Having finished their work for the day, checking the crops, tending the animals, and preserving the cuts of fresh meat for the coming week, Baelon and Helaena hurried toward the great library at the heart of the ruins.
It had become their ritual. Twice a day, without fail: once at dawn, once at dusk.
No matter how little hope the ruins offered, they refused to surrender the chance of finding something, anything, that could help them aid them in their magic or understanding of the world.
Yet for all their effort, luck had rarely favoured them.
Three months of searching, and they had only managed to salvage a handful of intact books.
Most had been inked in the looping, spidery script of ancient Sarnori, a language beyond their reach.
The only High Valyrian text they had uncovered was barely clinging to life.
And, to Baelon's eternal dismay, it turned out to be a compendium of hairstyles spanning the old Sarnori kingdoms and their neighbours.
Helaena had been enthralled by it, delighted by every strange braid and unfamiliar twist.
Baelon would never say so aloud, but the book had admittedly helped him, too. His current style owed much to a sketch on page eleven.
His hair was now pulled half-up into a small, neat bun at the crown, the lower half flowing freely down his back in natural waves.
Helaena had woven thin braids into the top section, tiny threads and knots twisting through the bun, giving it an intricate flair.
Still, trivialities aside, their efforts had borne little fruit.
But Baelon was not the type to give up.
They reached the steps leading to what remained of the once-famed library.
Compared to when they first arrived, the area had changed dramatically: the collapsed outer walls had been pushed aside, and pathways had been dug through the fallen stone.
Even so, rubble still dominated the space, jutting up in chaotic formations.
"Let's hope we can find something this time…" Baelon muttered as he walked through the chaos, Helaena close behind him.
They moved into the main hall, if it could still be called that.
Jagged stones lay strewn across the floor, and the skeletal framework of what had once been towering bookshelves loomed around them like the ribs of a great dead beast.
Baelon bent, bracing his hands beneath a slab of stone, and heaved. His muscles strained as the rubble scraped loudly as he dragged it across the floor.
Once he had cleared a space, he returned to pry smaller stones loose, tossing them into neat piles against the wall.
Beside him, Helaena worked with a delicate precision.
She sifted through the finer debris, splinters of wood, shards of clay tablets, broken tiles. Compared to Baelon, she had the additional task of finding anything hidden in the ruin.
Nevertheless, time soon crawled.
One stone, then another. One cleared corner, then another. The sun dipped lower, shadows deepening until they stretched long and thin across the cracked tiles.
The warm gold of evening slowly cooled into a purple dusk that crept through the shattered walls.
Baelon paused at last, wiping a streak of sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. His chest rose and fell heavily.
He was no stranger to sword drills and battlefield conditioning, yet this, this ceaseless lifting and hauling and dragging, felt like another world's labour entirely.
"If I keep this up…" He muttered to himself, "I'll be less of a weakling in no time."
Weakness, of course, being measured against grown men who had spent years training, not boys his age.
Still, he could feel changes brewing in his body over these few months.
"Baelon?" Helaena's voice carried softly through the settling dust.
He stumbled toward her, still catching his breath. "Here… need any help?"
Helaena didn't answer right away. She stood very still, head tilted, eyes fixed on something at her feet. "This bookshelf," she said slowly. "Why is it still standing?"
Baelon followed her gaze.
Calling it a bookshelf was generous. Only the bottom quarter of it remained; the upper shelves were long obliterated.
But what struck him wasn't its condition; rather, it was the fact that it was still standing.
Everything else in the hall had been swept aside by whatever disaster had struck this place.
Other shelves had toppled, shattered, or been flung halfway across the chamber.
Yet this one stubborn base remained rooted to the floor.
As if welded to the ground.
Baelon crouched beside it, resting for a heartbeat before forcing himself to dig in again. He lifted the surrounding rubble piece by piece, clearing away every stone around the odd structure.
Helaena joined him, brushing aside dust and debris, exposing the join between the shelf and floor.
