The fifth tower loomed before them like a silent giant.
It didn't gleam like the second, nor did it boast the ornamentation of the third.
Its surface was black stone flecked with crimson veins that shifted in the gloom, as if smoldering slowly from within.
There were no windows, only vertical slits that looked like barely healed wounds.
But the most unsettling thing wasn't its size... but the unmistakable feeling that it was watching them.
Vaemor Xhaelarys was the first to take a step toward the staircase.
The silence there was unnatural; not the absence of sound, but a kind of deafness imposed by the tower itself.
With each step, they felt as if their thoughts were being heard and echoed back to them.
As they reached the threshold, the doors opened without touching them, revealing an interior of polished stone that reflected a crimson glow, like light filtered through blood. Neither of them spoke a word… because as soon as they crossed paths, the ground seemed to vanish.
Aerys Qhaedros barely had time to see the rest disappear before his eyes, swallowed up by shadows that cast no bodies.
An instant later, he was alone.
There was no tower, no stairway. Only a narrow corridor that curved toward a distant light.
For Vaemor, the transition was a sharp blow to the chest.
An invisible pressure dragged him back, and when he opened his eyes, he was standing on an abandoned dock… one he hadn't seen since before the fall of his house.
Maekor Dravion appeared on an ash-covered plain, the sky the color of molten iron.
Kaelyth Thalmyx felt the ground beneath her feet turn to warm, soft sand, and before her rose a face she thought lost forever. Zaryon Velquarys, Rhaedor Vorys, and Daenyr Vhaely had also been separated, each thrust into a situation that struck at their hearts more than any sword.
There were no visible enemies.
The tower did not seek to measure their physical strength, but to open old wounds and see if they still bled.
Vaemor walked among burned ships, hearing the voices of his family accusing him of not saving them. Each step grew heavier, as if the planks themselves were pulling him down. Aerys found himself in a corridor that led to the most bitter betrayal he had ever suffered: his brother handing him over to his enemies. The temptation to take another path and avoid that pain loomed over him, but he knew that yielding meant being trapped. Maekor watched as the flames consumed the city of his childhood. Through the smoke, a hooded figure offered him the chance to remake the past... in exchange for abandoning his current oath. • Kaelyth stood before the ghost of a dead love, offering her peace and oblivion if she abandoned the expedition. The warmth was real, so real that tears burned her cheeks. Zaryon heard the voices of the dead he had sacrificed for his own ambition, promising him unlimited power if he accepted that his actions had been necessary. Rhaedor crossed a cracked obsidian bridge, hearing his own voice from the other side telling him it was all an illusion and that he must jump to awaken. Daenyr stood in a room filled with mirrors, each reflection showing her as queen, slave, assassin, savior... and none seemed to be the true one.
One by one, they realized they could not destroy their fears: they must accept and overcome them.
Resilience lay not in fighting, but in moving forward despite the pain and doubt.
As the last one crossed the invisible threshold of their own trial, the shadows dissipated. They found themselves standing in a circular chamber, with a black stone altar in the center.
Seven carved slots awaited them: one for each of the eggs they carried.
The tower, mute but with a palpable will, demanded the joint offering.
They placed the eggs.
As they did so, the chamber trembled and a crimson glow flooded them.
An energy coursed through them, subtly transforming their bodies:
Their skin became as smooth as porcelain, their eyes took on a deep violet glow, and their hair transformed into a platinum gold that seemed to absorb the light.
But the most profound change was invisible: a fiery pulse in their veins, as if the tower had joined their blood to its own.
As the light began to fade, they all saw the same thing.
It wasn't a memory... it was an imposed vision: Valyria before the Doom.
Streets bathed in gold, dragons gliding atop towers so tall they sliced through the clouds. Then a roar split the sky, and fire devoured the earth, scorching everything in a moment of fury.
Amid the chaos, a figure with the same eyes as theirs pointed to a path: a stone path over a red sea, leading to a distant shadow.
When he opened his eyes, he was back in the hall, and on the altar lay a map carved in obsidian.
On it, a single dot glowed faintly: the location of the sixth tower.
Vaemor closed his fingers over the map, feeling how warm the stone was to his touch.
"The path continues... and now we have no excuse to stop."