Ame no Uzume
The sun had not yet breached the horizon when Ame-no-Uzume stepped onto the high balcony of the Bastion of Qarth. Dawn lingered somewhere beyond the eastern edge of the Jade Sea, hidden behind a blanket of violet clouds, but the world below was already beginning to wake. Lanterns flickered through the streets like dying stars. Distant bells rang from harbor towers. The scent of salt, jasmine, and warm stone drifted upward on the cool morning wind.
Behind her, the silk curtains of the royal chambers swayed softly, carrying with them the lingering warmth of the night.
For a moment, she simply stood there in silence.
Her fingers traced the pale marble of the balustrade, cold beneath her skin. Her body still carried the memory of Alex’s touch—the pressure of his hands, the quiet certainty of his presence beside her. Even now, she could feel the echo of it lingering within her chest like a second heartbeat.
The sensation remained deeply surreal.
Back on Earth, intimacy had been sterile. Filtered through haptic feedback suits, neural synchronization software, corporate-approved emotional dampeners, and endless layers of digital mediation. Humanity in 2138 had perfected simulation while quietly forgetting sincerity. Even pleasure had become optimized, quantified, monetized.
Nothing had ever felt real.
Not like this.
Not like Alex.
Not like Daedalus.
A faint smile touched her lips before fading again beneath practiced composure.
In Neo-New York, Alexander Field had been another exhausted soul buried beneath debt algorithms and corporate exploitation—a talented man trapped in a system that rewarded obedience over vision. Here, in this impossible world, he had become what he was always meant to be.
A creator. A king. And perhaps most dangerously of all—A man capable of reshaping civilization itself.
Hikari understood exactly what that meant because she had been raised to recognize people like him.
As the heiress of Amano Heavy Industries, she had spent her entire life among executives, shareholders, policy architects, and dynastic elites. Her father had not trained her to be kind. He had trained her to survive boardrooms where fortunes vanished with a single sentence and where weakness invited predation.
Power, her father used to say, was never held by the righteous. Only by the competent. She had hated him for teaching her that. Now she found herself using those same lessons to build an empire. The irony was almost amusing. Almost.
With a thought, she conjured her equipment. It didn’t appear with the clunky inventory menus of the game; instead, light coalesced around her. The Aurora Argentea—her Divine Class silver armor—formed over her gown, its plates light as a feather yet stronger than any steel forged by mortal hands. The Circlet of Inanna rested upon her brow, its central azure gem in the middle of the eight-point star pulsing with a faint, rhythmic light like a heartbeat. Finally, she summoned Hastalucis, the golden lance that had pierced the hearts of countless "evil" entities in the dungeons of YGGDRASIL.
Her three pairs of pristine white wings unfurled, their span wide enough to cast a shadow over the balcony's floor. She was no longer Hikari Amano, the stifled heiress of a Tokyo bio-dome. She was a Seraph Empyrean, the goddess of manifest celestial justice.
"O' Great One, the preparations are complete."
The voice was melodious, resonant, and entirely real. Ame turned to see the two figures waiting near the archway.
Last night, while the city slept, she performed the summoning. They had used the remaining corpses of the sorrowful mans and the most treacherous of the Pureborn—men who had tried to poison them in their first week of rule—as the catalysts. Twenty lives for each summon to ensure their permanence in this world.
Before her stood two Dominion Authorities. In YGGDRASIL, they had been magnificent but repetitive in design: floating armored torsos with multiple wings and featureless helms. Here, the transition to reality had changed them, much like it had changed Iyashi, the Virtue Compassion.
They were tall, nearly seven feet in height, clad in ornate blue-silver plate that mirrored Ame’s own. Their four wings were not just light, but physical feathers that shimmered with a golden translucency. Most striking, however, were their faces. Their helms were open-faced, revealing human features of ethereal beauty.
The male, whom she had named Gabriel, had a sharp, noble jawline and eyes that burned like molten gold. The female, Ariel, possessed a serene, fierce grace, her silver hair braided back in a warrior’s style. They were Level 50—monsters of myth, even gods by the standards of this world, where a common soldier might be Level 1 or 2, and a legendary knight perhaps Level 10.
"O' Great One," Gabriel said, sinking to one knee, his armored joints hissing softly. "We await your command. We are ready to deliver your wrath of the heavens."
Ame sighed, a very human sound that seemed slightly at odds with her divine appearance. "Gabriel, I told you. We discussed this with Daedalus last night.”
The angel tilted his head, a look of genuine confusion crossing his handsome features. "My Lady?"
"In Qarth, they call me 'Ame no Uzume' because they misunderstand my name with traditions of their own. Daedalus and I find it... simpler," she explained, thinking of how the Qartheen merchants had butchered 'Ame-no-Uzume' into a two-part name. "You may call me Lady Ame. Or, if you must be formal, Your Majesty. But please, no more 'Great One' or 'Radiant Divinity.'”
Ariel bowed her head low, her wings rustling. "Forgive our insolence, Your Majesty. Our devotion sometimes outstrips our tongue."
"It’s fine," Ame said, her voice softening. She could feel their absolute loyalty—a tangible tether between her soul and theirs.
She stepped to the edge of the balcony. Below, the city of Qarth was beginning to stir. The "Greatest City That Ever Was" looks different now. The streets were notably clearer of the starving "rats" that used to haunt the shadows and safer with the induction of the new police force.
"Let’s go," Ame commanded.
She kicked off the stone, her wings giving a powerful, singular stroke. The air rushed past her, a roar of freedom as she rocketed into the sky. Behind her, Gabriel and Ariel followed, two streaks of silver and gold cutting through the morning mist.
They flew south, crossing the sparkling expanse of the Jade Sea toward the northern tip of Great Moraq. To a mortal sailor, the journey would have taken days. To a Seraph flying at cruising speed, it was a matter of hours, even minutes.
It was there that Azhor zo Vhezannar, Daedalus’s clever little spy, had established a camp for the army "supposedly" gathered to retake Qarth from her and Daedalus. It was a brilliant, multi-layered scheme, one that spoke volumes of Alex’s strategic mind. He had allowed several disgruntled nobles and merchant-princes, those most stubborn and resistant to their new leadership, to choose exile rather than face execution. These exiles, naturally, carried tales of Daedalus’s and Ame’s “tyranny,” spreading word of their rule across Essos. Azhor, one such "exiled" noble, had been tasked with a crucial mission: to purchase the Unsullied, the famed slave soldiers of Astapor.
The plan was a masterstroke, designed to achieve two goals with a single, elegant stroke. Azhor, a Qartheen merchant-prince who unlike his father and elder brother, had seen the writing on the wall the moment the warlocks were incinerated, Azhor had chosen total devotion over a fiery death. The ‘disgruntled exile’ gathering forces to ‘liberate’ Qarth from the ‘Warlock-Slaying Usurpers.’
It was a brilliant ruse. By pretending to be a rebel, Azhor could move freely through the Slaver's Bay, purchasing the finest ‘assets’ to bring back for a countercoup. And the other exile noble who took refuge in Slaver Bay, their story would sell the rest of the deception.
Firstly, it would significantly weaken Astapor, the most militarily powerful of the slave cities. Secondly, it would acquire an army of ten thousand hardened soldiers, ready to be repurposed.
Alex had initially planned to oversee the operation personally. That would have been the logical decision. Alex excelled at operational planning and strategic execution.
But the moment she learned how the Unsullied were created, something inside her had reacted with visceral fury. Not merely moral outrage. Protectiveness. Possessiveness. Maternal instinct. The realization had startled her.
She had never particularly thought of children back on Earth. There had never been time and she has been young. Corporate succession planning had consumed her entire future before she even became an adult. And any free time spent in YGGDRASIL, with her friend, the guild and Alex.
Yet now—
Now the mere thought of children being mutilated and psychologically destroyed filled her with nearly uncontrollable rage.
Her Seraph body was influencing her. She knew it was.