When the last stone was removed, and the ground lay bare around the wooden stump, both of them fell quiet.
Because it was unmistakable now.
This wasn't random. This wasn't a fluke.
The shelf's base wasn't sitting atop the floor; it was fused into it. Not by nature. Not by accident.
By design.
And, even when Baelon pressed against it, the remnant bookshelf did not budge.
Baelon knelt beside the stubborn fragment of bookshelf as he pressed his palm flat against it.
He tried sliding it. Tapped along the base for a hollow section. But the thing refused to betray even the slightest hint of a secret.
"…Seven hells," he muttered, pushing himself back up to his feet.
He circled it slowly, hands on his hips, eyes narrowed in thought. There had to be something.
Baelon planted his hands on either side of the wooden stump and pushed. Nothing. He pulled. Nothing.
He rocked it forward, backwards, testing its give like one might test the mast of a ship.
Still nothing.
Frustration flickered across his face.
"All right," he breathed, "let's try something else."
His grip tightened on the sides of the bookshelf, and he twisted it clockwise.
This time, the wood moved.
A low, grinding rumble rolled beneath their feet, sending a faint tremor up Baelon's arms.
Dust spilt in thin streams from the surrounding rubble as ancient gears roused themselves somewhere deep below the stone floor.
The bookshelf base rotated a quarter-turn, then locked with a soft click.
Baelon froze.
Helaena's breath hitched.
"…Did I…?"
"Move it the other way this time," she whispered.
Baelon swallowed, repositioned his hands, and turned the bookshelf anticlockwise.
The result was immediate.
The stone tiles just beside the bookshelf shifted, then slid away entirely, revealing a dark rectangular opening where solid floor had existed only moments before.
Cold air breathed out from the depths below, carrying the scent of untouched dust and sealed-away years.
The bookshelf shuddered once, then stilled, as if satisfied with its task.
Baelon stared down into the newly exposed passageway, heart thudding with relief.
"Well," he said under his breath, "that's more like it."
However, whilst Baelon stared at the descending staircase before him, he fell into a moment's hesitation.
Fervour mixed with caution, forming a storm in his mind.
"It seems to be rather dark…" Baelon mumbled, though his words were being generous.
He could faintly make out stairs leading down, but it soon got swallowed by the leering darkness beyond.
What if there were dangers there? Traps, perhaps?
However, does that mean he would simply leave potential treasure and knowledge here out of caution?
Helaena's voice cut through the rising thrill in his chest. "Did you forget what we learned these past few years…?"
Baelon blinked at her, genuinely puzzled, until the meaning struck him like a blow to the back of the head.
His eyes widened. "Right… gods, of course."
Pyromancy.
Due to how narrow and inconvenient its applications were, he'd pushed it to the back of his mind.
Pyromancy had no place in planting fields, repairing roofs, or sorting through ancient rubble. It simply hadn't been needed.
In fact, the last time they had bothered with it at all was months ago, when they used it to help guide their dragons' fire, burning away the thick carpets of moss and stubborn weeds that had overrun the city.
Without another word, Baelon stepped forward and caught Helaena gently by the wrist.
Then, the pair rushed back the way they came.
***
Darkness had claimed the landscape.
Baelon's hand tightened around the hilt of his sword as he stepped forward, leading the descent into the hidden space beneath.
He and Helaena had left, coming back with basic preparation. For him, the preparation was a satchel hanging by his waist and his sword.
Behind him, Helaena cradled a bundle of dried shrubs, their flames licking the air in her grasp. She used her pyromancy to slow the burning and ensure the fire did not singe her hands.
The flames flickered against the walls, throwing jagged shapes into the darkness as they descended deeper.
At last, they reached the chamber below.
It was small, almost claustrophobic, the walls crowded with faded glyphs and symbols whose meaning eluded Baelon.
At the far end, a small bookshelf crouched against the wall. Its wood darkened with age and etched with three centuries' worth of decay.
Dust and cobwebs coated the corners, and the faint scent of parchment and mildew rose from it, mingling with the smoke from Helaena's flame.
