The halls of Arraxor, the mountain-hold of House Naelarys, whispered with strange new life.
Once quiet and shrouded in ash, the fortress now echoed with the clamor of arriving soldiers, crates of gold, and wagons filled with blackened steel. Banners of House Naelarys and Neron's growing faction flew together—dragon wings entwined, crimson over obsidian.
Lady Saerya Naelarys stood on a balcony carved into the volcano's rim, her cloak billowing in the sulfurous wind. Below, a stream of molten rock flowed through a chasm, glowing like the veins of the world. She sipped volcanic wine as Neron approached.
"You've moved swiftly," she said, not turning. "Most lords would still be writing ravens."
"I don't ask the world to wait for me," Neron replied. "The world waits for no one."
She glanced at him. "Then what are you building? A new Freehold? Or your own empire?"
He met her eyes, calm and unflinching. "Both."
She smiled faintly. "Dangerous ambition."
"I was born into fire, Saerya. I only ever move forward."
A Council of Shadows
Within the obsidian chamber beneath Arraxor, Neron's most trusted gathered: Kaerys Velaryon, silent and poised; M'Koro, leaning on his battleaxe; Jorvan, studying a map riddled with blood marks; and now, Lady Saerya herself.
"We have spies in Mantarys and Elyria reporting troop movements," Jorvan said. "House Maegyr is mustering three legions. Urronar is drilling slave armies. They mean to choke you before your roots grow deep."
"They fear what we represent," Kaerys added. "Not just strength—but change."
"Let them fear," Neron said. "But we must strike first."
M'Koro growled, "Which snake do we cut first?"
"None," Neron replied. "We strike at their breath—their gold."
He turned to Kaerys. "I want our ships to intercept Maegyr's spice routes. Bleed them slowly. Not with blades, but empty coffers."
"To kill a serpent," Saerya murmured, "cut off its tongue, not its head."
"Exactly," Neron said.
The Dragon's Roar
Night fell heavy and hot. Atop Arraxor's peak, Neron stood beside Vhassaryx, now massive, wings stretching wide in the moonlight. His scales reflected the starlight like an armored constellation.
Neron climbed into the saddle bound by Valyrian sigils, then whispered a word in the ancient tongue.
"Dracarys."
The dragon launched skyward with a roar that shook the mountain, soaring over blackened craters and smoking peaks.
They flew low over villages, over forests turned to cinders long ago. Farmers and nobles alike emerged from their hovels to see the creature pass—a shadow of death, a whisper of prophecy.
The message was clear:The Ash-Lord rides.
Meanwhile – In the Temple of the Flame
Far to the east, inside a forgotten temple where fire never died, the eldest of the flame-priests gathered. Their skin cracked like cinders, their eyes glowing faintly red, they circled a basin of molten bronze.
High Flame-Keeper Qaraxes stirred the liquid with a rod of dragonbone.
"His flame is ancient," he rasped. "Older than we thought."
Another priest whispered, "A bloodline returned?"
"No… a soul reborn."
"He walks with the dragon," Qaraxes said. "And worse—he carries the ember of the Crystal Flame."
"What do we do?" the youngest asked.
The high priest looked up, his eyes like molten gold.
"We prepare the Pyreborn. The last of our kind. If he rises… we must either burn with him—or burn him first."
And so, the game of shadows deepens. As blades are drawn in silence, and dragons wake across scorched skies, the world edges closer to its first great firestorm—the one that will shake the foundations of the Freehold.
End of Chapter 10