Her racial traits altered emotional weighting. Heightened empathy. Intensified protective instincts. Increased moral absolutism. Normally the Ring of Karmic Equilibrium mitigated the worst excesses of her alignment. Reducing her Karma value from overwhelming saint-like extremes into something manageable.
But some acts bypassed moderation entirely.
Astapor was one of them.
The coastline began to resolve below her, a lush green against the deep blue of the sea. Daedalus’s handiwork was immediately obvious.
Even after only a week, the artificial harbor displayed impossible precision. Stone docks extended outward in perfect geometric alignment. Defensive positions overlooked the coastline. Supply depots were organized with ruthless efficiency. Alex could not build casually. Everything he created optimized itself toward expansion. Her lips curved faintly. God, she loved that terrifying man.
Hundreds of galleys and brigs were arrayed close to the docks. Azhor and his "army" had arrived three days prior, and the scale of their encampment was impressive. A seemingly endless line of tents stretched far to the south, devouring acres of forest, meticulously organized. It seemed Azhor had arranged separate camps: one for himself, his trusted men, and the Unsullied commanders, and another, more sprawling, for the rank-and-file Unsullied soldiers.
Hikari descended, her wings flaring to check her momentum. She landed in the center of the main camp with the grace of a falling star, her boots barely disturbing the sand. Gabriel and Ariel landed a pace behind her, their presence immediately drawing a stunned, terrifying silence from the guards.
Azhor zo Vhezannar rushed forward. He was a man of extravagant tastes, usually draped in Qartheen silks, but today he wore a practical traveling cloak. He threw himself onto the ground, his forehead touching the grit.
"Wings Goddess! Queen of Heaven! Your presence is a sun that blinds my humble eyes!" He cried out, his voice a mix of genuine terror and practiced sycophancy.
"Rise, Azhor," Ame said, her tone level. "You’ve done well. Report."
The pureborn stood, dusting off his robes, though he kept his eyes lowered. He gestured toward the far side of the camp.
“The Good Masters accepted payment eagerly, Your Majesty. They believe the Unsullied will destroy your rule once returned to Qarth.”
His lips twitched slightly.
“The irony remains amusing.”
Hikari agreed. Astapor had effectively sold them the instrument of its own destruction. Classic elite arrogance. They assumed wealth insulated them from consequence. Earth’s billionaires had believed the same thing.
Arranged in precise, unyielding lines, were a hundred Unsullied, each the captain of a company.
‘This is what they do. They take children. They make them kill their own pets. They make them kill infants to prove they have no 'weakness' left. They cut away their manhood and their souls until only a weapon remains.’
A shockwave of sadness, cold and sharp, pierced Hikari’s heart. They are indeed machines, she thought, the reality of their existence hitting her with brutal force. This sadness, however, was quickly eclipsed by a building inferno of fury. The sheer, unadulterated injustice of it clawed at her, twisting her gut. It was raw, maternal fury. She thought of the children she had hoped to have with Alex one day in this world. Then the lives of children robbed, forced into slavery; the lives of infants snuffed out, the silent screams of mothers, and the cruel, uncaring laughter of slavers perched atop their pyramids, indifferent to the suffering they engineered. Her heart ached with each thought, a visceral pain that sharpened her resolve. She vowed, then and there; she would undo all the suffering these children had endured and deliver swift, undeniable judgment to the monsters who held their leashes.
Astapor would not merely fall. It would be dismantled systematically. Economically. Militarily. Psychologically. She would make slavery itself financially catastrophic. Her father would have approved of the efficiency. That thought left a bitter taste in her mouth.
“Who is the commander?” She asked, her voice calm, though a subtle tremor of suppressed power hummed beneath the surface.
His eyes, however, held something more than just emptiness. A flicker, almost imperceptible, of recognition? Of a nascent, unfathomable emotion? It was gone as quickly as it appeared, leaving her unsure if she had imagined it. His eyes, however, held something more than just emptiness. A flicker, almost imperceptible, of recognition? Of a nascent, unfathomable emotion? It was gone as quickly as it appeared, leaving her unsure if she had imagined it.
“This one is called Red Rat, Your Majesty,” he stated, his voice flat, devoid of inflection, yet the words were clear.
“Red Rat?” Hikari repeated, the name tasting like ash in her mouth. “Why such a name?”
Azhor sensing the dangerous shift in the atmosphere, quickly interjected; his voice carefully modulated. “Your Majesty, Unsullied are named after vermin as a deliberate, brutal psychological tactic by their slave masters in Astapor. It is meant to strip them of their humanity, their individuality, and their self-worth. To make them believe they are nothing more than property, less than men.”
That was it.
The last straw.
The carefully constructed dam of Hikari’s composure shattered. The image of innocent children, reduced to vermin, twisted her features into a mask of pure, divine fury. Her wings flared instinctively, a blinding flash of white light.
Light erupted outward.
[Aspiration Aura III]
A wave of immense, benevolent power, laced with undeniable authority, washed over the entire camp. It wasn’t a hostile force, but an undeniable spiritual pressure that commanded absolute reverence. Azhor, already kneeling, prostrated himself further, pressing his forehead to the earth. The Unsullied, even the commander, rigid and disciplined as they were, found their knees buckling. One by one, they dropped to the ground, their heads bowed, their spears clattering softly. In their vacant eyes, now fixed upon Hikari, the flicker she had seen in Red Rat’s became a roaring inferno: adoration, unwavering belief, a desperate, silent plea for purpose.
Only then did Ame realize what had happened, her slip-up. She hadn't meant to unleash her aura, yet the sight of their immediate, total submission, the almost worshipful look in their eyes, caused a faint blush to rise on her cheeks. This was not the way she wanted to inspire them, not through raw, overpowering divine authority, but through genuine liberation.
God damn it. Her cheeks flushed faintly beneath the divine radiance. Alex was never letting her live this down
She looked toward Red Rat. No. Toward the man kneeling before her.
“Red Rat,” She said, her voice now resonant with a power that vibrated through the very air. “No longer. That name, given to you by monsters, is an insult to the life you were given, an insult to the strength you possess.” She paused, her eyes sweeping over the multitude of kneeling Unsullied, a profound conviction solidifying in her heart. “From this day forward, your name is Hajime.”
The commander, Hajime, looked up, a flicker of bewildered understanding in his eyes.
“Hajime,” Hikari continued, her voice softening slightly, yet retaining its commanding tone. “It means ‘the beginning’ in my language. Because you shall be the first of many whom I shall rename, whom I shall set free. You shall be the first whose humanity is restored.”
She rose to her full height, her wings majestic, her aura still faintly shimmering. “Hajime, gather all the Unsullied. Gather every single one in formation, awaiting my address. Azhor, ready the ships. We sail with the morning tide.”
Both men, one a freed slave, the other a loyal servant, scrambled to obey. Azhor rose, his movements swift and efficient, barking orders to his men. Hajime, still slightly stunned, but with a nascent fire in his eyes, began to issue commands to his captains, his voice still flat, but with a new undertone of… something.
Once she was alone again, the immediate crisis diffused, Hikari held a hand to her forehead, a soft groan escaping her lips. “Oh, for the love of… Hikari, your absolute idiot,” she muttered to herself, a mixture of self-recrimination and lingering anger. “Aspiration Aura? Really? You couldn’t have just… used your words? All that talk of not being ‘over the top,’ and then you go and make them all kneel like you’re some kind of… well, a... mother goddess?”
[Aspiration Aura III] wasn’t an offensive spell; at level III, it typically acted as a buff for allies, increasing their stats. But in this world, where game mechanics blended with emergent reality, the lore of the spell – that it inspired adoration and unwavering belief – had manifested. She saw it now in the upturned faces of Gabriel and Ariel, their eyes shining with fierce devotion. And reflected in the suddenly less vacant, more focused eyes of the Unsullied. Still, it wasn't all bad, she conceded. Instilling loyalty was practical, Alex would approve, even if the method was a bit… forceful. And it wasn't Level IV or, worse, Level V, which would have utterly broken their wills and turned them into mindless thralls.
