The slavers of Volantis, in desperation, hired assassins and mercenaries from the Shadowlands beyond Asshai. One night, under a blood-orange moon, Andrew was ambushed in the ruins of Bhorash. The assassins wielded dragonglass-tipped bolts and wore cloaks soaked in blood-magic to mask their scent.
But Andrew was more than man—he was fire's fury. Souldrinker sang through the night, and Vharaxes descended from the skies like a falling star. The ambushers were turned to ash. One escaped to whisper in fear, "He is not of this world."
Andrew, wounded but alive, collapsed beside his dragon. He dreamt of silver hair, and lips that whispered his name.