A rush of excitement surged through Baelon. His heartbeat quickened as he stepped closer.
The spines of the books, though faded, bore letters he could read…High Valyrian.
Sheathing his sword, his fingers tingled as he reached out, brushing away the dust, Helaena holding the flames closer to cast their glow across the titles and warm his chilled skin.
One by one, he lifted them from the shelf, opening each to flick through the brittle pages. The firelight danced across the text, illuminating their words.
Most of the books weren't too valuable, but three of them were worth everything Baelon could hope for.
History of Valyria, Dragon Anatomy, Blood Rituals.
Holding the books close to his chest, they were about to leave when Baelon's foot struck a loose stone tile.
A soft click echoed through the chamber, followed by a groaning noise as the entrance door slammed shut.
Baelon tilted his head back as he mourned. 'Of course, this wouldn't be so simple…'
"Curse it," Baelon muttered, testing the closed entrance with the heel of his boot. It did not budge.
Helaena pursed her lips, her flames flickering uncertainly in the confined space. "It doesn't seem likely to budge…"
Baelon stepped closer, his hand resting lightly on her shoulder to steady her. "Calm yourself," he murmured.
"Our dragons can probably sense that something has happened to us, but they won't know what. How they would understand the mechanism, or destroy it, is beyond me."
He bit his lip, pacing slowly, eyes flicking between the unyielding door and the trembling fire. If they delayed much longer, the flame would choke them out.
Yet no obvious way out presented itself.
Baelon glanced down at the books he clutched. He could only hope they held some information to help him, or at least inspire him.
***
Baelon and Helaena huddled in the corner of the chamber, the dim glow of the flame flickering across their faces. Baelon's fingers turned the brittle pages of the book: Blood Rituals.
Helaena leaned close, trying to follow along, though her attention was divided, as she maintained control over the flame that gave them both warmth and light.
As much as Baelon longed to snuff out the flame, to give them more time to breathe, he knew that would be chasing short-term benefits at the cost of long-term gains.
Hours, or even days, did not matter if they could not leave this chamber.
Baelon's mind spun like a wheel, digesting every fragment of knowledge that spilt from the book.
Yet part of him recoiled from the contents. He quickly understood why the Freehold of Valyria was so hated and feared, even if one were not to consider their dragons.
Blood Servants: Take the life of a person or beast, then, using the blood of a newborn, bind the victim's soul to the corpse, creating a servant trapped for eternity. The victim, though conscious, cannot control anything as they watch their corpse slave away for their murderer.
Life-Force Transfer: Subject the victim to unbearable agony, then rip out their heart in ritual. By consuming the heart, one can absorb a portion of the victim's life force. However, one can only use this ritual a few times before their body is corrupted by the suffering and hatred of the victims.
Blood Oaths: Two parties cut their palms, mixing blood to bind a contract. Should either side break it, death follows immediately, blood seeping from every orifice.
Flesh Grafting: Fuse the flesh and blood of other creatures to inherit their abilities, at the cost of enduring unimaginable pain and the risk of succumbing to their bestial nature.
Baelon was no saint, but even he shuddered at these practices. The Blood Oath may be the only one he could fathom ever using.
He had no desire to enslave another soul, to trade someone else's life for his own, nor to become a monstrous hybrid.
Still, amid the horrors, one ritual drew his attention: the Blood Bond.
Dragons are creatures of fire and blood. Magic made flesh.
Those were the first words in the book.
According to the mages of the Fourteen Flames, they created a new ritual derived from FleshGrafting, but by using dragons as a source rather than other lowly beasts.
Rather than grafting flesh directly onto the practitioner, the book mentioned how the mages had found an alternative method.
For seven days and nights, the practitioner is to consume one drop of dragon blood in the morning, noon, and evening. This would amplify the dragon blood coursing within the practitioner.
It promised increased strength, heightened magic, near-immunity to flame, the ability to conjure fire, and a longevity surpassing any mortal.