Her groan deepened. She could already imagine Alex’s expression when she explained this. Probably that infuriatingly calm smile he wore whenever she accidentally escalated situations into mythology.
Then another realization struck her.
Her eyes widened slowly.
“…I promised to rename them all.”
Silence. Gabriel blinked. Ariel looked confused. Hikari stared blankly toward the horizon.
“Ten thousand people,” she whispered.
Hajime
For as long as Red Rat could remember, existence had been a precise equation of killing and, when not killing, training. His earliest memories were not of a mother’s touch or a sun-drenched field, but of the rough sand of the Astapori training grounds, the weight of a spear, the cold bite of a blunted blade. Emotion was a concept as alien as a whisper of kindness. Pain was a sensation to be ignored, grief a weakness to be purged, joy an illusion, anger an uncontrolled surge that betrayed efficiency. He was a tool, honed to lethal perfection, stripped of all that might hinder his purpose.
The last time he might have felt something, anything, was a blur, a distant echo swallowed by the relentless present. The searing iron, the ritualistic castration, had been a moment of exquisite agony, yes, but even that had quickly dulled into a detached clinical observation of his own body’s reaction. The scream had been involuntary, a reflex of meat, not a cry of the soul. After that, nothing. A thousand days had merged into one, indistinguishable tapestry of drills, marches, and battles fought for masters whose names he didn't care to remember, in lands he didn’t care to know.
He was one of ten thousand, the Unsullied, purchased for a war that held no consequence for him. Azhor zo Vhezannar, a pureborn Qartheen exiled from his city, had bought them. Red Rat had not cared why. Azhor had brought them across the Summer Sea, in a fleet of galleys, to the northern tip of the island of Great Moraq. The ground and harbor had been prepared, leveled, for their encampment. Initially, Red Rat had assumed Azhor intended to retake Qarth, perhaps. But a tool did not question its wielder's motives. A tool simply existed to be used.
The days on Great Moraq were a continuation of the same. Drills by the rising sun, spear practice until midday, mock battles until dusk. The only difference was the sea air, salt-kissed and foreign, a stark contrast to the dust of Astapor. But even that was just a sensory input, no more, no less. Until today.
Today, the air felt different. A subtle hum, a tremor that resonated not in the earth, but in the deeper, forgotten parts of his being. The camp was abuzz with a strange, nervous energy, unlike anything Red Rat had ever witnessed among the Unsullied. There was an anticipation, a quiet murmur that spread like wildfire. Something was coming. Azhor had been moving with a new urgency; his usually arrogant posture humbled, almost reverent.
Red Rat stood at the forefront of his century; his gaze fixed on the makeshift dais that had been erected in the center of the vast training ground. He was one of the ninety-nine captains, chosen for his unwavering obedience and tactical precision. His eyes, typically devoid of expression, scanned the horizon.
Then she appeared.
Red Rat watched, dispassionately at first, as a figure descended from the sky along with two others...wings being, lesser but powerful all the same. The air shimmered, not with heat, but with almost visible energy. First, a light – not the harsh glare of the sun, but a soft, golden luminescence that she radiated.
Ame no Uzume was her name.
Breathtakingly beautiful was an inadequate term. She was beauty sculpted by a force beyond mortal understanding. Lustrous golden-blonde hair, intricately styled into a braid that cascaded down past her waist, shimmered like spun sunlight. Her eyes, piercing sapphire, held the depth of ancient heavens, yet a warmth that belied on their power. She wore gleaming silver armor, not cumbersome, but seeming to float on her form, adorned with an intricate silver crown from which an azure gem pulsed with a gentle light. And then, the wings. Three pairs, pristine white, unfurled slowly, majestic and vast, catching the golden light. Finally, a magnificent golden lance, not clutched, but held with an effortless grace that spoke of inherent power.
Red Rat had seen a thousand horrors, a thousand deaths. But at the sight of her, a sensation akin to awe; a primordial stirring, rippled through him. It was a faint tremor, an unfamiliar vibration in the hollow space where his emotions should have been.
He, like every Unsullied here, and countless others before them, had clung to a secret, unspoken faith. A crack, infinitesimally small, in the otherwise impenetrable wall of their conditioning. The Lady of the Spear. A whispered legend, a goddess of battle and justice, who would one day claim them, not as tools, but as an army of her own. He had seen her now, or rather, felt her presence. Azhor, the arrogant Qartheen, was bowing to her in absolute, silent submission.
Still, doubt, that insidious serpent, tried to coil around the nascent stirrings within him. Was she truly the Lady of the Spear? Or merely another powerful sorceress, another goddess of another pantheon, come to claim them for some fleeting whim? His training, his entire existence, screamed caution, demanded detachment.
Then she spoke. Her voice, like chimes of crystal and the roar of a distant waterfall, carried across the vast gathering, reaching every single Unsullied with impossible clarity. She has asked for the commander, and he has stepped up; he owns the rank through blood and skill. He has stated his name, as it is proper.
“Red Rat? Why such a name?” She has asked.
The name – his designation, his ignoble identity – echoed. It wasn't accusatory, nor was it dismissive. It was simply a statement of fact. His skin prickled. A thousand battles had not moved him, but the sound of his name on her lips. A name no one outside his immediate century even knew, brought a strange, unfamiliar jolt.
Azhor, still bowed low, spoke; his voice reverent. “Your Majesty, Unsullied are named after vermin as a deliberate, brutal psychological tactic by their slave masters in Astapor. It is meant to strip them of their humanity, their individuality, and their self-worth. To make them believe they are nothing more than property, less than men.”
Ame no Uzume’s sapphire eyes, impossibly deep, fixed on Red Rat. And then, he felt it. Truly felt it. Her presence intensified, surged, no longer a subtle tremor, but an overwhelming, physical force. It wasn't oppressive. It washed over him like a warm tide, sweeping away the cold ashes of fear, the last lingering tendrils of doubt. It was the absolute certainty of divine power, of benevolence, of a purpose that transcended his conditioned existence.
Red Rat’s knees, which had never buckled under the lash, which had held him steady as he killed his own infant puppy, gave way. The hard ground of Great Moraq met his knees. Around him, the other ninety-nine captains did the same; a wave of obeisance not born of command, but of awe. He bowed his head, not to a master, but to her. To his goddess.
And for the first time he could remember, Red Rat felt.
It was not a single emotion, but a symphony of them, all crashing into him at once—a lifetime of suppressed grief, a spark of alien joy, a righteous, cleansing anger. It was agony and ecstasy. A tear, a sensation so foreign he did not at first recognize it, traced a path through the dust on his cheek.
Her voice came again, gentle yet absolute. “Red Rat, No longer. That name, given to you by monsters, is an insult to the life you were given, an insult to the strength you possess. From this day forward, your name is Hajime.”
He has looked up, bewildered battle understanding in his mind.
“Hajime,” The goddess continues. “It means ‘the beginning.’ Because you shall be the first of many whom I shall rename, whom I shall set free. You shall be the first whose humanity is restored.”
The word seared into his soul, brand-new and ancient all at once. It was not a label of derision. It was a gift. A beginning. Hajime. It meant ‘beginning’ in the tongue of her celestial homeland. He was no longer a thing, a rat. He was a man, and he had a name. Hajime. He clutched it to his heart, the first thing he had ever truly owned.
He obeyed her next command without thought, the training and the newfound faith working in perfect tandem. He rose, and his voice, now carrying a timbre he had never heard, echoed across the field. “Unsullied! Form ranks!”
The machine stirred. Ten thousand men moved, not with the silent obedience of slaves, but with the fervent purpose of acolytes. They formed a vast, silent multitude; a sea of identical faces now turned upward toward a single, radiant sun. Hajime stood at the forefront, his heart hammering a frantic, joyful rhythm against his ribs.
