Corwyn Hill had been hungry before.He'd spent most of his thirteen years finding scraps in gutters, pockets, and midden heaps. But he had never known this kind of hunger — the kind that made his bones ring hollow and his breath feel warm in his chest, like he was slowly burning from the inside out.
Three days since the last man died.
Four since the last drop of clean water.
He didn't know how long since he'd left the ship. He'd stopped counting. There were no days here, only red skies and black ground and heat that seeped up through the soles of his boots. The air tasted like rust and charcoal. The wind felt wrong, as if it blew from the ground instead of the sky.
He had not spoken in days.
There was no one left to speak to.
He had watched them die — not all at once, not in battle, but one by one, picked off by this place. The strong ones had gone first. Men who had boasted on the ship, who had told stories of dragons and gold and glory. Men who'd sworn nothing could scare them.
Corwyn didn't think Valyria scared them.
He thought it terrified them.
Ser Gerion Lannister had been the last of them. Proud even at the end. He'd kept that stupid lion cloak on his shoulders even when his armor had half-melted onto his skin. His face had changed before he died — the smile gone, the color gone, the certainty replaced by a look Corwyn had not seen from any Lannister before.
Not fear.
Confusion.
As if the ruined empire had looked back at him and whispered:You were wrong. You were always wrong.
Corwyn had buried him under a broken column. Or tried to. The earth was too hard, the stone too hot, the body too heavy. He covered him in ash instead until he looked like the rest of the place.
Then he walked. And walked. And slept curled beneath melted statues whose faces had run down stone like candle wax. He drank foul water from a pit that steamed. He threw it back up an hour later. His ribs felt sharp enough to cut through his skin.
He should've died days ago.
But something kept him moving.Maybe habit.Maybe spite.
Or maybe because dying here felt disrespectful.Like Valyria would swallow him and not even notice.
He found the temple by accident.
He'd been following a line of black stone that looked less melted than the rest — straight edges, smooth enough to run a hand across. It led him to a hall carved into the rock, untouched by ruin. The air inside was cooler. Still. No wind. No noise.
His footsteps echoed. That frightened him more than anything.
Valyria hadn't echoed once since he arrived.
The place felt wrong, but everything felt wrong here, so he kept going.He hoped there might be food.Or water.Or maybe a place where the heat didn't gnaw at his lungs.
The corridor led him downward, spiraling like the inside of a shell. His eyes adjusted slowly. The walls were carved with serpents and wings and shapes he didn't recognize.
He felt watched.
He kept walking.
He reached a chamber. Round. High ceiling. A pit in the center.
And hanging above the pit — suspended in what looked like iron bands fused into the stone — was a thing he did not understand.
A mass of flesh. Pale. Veined. Pulsing.
At first he thought it was some kind of animal. A monster. A trap.
Then it moved.
No — it beat.
A slow, heavy throb, like the drum of a blacksmith's hammer.
Corwyn froze. He didn't breathe.
The temple was silent except for that sound.
Thump.
A real, living thump.
He stared. Hunger gnawed at his stomach. He was dizzy. He swayed on his feet. His hands shook.
He whispered, without thinking,"…what are you?"
No answer. Just the heartbeat.
He took one step closer.
The smell hit him then — copper and smoke and something like cooked marrow. It made his mouth water. He hated that it made his mouth water.
He hadn't eaten in days.No. Weeks?Everything blurred.
His vision tunneled.
He stepped again.
His body moved before his mind did.Not out of wonder.Not curiosity.Just hunger.
He reached up. His fingers brushed warm flesh.
It pulsed harder.
He flinched — but didn't pull away.
His stomach cramped. His knees buckled.
He grabbed a strip of the thing. His fingers sank a little too easily. A wet sound. Warm fluid ran down his wrist.
Corwyn didn't gag.
He tore a piece off.
It came away like soft fruit.
He raised it to his mouth.
His hands shook.He thought about dying here.Alone.Starving.Forgotten.
He thought of his mother telling him hunger made beasts of all men.
He bit into it.
The taste hit him like a hammer — metallic, rich, hot. Too hot. He chewed anyway. Swallowed. Tore again. Ate. Ate. Ate. Like a dog starving in winter, desperate enough to gnaw bone.
He didn't stop when it burned his tongue.He didn't stop when it blistered the inside of his mouth.He didn't stop when tears blurred his vision.
He ate because he wanted to live.
And because something inside him whispered—
More.
Then the pain came.
Not stomach pain.Not sickness.Not fever.
Pain like something grabbed him from the inside and squeezed.Pain like fire uncoiling in his ribs.Like breath boiling in his lungs.
He screamed.The sound bounced off the walls.He didn't remember falling, but he hit stone hard.
His limbs jerked.His vision split.His blood felt like it was trying to crawl out of him.
He gasped for air — none came.His mouth foamed.His vision went red.
Something enormous roared in the dark behind his eyes.
Then something answered it.
And the world shattered.