The deeper the bond with one's dragon, and the older the beast, the stronger the practitioner's power.
But few ever succeeded. Dragon blood was volatile, the surrounding air blistering with its latent heat. Only those possessing the blood of dragonlords had any chance of resistance.
Even then, one had to have a deeply bonded dragon from which they collect the blood, or the ritual would reject the user, consuming them instead.
And the suffering. The descriptions were horrifying. Baelon winced at them more than once.
Seven days and nights of excruciating agony. Skin blistered, eyes burning scarlet, every movement torturous, even the act of drinking water would make the user suffer inordinate pain.
Flames would rage within the ritualist as if trapped, contained yet merciless in nature.
The book warned that this was due to the nature of flames: a confined flame can often be more dangerous than a loose flame, such as the case here.
Baelon's breath quickened as he read. Strength. Magic. Fire immunity. Longevity. He pushed the descriptions of the suffering aside, only focusing on what he could gain from such a ritual.
In his mind, that vision of Helaena leaping from the Holdfast flashed…it still lingered in his mind.
After all, that was the reason they were here.
But with this ritual… he could face anything.
A hand gripped his, and he looked up to see Helaena's wide-eyed excitement. But her mind was not on the ritual.
"…a confined flame is more dangerous than a loose flame?" She whispered.
Baelon froze, realisation striking him. The chamber. The air. Normally, a flame like this in such a sealed space would have left them dizzy, suffocating. But they weren't.
The smoke was instead tending towards a specific direction.
And that meant one thing…there was a gap in the chamber.
Baelon rose, brushing dust from his knees, and motioned for Helaena to follow. She stepped up beside him, the controlled flame in her hand illuminating their surroundings.
However, by this point, the flames were on the verge of being snuffed out.
Carefully, Baelon removed the remaining books from the warped bookshelf, placing them in his satchel alongside the three most important tomes.
Once the shelf was cleared, Helaena raised her flame higher, and together they guided its heat into the wood.
The bookshelf hissed and blackened, its acrid smell filling the air. Smoke curled upward in sinuous ribbons, twisting and drifting.
Baelon's eyes followed it, and a realisation struck him: the smoke was drifting purposefully toward a narrow crack in the wall.
He crouched and pressed his hands across the cold stone, running fingers over every surface.
The walls were rough in places, smooth in others, but a faint looseness betrayed itself under his touch.
He held his breath when he found a small, yielding section of stone. His eyes glinted.
With a firm push, the stone shifted. A series of clicks ran through the chamber, the sound echoing off the walls as hidden mechanisms responded.
The blocked entrance through which they came rumble, sliding aside to reveal the path through which they came.
"Finally," Baelon muttered under his breath, as the pair navigated their way back
They emerged from the passage into open air, the chill of the outside world filling Baelon's lungs. He drew in a deep, satisfying breath.
They were finally free.
THUMP!
Near them, the three dragons landed, nostrils flaring as they exhaled clouds of heat.
Baelon chuckled as he looked at the anxious Bronze Fury, running a hand across the dragon's massive snout.
"Jin azantys, nyke jāhon iā ēdruta."Do not fear for me, I am safe.
However, having comforted the dragon, fatigue hit Baelon like a wave.
Shaking his head, trying to preserve the little lucidity he had, he let the dragons return to their little nest as he and Helaena rushed to their little home.
After cleaning up a bit, Baelon sank onto his bed with a soft groan. It wasn't the plush, well-stuffed comfort of the Red Keep, but it was the fruit of their labour.
And, tonight, it was more than enough. Despite the lingering rush in his body, he could feel sleep tug at his eyelids.
Helaena entered quietly, holding the blanket she had painstakingly embroidered with their dragons, the embroidery faintly gleaming.
Before long, she threw the blanket over Baelon as she snuggled in with him. With his last remaining consciousness, Baelon hugged her in his arms as he murmured. "Good night…"
"Good night," Helaena replied, nuzzling closer.
Gently, the pair drifted off into sleep.