His goddess rose higher into the air. Her six wings beat in a tandem that was a prayer, a poem, a war drum. Gold dust, shimmering and warm, began to fall from her wings, filling the air like benevolent fireflies. It settled on their shoulders, their heads, their uplifted faces. It felt like an embrace. It felt like the arm of a mother, holding them, keeping them warm for the first time in their lives.
The presence washed over them again, but this time it was shared. It was less concentrated on him alone, but no less potent. It connected them, a divine circuit of ten thousand souls waking up all at once. As one, ten thousand men knelt. The sound of their armor clicking, their spears hitting the ground, was a single, thunderous note of devotion.
Hajime knelt with them.
She spoke, and her voice was the promise of dawn. “Men of the spear! Listen to the truth of the world. I am Ameno Uzume, Seraph Empyrean, Queen of Qarth alongside my husband, Daedalus. We have claimed the Great City of Qarth. We have torn down the walls of the slave pits. We have fed the hungry, clothed the naked, and given the hopeless a reason to look at the dawn. We have given them dignity."
Hajime looked up, his face wet with tears he didn't know he could shed. He saw her raise the Harpy’s Fingers high into the air.
"I have seen the shadows of your lives," she continued, her voice growing heavy with a divine, righteous anger. "I have seen the price you paid in blood and steel. The world calls you weapons. The world calls you unfeeling. But I see the fire behind the ice. I see the men who were stolen to make the tools."
She held the whip aloft. Suddenly, the leather ignited. It didn't burn with a smoky orange flame, but with a brilliant, golden fire that consumed the symbols of their torment in seconds. The ash blew away on the wind, vanishing into the sea.
"I did not buy you to be my dogs, my slaves" she declared. "I do not hold the whip. I do not give you commands as a master gives to a slave."
She landed again, but this time she stood amongst them, walking through the ranks of the kneeling army.
"I set you free," she said. The words traveled through the ranks like a physical shockwave. "Here, on the soil of Great Moraq, you are no longer the property of Astapor. You are no longer the property of Azhor. You are no longer mine. You are men. You are free to walk to the docks, take the ships, and find whatever peace remains for you in this world."
A deafening silence followed. For the Unsullied, freedom was a vacuum. It was a terrifying, open space they had no map for.
Ameno Uzume stopped and turned to face the entire legion. Her golden lance shimmered.
"But I ask you this," she said, her voice dropping to a tone of intimate, shared purpose. "I go now to Slaver’s Bay. I’ll go to bring the same fire that consumed that whip to the gates of Astapor. I’ll go to drag the Good Masters from their thrones and break the chains of every child currently shivering in the dark. I go to wage a war of mercy."
She looked at Hajime, and then at the thousands behind him.
"I will not order you to fight. But I invite you to join me. Not as slaves, but as brothers-in-arms. Not as tools, but as the champions of the oppressed. We will march on your former home, and we will ensure that no more children are ever made to be 'Red Rats.' What say you?"
The silence persisted for a heartbeat. In that heartbeat, Hajime felt his entire life—the training, the killing, the silence—distill into a single point of clarity. He had been a weapon for the sake of cruelty. Now, he was being asked to be a weapon for the sake of justice.
He didn't need to look at his brothers. He knew. He felt the collective soul of the ten thousand vibrating with a singular, rediscovered humanity.
Hajime stood. He gripped his spear, not with the mechanical precision of a slave, but with the white-knuckled fury of a man.
He struck the butt of his spear against the hard-packed earth. Thump.
A second later, the other ninety-nine captains stood and struck their spears. Thump.
Then, the ten thousand followed.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
The sound was like a mountain cracking in half. It wasn't a shout; the Unsullied were still men of silence. But the Song of Spears—the rhythmic, thunderous striking of wood and steel against the ground—echoed across the island of Great Moraq and out over the waves toward the west.
It was a declaration. It was a vow.
Ameno Uzume smiled, a brilliant, radiant smile that warmed Hajime to his core. A smile was worth more than all the gold in the world.
"Then let it be so," she said, her voice filled with a profound sense of destiny. "And I shall give each of you – all ten thousand of you – a new name."
Hajime adjusted his shield. His name is Hajime. He was a man. He was free. And he was going home to burn the past to the ground.
The march began, but the rhythm is different now. The rhythm was no longer the whip of the master; it was the heartbeat of a god, and the ten thousand followed her into the light.
Vorgoryr Tagaros
The dust of Hesh had a particular way of coating the back of a man’s throat, a gritty reminder that no matter how many gods one associated with, the world remained stubbornly, annoyingly material.
Vorgoryr Tagaros adjusted the strap of his cuirass, feeling the familiar pinch of leather against his shoulder. He stood in the great plaza of the Lhazareen city, a place that smelled predominantly of parched earth and terrified sheep. Behind him, seven hundred men of the Dragon's Fang stood in disciplined rows—a significant increase from their numbers only a few months ago. Ahead of him, acting as a living shield of fanaticism, was his elder sister, Jaenera.
Vorgoryr found himself staring at the back of her head, wondering, not for the first time, when his life had decoupled from reality.
Twelve years ago, leaving the ancestral manse behind the Black Wall of Volantis had seemed like the ultimate act of rebellion. They were Tagaros; they had the blood of Old Valyria in their veins, but they were also younger siblings in a family that valued stasis over ambition. Selling their swords in the Disputed Lands had been honest work. It was blood, mud, and gold. It was predictable. Managing Jaenera’s overzealous nature—her tendency to charge into the thick of things with a laugh that bordered on the manic—was a chore, but it was a chore Vorgoryr understood.
Then came Qarth.
Vorgoryr spat into the dust. Three months. That was all it had taken for the world to turn inside out.
It began in Qarth—that "Greatest City that Was or Ever Will Be," which had turned out to be a city of liars, incense, and very dead warlocks. He remembered the day the House of the Undying vanished. It hadn’t just burned; it had been erased. One moment, it was a sprawling, vine-choked labyrinth of ancient malice; the next, a pillar of light had pierced the heavens, and there was nothing left but a crater that looked like the moon had taken a bite out of the earth.
Vorgoryr had tried to blame it on the Qartheen penchant for illusions. Dust and mirrors, he’d told his sister, Jaenera. High-grade hallucinogens in the braziers.
Then, the tower happened.
In the span of sixty seconds—he’d timed it, because a man needed something to hold onto when the world went mad—a fortress had erupted from that crater. It wasn’t built; it was summoned. It was a massive fortress, and it made the Black Wall of Volantis look like a child’s stack of pebbles.
The Hexarch Bastion.
He had seen the Black Wall of Volantis, that fused-stone wonder of the Freehold that had stood for millennia. He knew what it took to build such things—decades of labor, thousands of slaves, and the slow, agonizing application of blood-magic.
King Daedalus had done it in sixty seconds.
A six-hundred-foot tower of smooth, black Valyrian stone, etched with glowing azure runes that hummed with a frequency that made Vorgoryr ’s teeth ache, had simply grown out of the crater left by his wife, Lady Ameno Uzume. She had "cleansed" the site to oblivion, and he had simply filled the void with a fortress that made the palaces of the Pureborn look like mud huts.
Daedalus and Ameno Uzume. Their arrival turned the world upside down and shook it until all the sense fell out.
Vorgoryr had doubts, unlike his sister, who saw a new pantheon to worship. But the casual annihilation of the House of the Undying, an order that had endured for millennia? The creation of a castle from thin air? The summoning of armies of winged creatures that would make the Fiery Hand look like a knitting circle? The sheer, effortless ease with which they wielded such power was more than enough to convince Vorgoryr, much to his chagrin, that his sister might not be entirely insane.
