A New Valyrian Dragonlord

The weight of the knowledge before me pressed heavy on my mind, yet it only fueled my resolve. If the Vault of Embers held the secrets of Valyria's lost power, I would find it.

"You seek something most would fear," the elder scribe murmured, his rheumy eyes watching me carefully. "The remnants of Valyria are not kind to those who pry too deeply."

I met his gaze evenly. "Fear is a luxury I cannot afford."

The old man exhaled sharply, shaking his head before rolling up the scrolls. "Then you will need a guide. The Smoking Sea is treacherous, and few who dare its waters return." He paused. "And those who do… are never the same."

A test, then. I knew this game well.

"I will find my own way," I said, letting my certainty settle into my voice. "But if you know of anyone who has returned, I would speak with them."

The scribe's lips thinned. He hesitated before finally nodding. "There is one. A sailor. He drinks away his memories in the Shadow Market, beneath the harbor's eastern piers. If you can make him talk, you may learn something of worth."

Nyessis was waiting for me outside the Hall of Records, leaning against a stone pillar, watching the street below with idle interest. When she turned her gaze to me, I could see the calculation behind her eyes.

"Well?" she asked.

"I have a lead," I said simply. "A sailor who has seen the Smoking Sea and lived."

She smirked. "Survivors are rarely reliable."

"Perhaps. But even a madman may carry a sliver of truth."

She stepped closer, lowering her voice. "And what do you intend to do with this truth, Rhaegis Darharis?"

I smiled faintly. "Turn it into power."

She studied me for a moment, then nodded. "Then let's find your sailor."

The Shadow Market was a den of whispers and flickering torchlight, where smugglers, exiles, and lost men sold their secrets for coin. The stench of salt and rotting fish clung to the air as we navigated the narrow alleys, searching for the man who had seen what few dared approach.

And when we found him-drunken, hollow-eyed, muttering in a tongue half-lost to reason-I knew one thing for certain.

He had seen something.

And whatever it was, it had broken him.

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The sailor sat slumped against a crate, his fingers clutching a half-empty bottle of firewine. His face was gaunt, his eyes sunken with a haunted look that spoke of horrors seen and barely survived. The torchlight flickered across his weathered features, highlighting the deep scars that ran along his neck.

I crouched before him, letting the weight of my presence settle. He barely noticed.

"You're the one who sailed the Smoking Sea and lived," I said, keeping my voice measured.

His gaze flickered toward me, unfocused. Then he laughed, a dry, broken sound. "Lived? You call this livin'?" He took another swig of firewine, wincing as it burned his throat. "No, boy. I came back. But I ain't livin'."

Nyessis remained behind me, silent but watchful. I reached into my cloak and pulled out a silver coin, flipping it between my fingers before tossing it onto the crate beside him. "Tell me what you saw."

The sailor eyed the coin, then me. For a moment, I thought he would ignore it. But then his fingers twitched, grabbing the silver and rolling it between his thumb and forefinger.

"The sea," he muttered. "Black as night, thick as oil. It don't move right. The wind don't touch it, the waves don't rise natural. It's... wrong." His breathing hitched, his free hand trembling. "We thought we could pass through, chart a safe course. But the fire..." His eyes widened, his voice dropping to a whisper. "The fire comes from below. Not just flame, not just heat-somethin' else. Somethin' alive."

A chill ran through me. "You mean dragons?"

He shook his head violently. "No. Worse. Things in the deep. Things that ain't meant to be." He licked his cracked lips. "We lost three ships before we turned back. The last one... it never sank. It just... burned."

I exchanged a glance with Nyessis. She raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

"The Vault of Embers," I pressed. "Did you hear of it?"

The sailor stilled. His grip on the bottle tightened. "Aye. Heard the name whispered by the dead. The ones who speak in the wind when the sea is quiet." He shuddered. "Said it ain't just a place. Said it's a wound. A scar left by the Doom itself. Said those who find it don't return."

Silence stretched between us. The Shadow Market's distant murmur felt muted, as if the world had shrunk to this moment, to this broken man's words.

Then he looked at me fully for the first time. His voice steadied, his gaze sharp despite the drink.

"If you're lookin' for it, turn back now," he said. "You ain't ready for what's there."

I held his stare, my resolve unshaken. "Then I'll become ready."

Nyessis exhaled a soft laugh. "You do love tempting death, don't you?"

I rose to my feet. "Death is a certainty. Power is not. I intend to claim what others fear to seek."

The sailor shook his head, muttering under his breath. "Then may the gods have mercy on you, Valyrian. 'Cause the Vault won't."

His words lingered as we stepped back into the night. The Vault of Embers was real. And if it held the secrets of Valyria's lost power, I would find it-no matter the cost.

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