No worm-like monster blood signatures pulsed through the city.
Lancel signaled the group forward into the ruins.
The walk wasn’t long.
At Valyria’s height, the dragonlords had done plenty of inhuman things, but they built decent public works.
The Doom had destroyed everything, yet the surviving Valyrian roads still ran smooth and level.
Horses couldn’t breathe the toxic air.
Otherwise they’d have moved faster.
“Lancel, the magic’s fading.” Valar felt heat building in his nose and mouth.
The protective spell was thinning.
“Anyone who feels off, drink the second dose.” Lancel sensed changes in his own blood too.
They couldn’t push much deeper.
The magic was already near its limit this far in.
The men understood.
They pulled out their vials and drank.
Some could have held out longer, but caution won.
“The magic lasts about seven days.” Lancel gave the order.
“Our search radius is this city.
Lynn, you and Argo stay with us.
Sebastian, Aslan, Amos, Hoffer, each of you take a squad.
We camp at the ruined tower.
Split up.
Search for anything valuable.
Do not touch anything that glows or radiates heat.
Report back to camp.
Understood?”
“Yes, my lord.”
The red priest moved silently to Lancel’s side.
His eyes burned with barely contained excitement.
They set up a crude camp at the designated spot.
Then Lancel’s group moved out first.
They carried the strongest magical protection.
Their job was to push the search perimeter and mark safe zones.
“My lord, this is almost certainly the lost legion.” Malach had spent twenty years in the Great Temple.
He knew theology, but he’d also studied the basics of eastern history.
The red priest studied a human-shaped rock formation.
He waved Lancel over from the rubble he was searching.
“Master Malach, what is this?”
Malach didn’t touch the rock.
He pointed to two protrusions at the top of the human shape.
“If I’m right.” His voice had healed soon after entering the ruins.
“These are the Black Goats of Qohor.” Malach continued.
“The dragonlords would never allow colonial soldiers at their doorstep.
These men came from outside.”
“Gods.” Lancel stared at the dense field of human-shaped rocks scattered through the ruins.
“What happened here?”
“Too much time has passed.” Malach shook his head with regret.
“Magic can no longer read the stone.”
“Anything over there?”
Lancel shouted toward the others still picking through the debris.
“Brother!” Raymond yelled back.
“Get over here and help.
We found something good!”
Lynn and Valar were already working at it.
Argo stood carefully bracing something, a shape barely recognizable as human, barely holding together.
“What is…” Lancel saw what Lynn and Valar were pulling free.
A suit of black plate armor, smooth as a mirror.
“Valyrian steel plate.
A full suit of Valyrian steel plate!” Valar could barely contain himself.
Even House Valezeth didn’t own a complete set.
“This was likely one of Emperor Orion’s commanders.” Malach assessed the find.
“Probably a Valezeth cadet branch.
The dragonlord families were extravagant.
Outfitting close retainers in Valyrian steel armor and weapons was routine.
So…”
“Brother, look at this.” Raymond dragged a longsword over, practically begging for approval.
“Valyrian steel?” Lancel took the blade that had slept in the ruins for centuries.
Strange red-and-black patterns stained the steel, magical contamination from whatever destroyed the legion.
It hadn’t dulled the edge at all.
A griffin carved from Valyrian steel roared upward from the crossguard.
Ruby eyes.
Amethyst fangs.
Traces of gold still clung to the wings.
“Even if we find no dragon eggs or dragon clues, we’ve already made a fortune.” Lancel grinned and helped strip the armor from the remains.
They searched the surrounding area.
The haul kept growing.
Argo found a plain arakh beside a cavalryman whose body had burst apart from within.
Raymond’s luck delivered again: a suit of Valyrian steel lamellar armor and a Valyrian steel spearhead.
The shaft was long gone.
After sweeping the outer ruins, the group pushed toward the great dragon.
They didn’t grasp its size until they stood beneath the bones.
Even shattered, torn apart, and incomplete, the carcass rose like a mountain.
“The family chronicles say Emperor Orion’s dragon was a cunning red, a hundred and forty years old.” Lancel stared up at the bones.
“Our ancestor rode it to scour the last Rhoynar holdouts.
He won twelve dragon duels against other families.”
He shook his head.
“I didn’t know it was this big.”
“Maybe the ancestor’s still up there on its back.” Valar joked.
“I think he actually is.” Raymond’s voice trembled.
He pointed at the dragon’s spine.
A shapeless mass of ash clung there, held together only by a suit of scale armor that still gleamed.
A pure silver Valyrian steel longsword stood driven into the ash beside it.
Two dragons roared from either side of the crossguard, wings overlapping, a massive ruby set between them.
A red stain ran down the blade like dripping blood.
The ancestral sword of House Valezeth.
Silverblood.
Beside it, another weapon stood planted in the unrecognizable remnants of a dragon saddle.
A lance.
Also Valyrian steel.
“Forgive us, ancestor.
Forgive us.” Lancel murmured a prayer.
“Everything for the family.”
Then the grave robbers scrambled up the dragon’s bones like monkeys and stripped Emperor Orion’s ashes clean.
“No dragon eggs?” Raymond went person to person the moment they climbed down, refusing to accept it.
“Our ancestor wasn’t stupid enough to carry dragon eggs into battle on dragonback.” Lancel pressed a hand to his forehead, half laughing.
“We’ll search the area a little more.”
“My lord, we should rotate the next group in.” Malach reminded him.
“Everyone needs rest.
You need time to recover your magic.”
Lancel realized his blood had gone slightly cold.
Not a good sign.
He agreed readily.
One more sweep around the dragon’s corpse, then back to camp.
In a corner no one was watching.
A rough, unremarkable stone flickered with a brief pulse of light.
Then went dark again.