Then Lady—no, Queen Ameno Uzume now—offered him a job. To reform and train the dozen disparate and vainglorious personal guard forces of Qarth into something she called the ‘Police’. He’d been reluctant. He was a sellsword, a killer for hire, not a civic planner. But one look from Jaenera, a look that promised a world of hurt involving hexes and humiliations, had been enough. Besides, training, discipline, and planning guard routes were things the Dragon’s Fang had done before. It was security work. How hard could it be?
Oh, by the Fourteen Flames, how wrong he had been.
The ‘Police’ was so much more. The training regimens, the detailed equipment lists, the duties, the jurisdictional boundaries… the goddess did not lack for ambition. Many of the ideas were so novel, so radical, he had no idea where they came from. It was like a fantasy from a particularly drunk guardsman in Volantis: the idea of one of his ‘officers’ apprehending an Oldblood for a crime. Unthinkable. It was like a sheep arresting a dragon for eating it.
The reward for this bureaucratic nightmare? A fucking dragon.
Both he and his sister had received one. King Daedalus was by far the most contradictory person he had ever met. Unbelievably powerful, yes. A pragmatic, calculated sort, certainly. But also more curious than any maester. Who, in their right mind, would give the blood of Old Valyria a dragon to bond with, just so he could ‘study the thing’? But then again, to the King and Queen, a hundred dragons were likely as threatening as a box of agitated lizards.
His own dragon was a magnificent beast of white scale and red streaks he’d named Vīzarys, after a flame-hearted ancestor. The moment the bond had snapped into place, a deep, resonant heat in his skull, every hidden envy he’d ever harbored for Jaenera’s paltry talent for throwing fire had evaporated like morning dew. She could conjure a fireball. He could ride a creature that was a living, breathing cataclysm. It was the ultimate affirmation of his Valyrian heritage, a primal, soaring truth that no wall, black or otherwise, could ever negate. He was Vorgoryr of the Dragon’s Fang, and he had a dragon. It was, he decided, the most exquisite "fuck you" he could ever have delivered to Volantis without actually burning it down himself.
"He’s coming," Jaenera whispered, her voice tight with a mixture of reverence and something that sounded uncomfortably like a schoolgirl’s crush.
Vorgoryr sighed, shifting his weight. "I know, Nera. You’ve said that four times in the last ten minutes."
"Do you have no sense of the moment, Vorgoryr ?" She snapped, half-turning. Her face was youthful, remarkably unscarred despite her years leading a mercenary company, thanks largely to her obsession with keeping her helmet on in the fray. "We are waiting for our God. Not just a king. A being who speaks to the fabric of the world."
"I have a sense of my bladder," Vorgoryr muttered. "And the fact that the Lhazareen elders look like they’re about to faint. If he’s a god, he could at least be punctual."
Jaenera hissed at him to be silent, but Vorgoryr just looked past her at the leaders of Hesh. They were a pathetic lot in his eyes—not because they were weak, but because they were so relentlessly peaceful. The "Godwife" of the Great Shepherd stood among them, her eyes clouded with a different kind of fanaticism. Vorgoryr respected the Lhazareen for one thing: they didn't burn people alive on pyres like the Red Faith back in Volantis. But their aversion to blood made them terrible clients for a sellsword, and even worse allies in a war.
And war was coming.
After his job with the police, the Dragon’s Fang had received its next mission: fortify and protect the Lhazareen city of Hesh. Vorgoryr knew the reason immediately. Slaver’s Bay was about to stir. Two weeks later, a 4000-strong Meereenese army attacked. They’d won a great victory, thanks to his own strategic placements and Jaenera’s not so gently immolated and beheaded of the Meereenese champion. But the open aggression meant one thing: war.
The message from his former second-in-command, now Police Chief Zorra Dolth, had confirmed it. Qarth had officially declared war on Meereen, Yunkai, and Astapor. And they, the Dragon’s Fang were to prepare. Once Lord Daedalus arrived, they would march for Meereen.
Qarth had officially declared war on Meereen, Yunkai, and Astapor. One city against three. It was suicide. It was madness.
Or at least, it would have been, if the "One City" didn't consist of two people who could rewrite the laws of physics over breakfast.
"The air is charge with mana," Jaenera said, her hand going to the hilt of her sword.
Vorgoryr felt it too. The space in the center of the plaza began to ripple, like heat haze rising off a sun-scorched road. Then, a tear of absolute darkness opened in the air. It wasn't a hole; it was a lack of anything. It was a wound in the world.
The sensible part of Vorgoryr ’s mind screamed at him to run, to find a very deep hole and hide in it until the age of gods passed over. Instead, he straightened his cloak.
From the darkness stepped Lord Daedalus.
He was a man who looked like he had been sculpted by an artist who found humanity slightly too flawed to replicate exactly. He stood tall, with an athletic build that suggested power without the bulk of a common brawler. His hair was raven-black, short and sharp. But it was the eyes that stopped Vorgoryr ’s heart every time—crimson, piercing, possessed a terrifying intelligence and utterly inhuman. He wore armor of a dark, gleaming metal that seemed to absorb the sunlight, inlaid with the same azure runes that graced the Bastion in Qarth. He carried no sword, only a massive black tome bound in silver with a singular blue gem set into the cover.
Jaenera dropped to her knees so fast her greaves clattered against the stone. The Dragon's Fang followed suit, a wave of steel hitting the dirt. The Lhazareen fell more slowly, like wilting flowers.
Vorgoryr knelt, though he took his time about it. He was a sellsword; he’d knelt for kings, Archons, and High Priests. But this felt different. It felt like kneeling before an avalanche.
"Rise," Daedalus said. His voice wasn't loud, but it carried to every corner of the plaza, rich and resonant.
Jaenera was up in an instant, her eyes wide. "My Lord. Hesh is yours. The Dragon’s Fang is prepared."
"Good," Daedalus said, his gaze sweeping over the Legion, the ramparts, the cowering shepherds. It lingered on Vorgoryr, and for a second, the sellsword felt like he was being weighed on a scale calibrated for celestial bodies. Then the King tilted his head skyward.
Vorgoryr followed his gaze. Two dragons, each already larger than a warhorse, circled above. Vezdriāxys, his sister’s dark blue beast, and his own, Vīzarys, the white-and-red.
"They are growing well," Daedalus remarked. "They will be fit for riding in three months."
Vorgoryr blinked. "Three months, my Lord? The old records... well, the legends say a dragon needs a year and a half, at minimum, to carry a rider without breaking its back."
Daedalus didn't look at her. "The ambient mana concentration accelerates biological and psychic development. A simple catalytic reaction."
‘Right. Simple.’ Vorgoryr kept his face a carefully neutral mask. ‘Simply warp the fundamental laws of nature. Why didn’t I think of that?’
"We are eternally grateful, my lord," Jaenera continued, her eyes shining. "You have returned to us the legacy of our blood."
Vorgoryr felt the same, albeit without the… religious ecstasy. He was grateful, and immensely elated. Don't get him wrong. To be one of the first dragonriders in two centuries, after the Targaryens had, in their legendary stupidity, gotten all their dragons killed, was a thrilling, awe-inspiring thing. But pass the initial exhilaration, and Vorgoryr understood that the dragon was more than just a reward. It was also a leash. A leash he wasn't sure he could get out of, or even wanted to. To escape it would mean escaping Daedalus, and that was a prospect far more terrifying than any war.
Daedalus’s crimson eyes settled on Vorgoryr again. "Your bond with Vīzarys. How fares it?"
Vorgoryr swallowed. It was not a request. It was a demand for a status report. Vorgoryr chose his words with the care of a man disarming a trap. "It is… a presence, Your Majesty. A warmth at the edge of my thoughts. A certainty of where he is." He shrugged, a deliberately casual gesture that felt hopelessly inadequate. "Vaguely."
Jaenera couldn't contain herself. "With Vezdriāxys, it is a song, Your Majesty! A symphony of emotion. I feel her curiosity, her pride, her devotion!"
