Chapter 8: Into the Dragon's Maw
The pale cream egg, veined with delicate gold traceries, chose the eve of their departure for Valyria to break its shell. Vaelyx, cloistered in his heavily warded Pentoshi chamber, the sounds of "The Sea Serpent" being loaded with final provisions a distant hum, felt the familiar pre-hatch surge of energy from the suitcase at his feet. Inside its expanded reality, Vorlag, Veridian, and Ignis, now formidable beasts each the size of a small pony, watched with varying degrees of predatory interest as the fourth egg shuddered and cracked.
A soft, golden light emanated from the fissures. The shell didn't explode like Ignis's, nor shatter like Vorlag's, but rather seemed to peel open gracefully, like an exotic flower blooming. From within emerged a dragonet of breathtaking beauty. Its scales were the color of rich cream, so pale they were almost white, but shot through with shimmering veins of pure gold that seemed to capture and refract the grotto's magical light. Its eyes were like pools of molten electrum, wise and ancient even in their infancy. It was slender, almost ethereal compared to its siblings, and moved with a fluid grace.
It surveyed the grotto, its gaze lingering on its boisterous brothers, then turned its luminous eyes to Vaelyx. Its mental voice was not a torrent or a hiss, but a calm, melodic resonance, like distant chimes.
Aurumel dipped its head in a gesture that was less submission and more serene acknowledgement. Ignis let out a challenging roar, a plume of scarlet fire erupting nearby. Aurumel merely blinked its electrum eyes, and a soft, golden luminescence briefly enveloped it, the intense heat of Ignis's flame seeming to part around the glow, leaving the new hatchling untouched. Interesting. A defensive magic, perhaps, or an affinity for a different kind of elemental power. Vorlag and Veridian watched this exchange with narrowed eyes, the dynamics of their small, volatile clutch shifting once more. Managing four distinct draconic temperaments, each with unique nascent abilities, would demand even greater reserves of Vaelyx's focus and magical control.
The following dawn, "The Sea Serpent" slipped its moorings, gliding out of Pentos harbor on the morning tide. Vaelyx, as Valerius, stood on the quarterdeck, the Valyrian astrolabe (his magically duplicated copy) secured in a protective case. He watched the familiar brick towers of Pentos recede, his face an unreadable mask. He had entrusted Malakai with the management of his considerable assets and the day-to-day operations of the Serpent's Scale Company, along with coded instructions for various contingencies. Their communication would be non-existent until his return; the Valyrian expedition demanded utter secrecy and disconnection.
Kaelen, Lyra, and Boros stood nearby, their expressions a mixture of grim determination and nervous anticipation. Captain Orzono, a weathered Tyroshi with eyes that had seen too many strange tides, barked orders at his crew. The dozen chosen sellswords from the Serpent's Scale, men hardened by bloody contracts and loyal to Valerius to a fault, checked their weapons, their hushed conversations barely audible above the creak of timber and the snap of canvas.
"Valyria," Kaelen rumbled, his gaze fixed on the southern horizon. "Madness or glory, eh, Valerius?"
"Perhaps both, Kaelen," Vaelyx replied, his voice calm. "But the rewards will justify the risks, for those who survive." He let his gaze sweep over his chosen men. "Discipline, courage, and unwavering obedience will be your shields. Doubt and fear will be your graves. Remember that." His tone held an edge that brooked no argument.
The journey south was initially uneventful, the sapphire waters of the Summer Sea placid. Vaelyx spent most of his days in his cabin, the door magically sealed, ostensibly "meditating" or "studying ancient charts." In truth, he was wrestling with the escalating demands of his four young dragons. The suitcase's largest cavern, now a vast, dimly lit volcanic landscape, was barely sufficient for them. Aurumel, despite its serene demeanor, possessed an insatiable curiosity and had already mastered short, gliding flights, its golden-veined wings catching invisible thermal currents Vaelyx magically generated. Vorlag and Ignis engaged in constant, brutal sparring matches, their roars and bursts of flame testing the suitcase's silencing charms to their utmost. Veridian, ever the observer, seemed to be developing an unnerving ability to anticipate their movements, its pale green fire sometimes used to subtly separate its more aggressive brothers.
Feeding them required an almost continuous supply of magically teleported livestock from the remote Pentoshi farm, an operation that drained Vaelyx's reserves. He was pushing the boundaries of what even Voldemort's prodigious magical knowledge deemed feasible for sustained, contained magical ecosystems.
As they sailed further south, beyond the established trade routes, the character of the sea began to change. The water grew darker, the sky heavier. They encountered fewer ships, and those they did spy in the distance often altered course abruptly, as if fleeing some unseen dread. One evening, a fierce, unnatural storm descended upon them, black clouds boiling out of a clear sky, hurricane-force winds tearing at their sails. Captain Orzono fought desperately to maintain control, his Tyroshi curses swallowed by the tempest. Vaelyx, from his cabin, subtly intervened, using Voldemort's weather-manipulating charms to steer the worst of the storm's fury away from "The Sea Serpent," an intervention that Orzono later attributed to the ship being "blessed by strange gods."
