The torchlight barely scratched the darkness.
The air was heavy—too still, too old.
Rider stood at the base of the ancient staircase, the flickering flame trembling in his hand as he stared into the abyss ahead.
"This isn't a basement…" he muttered. "It's a temple."
The chamber stretched beyond imagination. Massive pillars vanished into shadow, and faint carvings danced across walls that looked older than kingdoms.
Garros whistled low. "Feels like the gods themselves built this place."
"Stay close," Rider ordered, voice dropping to a whisper. "Mark the walls every twenty paces. I don't care if you're scared, but no one gets lost down here."
Garros nodded, pulling a stick of chalk—stolen from the fort's classroom—and drew a small arrow on the nearest pillar, pointing back toward the stairs.
Four men walked into the dark, their footsteps echoing like distant drums.
The floor was unnaturally smooth, untouched by time. The walls shimmered faintly under the firelight, revealing carvings—dragons in flight, dragonlords on their backs, entire cities burning and being rebuilt again and again.
> "They carved their history into the stone," Rider whispered, tracing a dragon's wing with his fingertips. "The Valyrians didn't build for beauty—they built to be remembered."
Kev squinted. "You're saying this is just one place among hundreds?"
> "Their empire spanned continents," Rider replied. "They needed heat for their dragons. Geothermal vents—volcanic warmth. They probably built this whole complex around one."
The air grew warmer as they descended deeper, but not enough to comfort. The darkness seemed alive—pressing, whispering, watching.
Then they found him.
A corpse, slumped against a pillar, perfectly preserved by dry air. The insignia of Fort Despair still faintly visible.
> "One of the missing fifty," Garros murmured. "Died sitting up… no wounds, no struggle."
"He got lost," Rider said softly. "No monsters. No battle. Just darkness. Hunger. Despair."
They all went quiet.
The idea of dying like that—slowly, forgotten—made even the veterans shiver.
> "Every twenty paces," Rider repeated. "We're not ending up like him."
They pressed on.
Each hall they entered grew more purposeful. The carvings turned into diagrams. Stone tables lined with strange grooves—laboratories for dragon anatomy. Huge iron chains embedded in walls. Feeding troughs large enough for carriages.
And then they stepped into what none of them expected.
A library.
A vast, circular hall, carved into the rock like a cathedral of knowledge. Thousands of scrolls and books lined the shelves, perfectly preserved under the soft glow of faintly humming crystals above.
> "Holy hell," Garros breathed. "A Valyrian library… still intact."
Rider approached the nearest shelf, running his fingers over the parchment. Ancient Valyrian script—dense, elegant, impossible to read. But a few words were universal.
> Dracarys. Viserion. Igne. Sanguis.
Fire. Dragon. Blood.
Rider's heart pounded.
"This is it," he whispered. "Their research. Their dragon-breeding knowledge. Everything they knew about controlling fire and life itself."
Finn looked stunned. "You can read it?"
"No," Rider said, smiling faintly. "But Maester Colwyn can. If I bring him samples, he can translate."
"Samples?" Kev muttered. "Kid, you'd need a wagon for this."
Rider grinned. "Then we'll bring wagons. This is worth more than gold. More than thrones. With this, we could rebuild—no, surpass—the old world."
Garros snorted. "Or we could find actual gold. You know, food money?"
> "We'll do both," Rider said simply.
They took a few scrolls—texts on dragon handling, Valyrian metallurgy, and something labeled "Aegon's Flame Theory." Then they continued deeper.
The air grew hotter now—humid, pulsing with warmth that seemed to breathe.
"Volcanic core's close," Rider murmured. "We're walking inside the heart of the mountain."
The walls changed again—no longer history, but instruction. Growth charts. Feeding diagrams. Schedules for training juvenile dragons.
And then—they found it.
A door.
No—a vault.
Twenty feet tall. Forged from Valyrian steel etched with glowing red runes. The metal itself shimmered faintly, alive with heat.
The ground before it bore scorch marks. The floor, scratched. Someone had tried—successfully—to open it.
> "Someone's been here," Garros said grimly.
Rider stepped closer, pressing his palm against the warm steel. It was alive. Humming. Still powered.
> "Temperature control's active," he murmured. "Even after four hundred years…"
Finn's voice cracked. "We going in?"
Rider hesitated for only a breath.
> "We go in."
The door was ajar—just enough to slip through.
They entered single file.
And the sight that greeted them silenced every word.
A circular vault, vast as a coliseum. Glowing crystals pulsed with orange light across the domed ceiling. The walls were lined with alcoves—dozens upon dozens of them—each filled with something smooth and black, like glass warmed by life itself.
Preservation pods.
Egg vaults.
Most were empty. Some shattered. Some reduced to dust.
But in one—Rider saw it.
An egg.
The size of a melon. Crimson scales streaked with black veins, faintly glowing from within. He touched it gently—then froze.
A heartbeat.
Slow. Faint. Steady.
"It's alive," he whispered.
Garros leaned over. "You're kidding."
Rider looked up, eyes blazing.
"It's still warm. Still pulsing. After centuries. This egg… is alive."
They searched the rest—three more eggs, two long dead, one cracked open long ago.
> "You even know how to hatch one?" Garros asked.
"Not yet." Rider looked back toward the glowing crystals. "But I will. The library has the answers."
In the center of the vault sat a stone pedestal. On it, an open book—unlike the scrolls, it was bound in dark leather, written in a simpler Valyrian script.
He read the first words:
Sanguis. Ignis. Nexus.
Blood. Fire. Bond.
"It's a manual," he whispered. "Instructions for hatching dragons."
Then—a sound.
A deep grinding rumble from below.
The ground vibrated. The sound of heavy steps—distant, but growing closer.
"What was that?" Finn hissed.
Rider's blood ran cold.
"Something else lives down here," he said quietly. "And it's awake."
They ran. Back through the halls, past the library, past the corpse, up the stairs. The sound followed for a time—then stopped.
Only silence remained.
By the time they emerged into the fort basement, the torch was sputtering. Kane and his men waited, wide-eyed.
"You're alive?" Kane asked, stunned.
Rider unwrapped the crimson egg. The light caught it, and the soldiers gasped.
"By the Seven…" Kane breathed. "That's a dragon egg."
Rider nodded slowly.
"No," he said. "That's our future."
The crimson scales shimmered in the torchlight pulsing like the heart of a sleeping god.
I'll hatch you, Rider thought. No matter what it takes.
Because dragons weren't just beasts. They were destiny.
And Rider Draymore had just stolen fate itself from the dead empire of Valyria.