Of course you do,’’ Vorgoryr thought darkly. ‘You probably feel her opinion on the local favorite pray and her thoughts on burning thing.’ In the aspects their Valyrian ancestors valued most—dragons, sorcery, fanatical devotion—his elder sister was, and always had been, vastly superior. He was the pragmatic one. The one who knew how much a gallon of water cost in the Red Waste and how to tell if a contract was about to turn treacherous. Skills that were suddenly, terrifyingly obsolete.
"Summon them," Daedalus commanded.
With a focused thought—a push of will that felt like shouting into a gale—Vorgoryr called Vīzarys. Jaenera did the same, her connection seemingly effortless. The two dragons banked and descended, landing in the plaza with heavy thuds that shook the ground, scattering chickens and sending Lhazareen scrambling back. Vezdriāxys was indeed slightly larger, regarding the crowd with a haughty, intelligent glare. Vīzarys snapped at a stray dog, which was more Vorgoryr’s speed.
Daedalus approached. And the King’s eyes changed.
The ruby red bled away, replaced by a glowing, brilliant, terrifying blue. The "God’s Eye," as Jaenera called it. Vorgoryr had seen it before, during the initial inspections of the dragons in Qarth. The Queen’s power was a tsunami—awesome, overwhelming, and direct. The King’s was an abyss. It didn’t overwhelm; it perceived. It was said he could unravel a man’s deepest secrets, his most shameful memories, with a single glance. Vorgoryr believed it. He felt a surge of primal terror through his bond—not his own, but Vīzarys’s. The two of them truly made for an unstoppable couple. Not that the king wasn’t overwhelmingly powerful even without his dreadful eye.
The dragon recoiled, a low whine rumbling in its throat. Vezdriāxys tucked her wings tight, her haughtiness replaced by pure, animal submission.
Daedalus raised a single hand, not in threat, but in acknowledgment. And both dragons, as one, bowed their massive heads, lowering themselves until their chins touched the dust. The agitation, the fear, vanished from the bond, replaced by a blank, placid stillness. Absolute obedience.
The crowd whispered in awe. Jaenera looked like she might faint from rapture.
Vorgoryr just felt cold. His dragon’s fear was now his own. This was not a bond of partnership; it was a chain of command, and Daedalus was at the very top.
The King’s God’s Eye shifted to Jaenera. "Your control over pyromancy has increased in precision by eighteen percent. The efficiency of your mana conversion is notably higher."
Jaenera blinked, stunned. "It… it has, my lord. I had not quantified it, but yes. How did you…?"
A faint, almost imperceptible grunt of satisfaction. "The bond is a conduit. It is more than shared sentiment. It is a synergistic alignment of your core metaphysical frequencies. Her growth fuels yours. Your focus sharpens hers." He spoke as if explaining that rain was wet.
Vorgoryr stared. Synergistic alignment of core metaphysical frequencies. The words were nonsense and yet, he knew, described an absolute truth. It was infuriating.
Daedalus finally turned away, his attention shifting to the cowering Lhazar delegation. The "sheep men," as the Meereenese called them, were prostrating themselves, muttering prayers. The King began speaking to them in low, measured tones, his mere presence holding them spellbound.
But Vorgoryr wasn’t listening. His mind was churning, filled with the ghost of his dragon’s terror and the chilling weight of the King’s words. ‘It is more than shared sentiment.’
They began a tour of the city. It was an absurd procession. A literal god-king walking through a dusty Lhazareen town, followed by a fanatic Valyrian mercenary princess and her grumpy brother.
As they reached the training grounds, the sound of whistling arrows filled the air. Vorgoryr ’s subordinate, a scarred veteran named Laques, was overseeing a group of Lhazareen men who looked like they’d rather be anywhere else.
"You focus heavily on archers," Daedalus observed, watching as a Lhazareen youth fumbled with his quiver.
"Because the Lhazareen are a bunch of cowards," Jaenera scoffed, not even bothering to lower her voice as the city elders trailed behind them. "They have an aversion to spilling blood. At least with a bow, they can pretend they’re just hunting very tall, very angry Meereenese soldiers."
Vorgoryr winced. He saw the elder, Morak—a man whose face was a map of white-bearded wrinkles—flinch at the word coward.
"It is not cowardice to value life, Commander Tagaros ," Morak said, his voice trembling but firm. He turned to Daedalus. "Your Majesty, when the Meereenese came to Hesh years ago, they did not just kill. They broke us. We are a people of the flock, not the fang."
He looked at Jaenera with a simmering resentment. "The Commander’s decision to use our militia as 'arrow fodder' in the siege last month has not been forgotten."
Jaenera rolled her eyes. "Your men were in the way. If you don't want to be fodder, learn to kill faster."
"Enough," Daedalus said. It wasn't a shout, but the air seemed to grow heavy, pressing down on Jaenera’s shoulders until she bowed her head. "Pragmatism is necessary in war, Jaenera, but cruelty without purpose is a waste of resources. The Lhazareen will be the foundation of the new order here. You do not burn your foundation to keep the house warm."
He then looked at Morak. "I do not require your people to be heroes, Elder. I only require them to be useful. My war is not a struggle of honor; it is a restructuring of civilization. Give them time to adjust to the weight of the bow."
Vorgoryr felt a flicker of genuine respect. Daedalus was a pragmatist. A terrifying, mountain-leveling pragmatist, but a pragmatist, nonetheless. It made the madness almost… manageable.
"Your Majesty," Vorgoryr stepped in, trying to smooth the jagged edges his sister left everywhere. "We’ve reinforced the north gate, and the men are drilling daily. But Meereen is not a village. They have the Great Masters, the Pit Fighters, and thousands of slave-soldiers. And that’s not mentioning Yunkai and Astapor behind them."
He hesitated, then took a gamble. "Even with your... abilities, one mercenary company and a city of shepherds against the Slaver’s Bay is a lot of blood to spill."
Daedalus turned his crimson eyes on Vorgoryr . A small, roguish smile played on his lips. "You are worried about the math, Vorgoryr . That is why I like you. You see the world in terms of costs."
"I’ve lived a long time because I know when the bill is too high," Vorgoryr replied.
"And what if I told you the bill has already been paid?" Daedalus asked.
Decide that not to dig deeper into that cryptic question, Vorgoryr change subject:
"We move for Meereen within the week. The march is long, and the desert is unforgiving. We’ll need to secure the wells at—"
"We will not be marching," Daedalus said.
Vorgoryr paused. "My King?"
"Marching involves walking. Walking is slow. I find it tedious."
"Then… horses?" Vorgoryr ventured. "We have enough for entire company, We are after all specialize in cavalry—"
"You misunderstand," Daedalus said, a small, roguish smile playing on his lips. "When I say we move, I mean we arrive."
Well, if he got to experience the godlike magic that allows himself and the legion to skip weeks of torturous marching, he is not going to complain.
They walked toward the city walls. Vorgoryr noticed the way the shadow of the man seemed to move independently of the light, lengthening and shortening as if it were a living thing. He thought of Lady Ameno Uzume. She wasn't here—she was likely already in Astapor, probably turning the city into a scenic lake of holy fire. She was, without question, the most beautiful woman he had ever seen—and he had seen the pleasure-slaves of Lys. But her beauty was like a forest fire: magnificent to look at from three miles away, but utterly lethal if you stood within reach. She had a way of looking at people as if they were interesting insects she might or might not decide to pin to a board. He didn't leer at her. He didn't even think about leering at her. He valued his soul staying inside his body.
"The Great Shepherd wishes you good fortune," the Godwife said as they neared the wall. She had been silent for most of the tour, watching Daedalus with a wary, mystical intensity. "He sees the storm you bring, O’ Black Artificer. And it is bought in blood. He asks only… that you remember the value of the lives that do not carry swords."
Daedalus looked at her, his crimson eyes softening—just a fraction. "I will try, Godwife. But war is a messy business, and even I cannot always pick the locks of fate without breaking the door."