Days later, they entered the outer reaches of the Smoking Sea. A perpetual twilight descended, the sun a hazy, dull orange disc struggling to penetrate the thick, acrid haze that hung in the air. The sea itself was a sickly, oily green, and the wind carried the taste of ash and brimstone. The Valyrian astrolabe in Vaelyx's cabin began to hum faintly, its black rings glowing with an internal, malevolent light.
The crew grew increasingly unnerved. Sailors whispered tales of ghost ships and sea monsters, their eyes wide with superstitious fear. Even the hardened sellswords of the Serpent's Scale felt the oppressive atmosphere, their usual boisterousness muted. Vaelyx moved among them with an unnatural calm, his presence a strange mixture of reassurance and menace. His pale eyes seemed to see through the gloom, his confidence unwavering.
Their first tangible sign of Valyria's curse came in the form of a colossal kraken, its flesh a mottled, sickly grey, its tentacles far too numerous, each tipped with razor-sharp, obsidian-like barbs. It rose from the depths with terrifying speed, its single, baleful yellow eye fixing on "The Sea Serpent."
"To arms!" Kaelen roared, drawing his Valyrian steel bastard sword (a previous acquisition of Valerius, its origins never explained). Boros bellowed a war cry, hefting his great axe. Archers lined the rails, loosing shafts that mostly glanced off the creature's rubbery hide.
The kraken's tentacles lashed out, one smashing into the stern, sending splinters flying. Vaelyx, watching from the quarterdeck, knew mundane weapons would not suffice. With a subtle flick of his wand-hand, he sent a cutting curse, an invisible blade of pure force, slicing through one of the attacking tentacles. The creature shrieked, a sound that grated on the nerves, and recoiled, its severed limb thrashing in the water. He followed with a series of concussive curses, creating underwater explosions that disoriented the beast. Lyra, with deadly precision, managed to sink several poisoned javelins into its massive eye. Finally, with another ear-splitting shriek, the kraken retreated into the murky depths, leaving behind a trail of ichor and a profoundly shaken crew.
"The gods favor Valerius!" one of the sellswords cried, a sentiment echoed by others. Vaelyx accepted their adulation with a curt nod. Let them believe in gods; it was better than them suspecting the truth of his power.
The environment grew progressively more hostile. They navigated through fields of floating pumice stone and jagged obsidian reefs that seemed to shift with the currents. Patches of water boiled inexplicably, sending plumes of sulfurous steam into the air. Flocks of skeletal, ash-caked birds with eyes like hot coals wheeled overhead, their cries like tortured souls. Lyra, her senses preternaturally sharp, reported seeing vast, shadowy shapes moving beneath the waves, things that had no place in the natural world.
The magical disturbances intensified. The astrolabe in Vaelyx's cabin now thrummed constantly. Illusions flickered at the edge of vision – impossible cities in the clouds, spectral fleets sailing through the mists. A wave of profound despair washed over the ship one sunless afternoon, sending several crewmen into fits of weeping, while others simply stared blankly ahead, their wills seemingly broken. Vaelyx, his Occlumency shields deflecting the psychic assault, was forced to cast a powerful counter-charm, a ripple of cold, commanding energy that snapped the men back to a semblance of themselves, though they remained pale and shaken. Captain Orzono now rarely left Vaelyx's side, looking to him for guidance at every new horror.
Then, through a rift in the perpetual twilight, they saw it – their first clear glimpse of the Valyrian peninsula. A jagged coastline of black, volcanic rock, sheer cliffs rising hundreds of feet, wreathed in smoke and steam. Perched precariously on one such cliff, like a broken crown, were the unmistakable ruins of a dragonlord's manse – vast, obsidian walls shattered and melted, windows like hollow eye sockets staring out over the desolate sea. Further inland, the sky glowed with the hellish light of active volcanoes, their peaks spewing plumes of black smoke that fed the eternal twilight. The air itself felt heavy, saturated with ancient grief, unimaginable power, and a profound, lingering Doom.
The scale of the destruction was breathtaking, far exceeding any tale or tapestry. This was not merely a fallen city; it was a wound upon the world.
As "The Sea Serpent" cautiously drew closer to the blighted shore, a cacophony erupted from Vaelyx's cabin – a chorus of agitated draconic roars and screeches. He rushed below. Inside the suitcase, his four dragons were in a frenzy. Vorlag was blasting jets of black-red fire at the cavern walls. Ignis was a raging inferno of scarlet flame. Veridian darted anxiously, hissing, his green fire crackling. Even the usually serene Aurumel was agitated, its golden scales emitting pulses of distressed light.
The remaining three eggs – the bronze with silver swirls, the white with sapphire flecks, and the deep stormy blue – were vibrating violently, glowing with an intense inner light, as if responding to the raw, untamed magic of their ancestral homeland.
Valyria. They had arrived at the maw of the beast. And it seemed the dead land was already calling to its lost children.