn. There is little else to do in the darkness." He decided to play on sympathy, a tool he'd wielded with great effect in his past life. "My mother… she was a scholar's slave. She taught me what she could before… before she was taken by the lung sickness." A complete fabrication, but plausible. Davos's actual mother, he vaguely recalled, had died in a mine collapse. Details didn't matter; the effect did.
Lyra's expression softened. "I am sorry for your loss."
"The mines take many, my lady," he said, his voice quiet. "It is our fate." He made to leave. "I will trouble you no further."
"Wait," she said, a touch of impulsiveness in her voice. He paused, his heart thumping. Hook, line, and sinker. "Those herbs… what are they for?"
He showed her the bundle – common weeds he'd imbued with a faint, almost imperceptible warmth using a trick of focused will, a nascent form of magic he was only beginning to explore, born from the synergy of his own powerful soul and the remnants of Davos's. "They help with the breathing sickness, my lady. Or so the old ones say."
She leaned closer, intrigued by the faint warmth emanating from them. "They feel… unusual."
"Perhaps it is just the mountain's blessing, my lady," Sal said enigmatically.
Over the next few weeks, their clandestine meetings continued. Sal was cautious, never overstaying, never pushing too hard. He was the mysterious, intelligent slave boy with a tragic past and a surprising depth of knowledge. He spoke of the stars, of the deep earth, of patterns in the rock and the whispers of the wind – all woven from his own fertile imagination and his sharp observations, presented as the simple wisdom of a mine-dweller.
He learned more about Lyra. She was indeed lonely. Her father was a stern, aloof man, obsessed with reclaiming some lost family glory. Her mother was frail and distant. Lyra had no siblings her age, no close confidantes. She was betrothed to a cousin from an equally minor family, a political alliance she dreaded. She dreamt of freedom, of seeing the world beyond their smoky valley, of stories and adventures.
Sal became her confidant, her escape. He listened to her dreams, her fears. He never spoke of his own true ambitions, of course. To her, he was Davos, the gentle, sorrowful soul from the depths.
He knew he was playing a dangerous game. If discovered, he'd be flayed alive. But the potential reward – a Valyrian bloodline, the first step towards godhood – was worth any risk. His ruthlessness, carefully masked beneath a veneer of sensitivity, drove him onward.
The moment he chose to advance his plan was carefully calculated. A summer storm was brewing, the sky dark and heavy. He knew Lyra would be in the garden, finding a strange solace in the untamed elements. He met her there, his clothes already damp from a light drizzle.
"Davos!" she exclaimed, a genuine smile lighting her face. "I feared the rain would keep you away."
"A little water cannot quench the spirit, my lady," he said, his eyes locking with hers. He'd subtly shifted his demeanor over time, allowing a little more boldness, a little more of the raw charisma that had served him so well as Sal Moretti.
They stood close, sheltered by an ancient, gnarled tree. The wind whipped around them, carrying the scent of rain and ozone. The atmosphere was charged, electric.
"Lyra," he said, his voice dropping to a husky murmur, using her given name without her title for the first time. She didn't correct him. Her breath hitched.
"I… I often think of our conversations, Davos," she confessed, her cheeks flushed. "You see the world in such a… different way."
"Perhaps because my world is so different from yours," he replied, his gaze intense. "But in some ways, Lyra, we are not so different. We both seek… something more."
He reached out, his calloused fingers gently brushing a rain-soaked strand of silver-gold hair from her cheek. It was a bold move. She shivered but didn't pull away. Her violet eyes were wide, luminous in the dim light.
This was the moment. The culmination of weeks of careful manipulation. He was a mafia boss, a master of seduction when it served his purpose. He knew how to read the subtle cues, the unspoken desires. Lyra, naive and starved for affection and understanding, was ripe for the picking. He felt a flicker of something akin to guilt, but crushed it. This was for his survival, his ascent. She was a means to an end. A beautiful, perhaps even tragic, means, but an end nonetheless.
"There are wonders, Lyra," he whispered, leaning closer, "hidden in the darkness, just as there are sorrows. Beauty that can only be found when one dares to look beyond the light."
His lips found hers. Her initial surprise melted into a yielding softness. He wasn't rough; he was tender, seductive, promising escape, understanding, a shared secret against the world. He poured all his carefully constructed persona into that kiss – the poet, the philosopher, the gentle sufferer.
The kiss deepened. The storm broke around them, rain lashing down, thunder rumbling in the distance, mirroring the tempest he was deliberately stoking within her. He led her, unresisting, to a small, abandoned groundskeeper's hut at the edge of the garden, a place he had noted long ago.
Inside, with the rain drumming on the roof and the wind howling outside, he laid her down on a bed of dry leaves he'd prepared. There was fear in her eyes, yes, but also a reckless abandon, a yearning that he had meticulously cultivated.
He was gentle, yet purposeful. He knew this body was young, inexperienced, but his mind, his soul, was Sal Moretti. He knew how to please, how to control, how to make her feel like this was her choice, her desire.
When it was over, she lay trembling in his arms, tears streaming down her face – tears of fear, of release, of confusion. He held her, murmuring soothing words, words of affection he didn't feel, words of a shared future he knew was a lie, at least for her.
It is done, he thought, a cold triumph settling in his core. The seed is planted.
He stayed with her until the worst of the storm passed, then slipped away as silently as he had come, leaving her to her thoughts and the irrevocable consequences of their encounter.
Back in the suffocating darkness of the mine, his body aching, his lungs burning, Sal Moretti felt a grim satisfaction. He had taken the first, crucial step. Now, he had to survive long enough to see it bear fruit. He needed to ensure Lyra carried the child to term. He needed that child to live, to carry his blood, his potential for rebirth.
He thought of the soul he had devoured, Davos. A faint echo, a whisper. He felt no remorse. Only a growing certainty. He was on a long, dark road. Each life, each soul, would be a stepping stone. He would learn, he would grow, he would accumulate power, knowledge, and the very essence of life itself.
The whispers of godhood were faint, distant, but for the first time, they felt attainable.
As he drifted into an uneasy sleep, the image of Lyra's tear-streaked face mingled with the fiery ambition that burned in his soul. He was a monster, perhaps. But he would be a monster who ruled, a monster who transcended. He was Valerius, a name he'd just plucked from the ether of his Valyrian knowledge, a name that sounded fitting for the progenitor of a new, powerful lineage. Davos was dead. Sal Moretti was a ghost.
Valerius was just beginning. And Valyria, in its arrogant glory, had no idea what kind of seed had just been sown in its very heart. The game had changed, and he was the only one who knew the new rules. His caution dictated he lay low, avoid Lyra for a while, let events unfold. His ruthlessness ensured he would do whatever it took to protect his investment. And his cunning was already plotting the next dozen moves in a game that would span millennia.