It was a weird conversation, the kind that made Vorgoryr want to retreat to a tavern and drink until he forgot he lived in a world with prophecies and gods. It was all so heavy, so laden with mysticism.
Morak sighed; his shoulders slumped. "We cannot assist in this march, my Lord. We are not built for the conquest of cities. Our hands are for the crook, not the khopesh."
Daedalus began to laugh. It was a rich, deep sound that startled a flock of birds into flight from a nearby rooftop. It wasn't a mocking laugh; it was the laugh of a man who found the entire situation immensely entertaining.
"Elder Morak," Daedalus said, placing a hand on the old man’s shoulder. The azure runes on his gauntlet glowed softly. "I did not come here to ask for your farmers to die in the dirt of Meereen. I came here to show you why you don't need to be afraid anymore."
He stepped away from the group, moving to the center of the large open space just inside the city gates. The Dragon's Fang moved back instinctively. Jaenera’s breath hitched. She knew what was coming. Vorgoryr just braced his feet and hoped his ears wouldn't ring too badly.
Daedalus raised his arms. He didn't chant. He didn't dance. He didn't cut himself or throw powdered roots into the air. He simply commanded.
"Gate," he said.
The air didn't just ripple this time; it shattered. A massive tear in space, thirty feet high and fifty feet wide, yawned open in the middle of the plaza. It looked into a place of pure, blinding gold.
Then, they began to emerge.
Archangel Flames.
They came in silence, the only sound the faint clink of celestial metal and the hum of power. They were tall, encased in shining white armor that seemed to be made of polished pearl and starlight. Behind their heads, halos of pure radiance glowed, casting long, sharp shadows across the dusty Lhazareen stone. From their backs sprouted wings of folded light. Each one carried a sword that wasn't made of steel, but of living, dancing flame.
"By the Fourteen," Vorgoryr whispered, the old Valyrian gods slipping from his tongue before he could stop them.
One... ten... fifty... a hundred.
The Archangel Flame marched out of the portal in perfect, terrifying synchronization. They didn't breathe. They didn't look around. They simply took their positions, forming a phalanx of divine fire that turned the dusty plaza into a cathedral of light.
Then behind them, larger, even more menacing yet more ethereal, was Principality Observation, or that was what they were called. These was embodied in the same armor as the Archangel Flame, with a long robe covering up its legs. On its right hand, a huge mace made of divine power and equips a round shield with an image of the eight-pointed star on its left arm. These were special creations of the queen, guarding only the Bastion itself.
Twenty of them arrange in the back line.
"This," Daedalus declared, his voice booming like thunder over the silent city, "is my army."
Vorgoryr looked at the Archangel Flame and the Principality Observation. He looked at their swords, each one capable of cutting through a man-at-arms like a hot knife through tallow. He looked at the hundreds of them—an army of winged, tireless, immortal constructs.
He looked at his sister, who was vibrating with such intense religious fervor he thought she might actually combust. Then he looked at Morak and the Godwife, who had fallen to their knees, their faces pale with a terror that surpassed anything the Meereenese could ever inspire.
Vorgoryr took a deep breath, the smell of ozone and divinity replacing the scent of sheep.
"Well," Vorgoryr muttered to himself, adjusting his belt one more time. "At least the rations won't be an issue. I don't think those things eat."
He looked at the glowing army and then at Daedalus, who stood at the center of it all, a roguish god about to dismantle an empire.
Vorgoryr Tagaros was a pragmatic man. He was a sellsword who knew when a fight was won before the first blow was struck. And for the first time in his life, he realized he wasn't going into a war.
He was going on a victory lap.
Morrec zo Pahl
The apex of the Great Pyramid of Ghis was a place where men were meant to feel like gods. At eight hundred feet above the red dust of Meereen, the air should have been sweet, filtered by the lush greenery of the hanging gardens and cooled by the marble-rimmed pools that caught the high-altitude breezes. Here, the Great Masters of the city—the blood of Old Ghis—gathered to shape the destiny of the world.
But today, the air was rancid. It tasted of stale sweat, expensive oils turned sour by heat, and the unmistakable, metallic tang of fear.
Morrec zo Pahl sat on his ornate cedar-and-gold seat, his hands resting heavily on the carved harpy-heads of the armrests. He was one of fifteen. Around him, the other fourteen occupants of the chamber were doing what they did best: bickering. They insulted each other’s lineage, blamed each other’s lack of foresight, and shouted until their voices cracked.
"It is a provocation of the highest order!" bellowed the Lord of Galare, his face a shade of purple that matched his silk tokar. He slammed a fist onto his knee. "Qarth must be razed. We must march, bring down these pretenders, and salt the very earth so that not even a weed grows where their palaces once stood!"
Loraq and Zhak nodded in frantic agreement, their fringed tokars rustling like dry leaves.
"With what army?" Hazkar interjected, his voice thin and trembling. "We lost four thousand men at Hesh. Four thousand! Our finest warriors, our veteran guards. And our champion..."
Hazkar trailed off, casting a wary glance toward Morrec.
Morrec did not react, though his heart tightened. His nephew, the pride of House Pahl, a man who had never lost a duel, had been the one to lead those four thousand. Only one man had crawled back from the slaughter at Hesh—a gibbering wreck who spoke of flame that ate steel and a woman with silver hair who throw fire like a dragon.
His brother, Enzak—the captain of the City Guard and the boy’s father—had been inconsolable. He had locked himself in the lower tiers of the Pahl pyramid, drinking himself into a stupor or screaming for vengeance. Morrec felt that same anger flaring in his own gut. The Dragon’s Fang, the mercenaries who had stand against them; Hesh, the city that should have been a simple conquest; and that Valyrian whore, Jaenera Tagaros . They would all pay. But unlike the fools in this room, Morrec knew that anger was a poor substitute for steel.
"The Hesh disaster was a fluke," Uhlez scoffed, waving a ringed hand dismissively. "A combination of bad terrain and... and parlor tricks. These 'Sorcerer Lords' of Qarth, this Daedalus and his woman? Charlatans. They have used the chaos of the Pureborn’s incompetence to seize a city of merchants. They are nothing."
"Charlatans do not destroy the House of the Undying with a single spell, Uhlez!" Yherizan retorted. The man looked older than he had a month ago. "I have heard the reports from the exile Pureborn. They say the walls of the palace melted like wax. My own cousin was there—he is a man of sound mind, and he says he saw things that defy the gods...and we all saw the night turn to day when that pillar of light appeared "
"Your cousin is a coward who likely saw a kitchen fire and thought it was the end of the world, and that light is nothing more than a natural occurrent, an act of god, not mere sorcerer" Uhlez shot back. "They are madmen. Madmen who have declared war on the entire Slaver’s Bay. They have declared war on Yunkai and Astapor as well. Does that sound like the action of a god, or the action of a fool who will soon be crushed under the weight of his own arrogance?"
"It is the action of someone who has the power to back it up," Yherizan said, his voice dropping to a whisper.
The shouting started again. Merreq, who still carried the soft baby fat of a youth on his cheeks, stood with Hazkar and Naqqan, arguing for caution. Yherizan suggested hiring the Second Sons out of Yunkai, but others argued that the gold would be better spent bolstering the city walls.
Morrec remained silent. To his left and right sat Rhazdar and Reznak mo Reznak. They were his tools, his supporters. They would not speak until he did. Reznak, the Seneschal, was a nervous wreck. Even though he had been the first to bring the intelligence of the Qartheen coup to Morrec—earning him a seat in this inner sanctum—the man looked as if he expected a sorcerous bolt of lightning to strike him at any moment.
Ozhek mo Rhazdar, a man whose family had been allied with the Pahls for generations, leaned in close. His voice was a mere ghost of a sound against the backdrop of the arguing Masters.
"They will not stop until you silence them, Morrec," Ozhek whispered.
Morrec sighed, a long, weary sound. "Let them exhaust themselves, Ozhek. An angry man speaks his secrets; a tired man listens to reason."
