In the heart of Volantis, a towering monument of ambition clawed its way into the sky. Obsidian blocks, polished to a black, reflective sheen, were hoisted by countless craftsmen like ants carrying grains of sand. A massive crane lifted millstone-sized blocks, each one balancing precariously on ropes as sweat-streaked workers guided them into place. Beside the construction site, a mountain of raw obsidian lay in waiting, catching the sunlight and gleaming with a deep, forbidding luster.
This tower would be the first magic relay station envisioned by Damian Thorne. When completed, he would personally melt the obsidian, transforming the tower into a colossal glass candle. Every conquered city would one day be forced to erect such towers, all linking together in a sprawling network of magical surveillance and control. A network that would make escape impossible for anyone under the shadow of his empire.
On the outskirts of the crowd, a solitary man in a faded, threadbare robe observed silently. His hood concealed most of his face, but his eyes were sharp and calculating, piercing through the chaos. He examined the massive tower, the black obsidian, and the aura of inescapable power surrounding it. In his heart, he raised the perceived danger level of this new Dragon King.
Magic… he thought.
The harm of an uncontrollable sword must never be allowed to trample freedom.
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Deep inside the obsidian palace, Damian Thorne reclined on the Blackstone Throne. His fingers drummed absently on the armrests, marking the passage of time. Ilaria's pregnancy had several months to go—plenty of time for him to consolidate control over the Kingdom of the Three Daughters before paying a visit to Westeros.
A sudden movement in his perception made him pause. A faint, almost imperceptible ripple of motion: an agile figure, threading through the shadows like liquid. Guards and patrols passed by, yet the intruder seemed to flow past them as though he were part of the very air.
A lively little mouse, Damian thought, lips curling into a playful smile.
The figure moved with astonishing precision, scaling walls, vaulting ledges, and dropping silently onto the floors below. Every movement was deliberate, efficient, and entirely untraceable.
"An Assassin's Creed," Damian murmured with amusement. "The Faceless Man of Braavos… truly impressive."
The intruder clung to walls like a gecko, slipping past patrols with unnatural grace. Damian's eyes followed every twist, turn, and acrobatic maneuver, as if he were enjoying the performance of a master craftsman.
"Oh, I'm about to be discovered," Damian whispered under his breath, almost in mock sympathy.
The figure twisted around a corner, contorting impossibly, and slipped into a half-inch gap between a statue and the wall. Vanishing into shadow, the intruder became completely invisible to the world outside. Damian tilted his head, eyes glinting with amusement.
Can anyone really hide like this? he thought. Transparent as air…
The impoverished nobleman, the "little mouse," shed his faded robe, revealing a tight black garment designed for agility and stealth. As a Faceless Man, his greatest skill lay in disguise. He could kill a target, don their face, and walk through heavily guarded areas unnoticed, blending perfectly with the crowd.
But the Faceless Man had assessed his surroundings carefully. There were no servants, no maids, and no distracted courtiers in the palace tonight. Only Damian Thorne remained, and the guards acted in disciplined small teams, always supporting each other. Killing one or two quietly and assuming their identities would be impossible without drawing attention.
There was only one option left: sneak in and strike directly. It was the most dangerous method, but the most exhilarating challenge of all. And the Faceless Man had absolute confidence in his skill.
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Landing silently at the threshold of the throne room, he melted into the shadows above the porch. From this vantage, he believed he was invisible. The patrols below moved without noticing him. He surveyed his target: Damian Thorne, seated leisurely on the Blackstone Throne, a picture of calm authority.
And then, something made every hair on the Faceless Man's body stand on end.
The air around Damian rippled, as if it were liquid. Two dark, semi-materialized shadows emerged, forming like molten smoke beside the Dragon King. They had no faces, only eyes—glowing scarlet—and they fixed their gaze directly on him.
He had been discovered.
Panic flared instinctively. The Faceless Man surged forward, vaulting over the parapet like a shadow made flesh. A Valyrian steel dagger appeared in his hand, gleaming with ripples of otherworldly light.
In a single breath, he crossed more than ten meters, closing the distance between himself and Damian to three meters. He could see the faint smirk curling on Damian Thorne's lips, an unreadable expression of amusement and control.
And then… he could move no further.
A third shadow assassin appeared out of nowhere, swift and silent. A cold edge swept across the Faceless Man's legs. Pain erupted, vicious and immediate, and he collapsed in a torrent of agony. Blood spouted like fountains as his knees shattered.
Before he could recover, the shadows moved with deadly precision. Both his arms were severed in an instant, leaving him a grotesque human stick.
A knee pressed onto his neck, holding him firmly against the cold stone floor. A hand clamped over his jaw, forcing a violent dislocation of the oral joint with a sickening click. Powerlessness, pure and complete, flooded him.
A poisoned needle, his last resort, rested in his mouth—useless now. There would be no escape.
"A rat in the gutter," Damian Thorne said lightly, his voice devoid of malice, almost casual. "A whimperer."
The noise of severed limbs finally alerted the guards outside. A team of Unsullied stormed in, and their expressions froze at the horrifying scene before them: a Faceless Man, stripped of arms and legs, pinned by three indistinguishable shadow assassins.
"Take him away," Damian instructed calmly, his voice cutting through the stunned silence. "Do not let him die."
A shadow of curiosity passed over his expression. "Alan will probably find him… fascinating."
The Unsullied obeyed instantly, dragging the incapacitated assassin away. Damian reclined, eyes gleaming with amusement as he surveyed his throne room. He had not even raised a hand, yet the Faceless Man had been neutralized in moments. Every move the intruder made had been anticipated.
The dragonless assassin had come with confidence and skill, but he had forgotten one immutable truth: Damian Thorne was no ordinary master of war. He was a tactician, a magician, and a predator. The slightest overconfidence in his presence led to complete annihilation.
Through the Blackstone Throne's shadowed windows, the construction of the obsidian tower continued, each block rising toward the sky, each crane groaning under its weight. Damian's eyes followed the work silently, the corner of his mouth twitching in anticipation. Soon, every city under his control would be bound by his magical network. Soon, no place in the world would escape the reach of the Dragon King.
And anyone who attempted to oppose him—even a master of disguise—would meet the same fate as the Faceless Man.
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