Durza's mocking expression vanished, replaced by a look of genuine, twisted wonder. Standing amidst the emerald gale, Aleksander's silhouette had shifted. From his brow, a pair of curved, obsidian horns swept upward, and from his back, massive wings of heavy, black feathers unfurled, casting a shadow that swallowed the corridor.
The air around him didn't just glow; it burned. Swirling, toxic green smoke curled from his skin like acid, and wisps of luminous, bright energy danced between the feathers of his wings. The magic was fluid, pulsing with a rhythmic, sickening intensity that made the stone floor beneath him hiss.
Durza stared, his maroon eyes reflecting the neon-green brilliance. "Amazing," he whispered, his voice hushed with the reverence of a man seeing a god—or a monster—being born.
But Aleksander was no longer interested in conversation.
The green flames around him flared with a blinding, acid-bright light. With a guttural snarl, he didn't move a muscle, but the air itself seemed to solidify into a battering ram.
The telekinetic force hit Durza like a collapsing mountain.
The Red Priest was hoisted off his feet and launched backward through the air. He crashed through a heavy stone pillar, the masonry shattering upon impact, and was hurled deep into the darkness of the hall, disappearing beneath a rain of debris.
Aleksander looked down at his hands, watching the toxic green wisps coil around his fingers like living smoke. He felt the unfamiliar weight of the horns pressing on his brow and the massive, heavy sweep of the black wings behind him. They felt as much a part of him as his own arms, twitching with every spike of his adrenaline.
The sheer, raw scale of the power humming in his veins was intoxicating, yet terrifying. It wasn't the measured, rhythmic chanting he had practiced; it was an ancient, predatory force.
"Am I like a Dark Fey?" he thought, his mind racing back to the movie Maleficent from his previous life.
The air in the courtyard began to thicken. Aleksander's newfound senses screamed—the heavy, oppressive weight of Asshai's elite was converging on his location. He could feel the oily residue of blood magic and the cold bite of shadow-binding drawing closer from every dark corner of the city.
He didn't have a moment to spare. He folded his massive, black-feathered wings inward, the toxic green smoke still clinging to his frame, and moved to the fallen pair. He scooped up the unconscious N'Jadaka with one powerful arm and pulled Melisandre—who had finally succumbed to the overwhelming pressure of the emerald pillar—against his chest with the other.
"Let's hope this spell works," he rasped, his voice sounding deeper, vibrating with a strange, melodic resonance.
He focused on a point far beyond the black walls of the city, visualizing the open, jagged wastes. He twisted his body, and the world reacted with a violent groan.
A brilliant flash of bluish-white light detonated in the center of the corridor, momentarily blinding anyone watching. The space around Aleksander became a distorted, liquid haze, his group twisting and stretching as if being pulled through a needle's eye. A sharp, thunderous crack echoed through the hall, followed by the rushing sound of a sudden vacuum.
By the time the first of the Asshai sorcerers rounded the corner, there was nothing left but a faint, dissipating cloud of smoke and the lingering, acrid scent of ozone. They were gone.
The silence of the desert oasis was shattered by a thunderous crack. In a blur of bluish-white light and rushing air, the three of them twisted out of the haze, collapsing onto the sand. Faint wisps of smoke drifted from the spot where they appeared.
Aleksander stood, his massive black wings stirring up the dust as he surveyed his surroundings. This was his village—completely empty, a ghost town reclaimed by the sands. He didn't have the luxury of mourning yet. He gathered N'Jadaka and Melisandre and carried them into the nearest stone dwelling, the interior cool and smelling of dry earth.
He laid N'Jadaka on a low bed and turned to Melisandre. She was stirring, her eyes fluttering open. When she saw the jagged obsidian horns and the towering span of his wings, she didn't recoil. Instead, she reached out, her gaze fixed on the iridescent sheen of his feathers.
"What happened?" she whispered, her voice filled more with awe than fear.
Aleksander looked at his taloned hands and sighed. "I don't know."
N'Jadaka groaned, bolting upright as his consciousness returned. The moment his eyes landed on Aleksander, he scrambled back against the wall. "What the hell happened to you?"
"I don't know," Aleksander repeated, trying to keep his voice steady. "When he tried to kill you... I felt this rush of power. Everything just changed."
N'Jadaka's panic subsided into curiosity. He leaned forward, studying the way the wings seemed to pulse with a faint green light. "Do you have some kind of bloodline? Like the Valyrians? My father used to tell stories about people with the blood of old magic."
"Maybe," Aleksander replied with a shrug. "I honestly don't have an answer for you."
Melisandre stepped closer, her expression turning grave. "You cannot go out like this. Not in the world of men. You will be hunted by every king and priest from here to Westeros."
"She's right," N'Jadaka agreed, his serious demeanor returning. "You're a walking target."
Aleksander nodded slowly. He closed his eyes, drawing his focus inward, away from the lingering taste of ozone and toward the heavy weight on his back. He visualized the wings and horns not as permanent fixtures, but as extensions of his will.
With a sharp, rhythmic rustle, the wings began to fold. They compressed, the feathers dissolving into shadows before sinking seamlessly into the skin of his back. The horns followed, retreating into his brow until his forehead was smooth once more.
He stood there, appearing human again, though the air around him still felt charged.
"Better?" he asked, though the exhaustion was finally starting to show in his eyes.
Back in the ruined halls of Asshai, the dust and debris began to swirl, coalescing into a misty, ethereal shape. From the gray haze, Durza emerged, his pale face contorted with a mask of cold fury.
A guard stumbled forward, bowing low as his voice trembled. "They have escaped, My Lord."
Durza's eyes flashed with a dangerous, maroon light. "What are you standing there for?" he hissed, his voice a serrated blade. "Search the city! They cannot have gone far!"
As the guards scrambled away, the shadows in the hall didn't just deepen—they became absolute. The temperature plummeted, yet a scent of ancient, pressurized heat filled the air. Durza gasped as the reality around him dissolved into a nightmare realm.
Standing before him was a towering, demonic entity. The being's physique was immense, his skin a jagged crust of charred, black stone that pulsed with the glow of molten lava beneath the surface. His face was a skeletal visage of hardening magma, dominated by eyes that burned like dying stars. From his head rose a massive, black-horned crown, the source of a heat so intense it seemed to warp the very fabric of the void.
The entity sat upon a throne of jagged obsidian. Durza didn't hesitate; he dropped to his knees, pressing his forehead against the cold stone.
"My Lord," Durza rasped. "What can this humble servant do for you?"
R'hllor shifted, the sound like tectonic plates grinding together. His voice was a low, resonant rumble that vibrated in Durza's marrow. "You came across an interesting individual."
Durza knew better than to play coy. "Yes, My Lord. We do not know his nature, but his magic... it feels as though it is one with the earth and the fire. It is pure. Terrifyingly so."
The Great Lord of Light hummed—a sound that sent a shower of sparks flying from his crown. "Find him."
Durza bowed even lower, his black-dyed claws scraping the floor. "I will not fail you, My Lord. I shall bring him to his knees at once."
[A/N:Before I continue, I want to say this GOT world is complicated like God's like R'hllor exists. But they cannot enter the mortal plane, they have to use vessels. MC won't involve himself with Westeros until later on.]