"I have more than secrets, Morrec," Ozhek continued, his eyes darting around the room to ensure no one was eavesdropping. "My contacts in Astapor... they report something troubling. An exile Pureborn of Qarth has arrived there. A man named Azhor zo Vhezannar."
Morrec’s brow furrowed. "Vhezannar? I know the name. A minor branch of the Pureborn. What of him?"
"He has purchased the Unsullied," Ozhek said.
Morrec felt a chill that had nothing to do with the altitude. "How many? A few centuries?"
"All of them," Ozhek whispered. "Ten thousand. Every man standing on the Plaza of Pride, including the boys still in training. He paid five million gold honors."
The sheer scale of the number hit Morrec like a physical blow. Five million gold honors? Even for House Pahl, the wealthiest house in Meereen, that was a staggering sum of wealth.
"How?" Morrec hissed. "If these Sorcerer Lords took Qarth, they would have seized the vaults. How does an exile escape with five million gold? It makes no sense. The Sorcerers cannot be that inept."
"That is what troubles me," Ozhek agreed. "Vhezannar’s father and elder brother were executed for resisting the new regime. He claims he escaped with the family’s hidden reserves to seek vengeance. He says he will retake Qarth and restore the Pureborn. But five million? It reeks, Morrec. It reeks of a trap, or a play we do not yet understand."
Morrec looked back at the bickering council. Yherizan was red-faced, his hand hovering near the hilt of his ceremonial dagger as he shouted at Uhlez. The time for observation was over.
Morrec stood. He did not shout. He simply stood, and the sheer presence of the man—the authority of House Pahl—drew the air out of the room. Slowly, the voices died down. The Masters turned to him, some with hope, others with resentment.
"Enough," Morrec said. The word was a low roar that echoed off the brick parapets.
He waited until they had all resumed their seats, shifting uncomfortably under his gaze.
"It does not matter what you think of magic, or charlatans, or the sound mind of your cousins," Morrec began, his voice cold and precise. "The truth is written in the blood of four thousand Ghiscari warriors. Qarth has declared war on us. We, the Great Masters of the greatest city remaining of the Old Empire, must respond. Not with insults, and not with panicked theories."
He paced the center of the chamber, his tokar dragging softly on the floor.
"From Hesh to Meereen is a two-week march for an army. Perhaps ten days if they are forced to the limit. But Qarth cannot assault Meereen with just the remnants of the Dragon’s Fang or a handful of ‘sheep’. To truly threaten these walls, they must mobilize. Qarth must mobilize their own levies, their 'Flamewings,'. That gives us two moons to prepare. Perhaps three."
Yherizan sneered. "Why wait? Why not take Hesh back now? It would grant us a holdfast and deny them a staging ground."
Morrec looked at Yherizan as if he were a particularly dim-witted slave. "Because Hazkar is right, you fool. We just lost half of our standing fighting force. Do you wish to send the other half into the wilderness? If we gut the city of its protection, the slave pits will be overflowing with rebellion before you reach the Skahazadhan. We stay. We fortify."
The room was silent. Even Yherizan had the grace to look chastened.
"What do we do then?" Merreq asked, his voice cracking in its high pitch.
"We do what Meereen has always done," Morrec said. "We use our wealth. We gather the sellsword companies—Hidak’s Circle, the Iron Shields. We bolster the defenses of the Great Pyramid and the walls. We turn Meereen into a cage that no sorcerer can pry open."
"And the Unsullied?" Quazzar asked from the back.
Morrec nodded to Rhazdar. The man stood and repeated the intelligence about Azhor zo Vhezannar and the ten thousand eunuch soldiers.
The reaction was instantaneous. Elation broke out among the more desperate Masters.
Some expressed elation, a few even derision and contempt, declaring that these sorcerers were all but finished, and that Meereen should demand compensation. “Half of Qarth’s wealth should be enough!” Uhlez declared, a greedy glint in his eye, already counting his imaginary spoils. Only a few, though, saw the inconsistency, the gaping holes in the story, exactly as Morrec and Ozhek had saw. Too perfect, too convenient. This Azhor zo Vhezannar was a phantom, a pawn, or perhaps something far more sinister.
No matter, Morrec thought, suppressing a sigh. I still have two months to prepare for them. Two months to unravel the mystery of Azhor zo Vhezannar, two months to ready Meereen’s defenses, two months to steel his people for the coming storm. It was barely enough time, but it was all they had. He would send his own agents to Astapor, to Qarth, to confirm Ozhek’s intel, to dig deeper into this strange tale. He would double the patrols, activate the sleeper cells within the slave quarters, and bribe every sellsword captain in the Bay. He would do everything in his power, within the limits of their traditional understanding of warfare.
The great cedar doors to the council chamber burst open.
The guards at the door moved to intercept, but the man who stumbled in was one of their own—a warrior of the City Watch, his bronze scale armor dented and covered in a fine layer of grey ash. His breathing was ragged, his eyes wide and rolling in his head like a panicked horse.
"Sacrilege!" Galare screamed, standing up. "How dare you interrupt the Great Master Council! Guards, take his head!"
The warrior didn't even look at Galare. He collapsed to his knees, his hands clutching at the air toward Morrec.
"Masters..." the man gasped, coughing up a spray of red phlegm. "The... the gate..."
Morrec strode forward, grabbing the man by his gorget and hauling him up. "Speak! What has happened? Who is at the gate?”
"An army..." the warrior wheezed. "Outside the walls... an army..."
"Impossible," Morrec said, his voice failing him for the first time in his life. "Hesh is two weeks away. Our scouts... we have lookouts along the Skahazadhan for fifty miles! No army can move that fast. No army can simply appear!"
"They didn't march," the soldier whispered, looking up with tears of pure fright in his eyes. "They... they were just there. The fog rolled in from the sea, and when it lifted... the desert was full of them."
Morrec pushed past the soldier, ignoring the frantic questions of the other Masters who were now scrambling like panicked hens. He ran to the low brick parapet at the edge of the garden.
He looked down, eight hundred feet to the dusty plains surrounding the city.
Meereen was a city built on a scale of giants, protected by walls so thick three chariots could drive abreast atop them. The Bronze Gate was a marvel of the world. The space between the city and the hills was vast, a killing field designed to break any siege.
But the killing field was gone.
In its place was a sea of white and azure.
Morrec felt the world tilt. There, directly in front of the gate, sat an army that should have been hundreds of miles away. He saw the banners—the azure arcane circle with the eight-pointed star.
In the center of the host, he saw them: the rumored Flamewings. Hundred of knights in armor that shone with a blinding, pearlescent white; their backs adorned with what looked like wings of folded light. Above their heads, halos glowed with a soft, rhythmic pulse.
And before them, mounted on a beast that defied every law of nature—a white lion the size of an elephant, its fur shimmering like silk, its great wings tucked against its armored flanks—sat a figure in black.
Behind the rider stood the Dragon’s Fang, seven hundred cavalries led by the Valyrian woman who had butchered his nephew.
But it was the speed—the sheer, magical impossibility of it—that broke Morrec's mind. Two months of marching had been bypassed in a heartbeat.
"They are already here," Ozhek whispered, appearing at Morrec's side, his face ashen.
Morrec looked at the city below. The slaves were already stopping in the streets, looking up. The guards were frozen on the ramparts. The air, once stale, now hummed with a low, vibrating frequency that made the very stones of the Great Pyramid tremble.
The Sorcerer Lords had not come to negotiate. They had not come to siege.
They had simply arrived to collect.
Morrec zo Pahl, the richest man in Meereen, the master of strategy, looked down at the white-winged knights and the azure banners, and for the first time in his life, he knew with absolute certainty that the walls of Meereen were nothing more than a tomb.
"It's impossible," he breathed, the word a prayer to gods he no longer believed in.
Below, the white lion let out a roar that shook the foundations of the pyramid, and the swords of the Flamewings ignited into a sea of fire.