The streets of Valyria were a maze of broken grandeur cracked obsidian roads, collapsed colonnades, and statues half-swallowed by ash. The noble quarter had once been a place of splendor, but now it was a graveyard of ambition. The buildings loomed like petrified giants, their facades scorched and melted, their sigils barely legible beneath layers of soot.
Vaelros walked at the front, journal in hand, sword at his hip, eyes scanning every archway and shadow. The book was little help now its maps were vague, its landmarks long since crumbled. He navigated by symbols etched into stone, fragments of High Valyrian script that hinted at the old bloodlines: Vherion, Vharax, Morghul.
Behind him, Calen Waters and Tharn moved in silence, weapons drawn. The rest of the crew fanned out in a loose formation, every man and woman on edge.
Then movement.
Vaelros raised a hand. Everyone froze.
From the far end of the avenue, thirteen stonemen emerged, hunched and twitching, their skin flaking like old bark. They moved in a loose pack, sniffing the air, heads jerking in unnatural rhythm.
They weren't shambling. They were hunting.
Vaelros ducked into a crumbling villa, the others following silently. They crouched behind a shattered fountain, breath held.
"What the fuck could they be hunting?" Calen whispered, eyes wide.
Vaelros didn't answer. He just watched, memorizing their formation, their behavior. They moved like wolves coordinated, alert. Not mindless. Not anymore.
He filed it away. Something had changed in Valyria.
They resumed their journey an hour later, weaving through alleys and broken courtyards until they reached a tall, narrow tower that still stood mostly intact. The upper floors had collapsed, but the base was solid stone reinforced with dragonbone struts, the kind only noble houses could afford.
"This'll do," Vaelros said.
They climbed inside, cleared the lower floor, and set up a signal fire on the roof red smoke, made from alchemical powder and powdered cinnabar. It flared bright and fast, a beacon for any other scouting parties.
Moments later, a second red plume rose from a nearby ruin.
"Another group," Tharn said. "Good."
They doused the fire and descended to the main chamber, where the crew began setting up camp bedrolls, lanterns, a small cooking fire. The air was thick with dust and the faint hum of old magic.
Vaelros leaned against a cracked pillar, exhaling slowly. "Well," he said, voice dry, "today has been... straining."
Calen chuckled. "You think?"
Vaelros smiled faintly, then began rummaging through the room. Most of the furniture had rotted or burned, but a few shelves remained. He brushed aside ash and rubble, fingers tracing the edges of a small chest half-buried beneath a fallen beam.
Inside, nestled in velvet long since faded, was an amulet a disc of Valyrian steel, etched with a spiral of runes, fused with a strange, pale metal he didn't recognize.
He turned it over in his hand, feeling the faint thrum of dormant power.
"I can do something with this," he murmured. "Once I get back to safety."
Tharn was prying open a cabinet nearby, pulling out a set of silver goblets and a tarnished mirror. "Not bad," he said. "Won't buy a castle, but it'll buy a few months of wine."
Calen found a bundle of scrolls, mostly ruined, but one bore the seal of House Vharax. He tucked it into his pack without a word.
They worked in silence for a while, the only sounds the crackle of the fire and the distant groan of the sea.
Outside, the ruins whispered.
And something in the dark listened