Inside the Great Pyramid of Yunkai, the air was thick and heavy, almost tangible, like liquid gold suspended in the room. Every corner seemed saturated with the remnants of smoke, sweat, and the faint metallic scent of iron. The battlefield had long since quieted, but the echoes of conquest still lingered, a reminder that the unification of Slaver's Bay was complete.
Suddenly, a crisp, mechanical sound rang in Damian Thorne's mind.
[Ding! Congratulations, Host, for completing the phased mission: Unification of Slaver's Bay.]
Immediately, a torrent of information surged into Damian's consciousness.
[Quest Reward Unlocked: Valyrian Fire Magic.]
He blinked, allowing the influx to settle. Blood magic and fire magic, the ancient pillars upon which the legendary Dragon Kings had once ruled the world, were now fully accessible to him. Among the countless obscure spells, runes, and incantations, one entry instantly captured Damian's undivided attention: Glass Candle.
Made of obsidian and ignited with dragon fire, this device allowed instantaneous communication over thousands of miles. A "Magic Phone," if one wanted to call it that. Damian's lips curled into the faintest smirk.
With a deliberate inhale, he felt the fire surge within him. A suppressed roar, deep and primal, rolled up from his chest. His body expanded rapidly, bones grinding as dragon scales, black as midnight and harder than steel, spread across his skin, covering every inch of him in a protective armor. Within moments, a colossal black dragon—its body over fifty meters long—coiled atop the pyramid. The shadow of its massive wings fell across the camp below, plunging the liberated city into a momentary darkness.
Magic coursed through him, more potent than ever before. Damian could feel the deep link between his dragon form and the enhancement of his abilities. Power radiated from him, pure and unrestrained.
Across Meereen, Yunkai, and Astapor, the three pearls of Slaver's Bay had been united under a single banner. The baptism of fire and blood had ensured their allegiance. The throne rooms of each city now hosted Damian's appointed governors, bowing solemnly before the Dragon King himself.
Sidara zo Nachen, Lord Governor of Meereen; Puck zo Erraz, Lord Governor of Yunkai; Grazdan mo Nakroz, Lord Governor of Astapor. Once they had been mighty rulers in their own right, respected and feared. Now, they were humble servants of a higher will, their pride tempered by the shadow of true power.
Damian Thorne sat upon the Harpy Throne of pure gold, fingers tapping lightly on the armrests, each tap echoing like a subtle drumbeat across the hall.
"All warships of the three city-states will be assembled immediately," he said, his voice calm but edged with authority, "and incorporated into the Imperial Royal Fleet."
The governors shivered.
"As you command, Your Majesty," they chorused, bowing deeply.
"Register all craftsmen in these cities—blacksmiths, carpenters, stonemasons, all of them," Damian continued. He paused, letting his gaze sweep over the three men, ensuring the weight of his words sank in.
"Abolish their slavery," he commanded. "Incorporate them into the logistics corps. They will be deployed uniformly, under imperial orders."
This decree struck deeper than the confiscation of fleets or treasure. It dismantled the centuries-old foundation of Slaver's Bay, its economy and society shaken to their core. Yet no one dared question him.
Puck zo Erraz, ever loyal, stepped forward and knelt low.
"Your Majesty, the Green Saint of the Temple of Holy Grace has proposed that a grand celebration be held simultaneously in all three cities, to honor the reunification of the people under your glory."
Damian tilted his head, studying him briefly. The Temple of Holy Grace had been prudent and wise in their suggestion.
"A celebration?" he asked, his tone neutral but measured. "What are the regulations? The budget?"
Puck's excitement threatened to break through his careful composure. "Your Majesty, the Temple will fully fund it! The Green Saint will co-organize with the governors, and the city guards will maintain law and order without spending a single coin from the Empire's treasury!"
Damian inclined his head slightly.
"Very well," he said simply. A grand ceremony would serve as the perfect declaration: the new master of Essos had arrived.
As night fell, blazing bonfires erupted across the Dothraki camp. Damian returned to his khal tent, the air heavy with the smell of battle and conquest. Dhaka, Mazhuo, and dozens of newly promoted centurions were already present, their faces still streaked with soot and dried blood.
"Kao," Ma Zhuo began, his voice steady and calm. "The Khalasar must rest. Our horses need fodder, and the herds must be tended after the long march." Tradition demanded recuperation, a return to the grasslands to replenish strength and honor the customs of the Dothraki people.
Damian said nothing. His eyes fell instead on Dhaka, whose bloodlust gleamed like fire in his gaze.
"Kao! There are still countless manors and estates in the suburbs and mountains of these cities that remain untamed!" Dhaka spat the words with fervor. "Their necks await the kiss of our arakhs!"
A tense silence filled the tent. On one side, the voice of tradition; on the other, the hunger for expansion. All eyes fixed on Damian, seeking his judgment.
He rose and moved to the massive map spread across the table, tracing his finger across the lands surrounding Slaver's Bay.
"Dhaka."
"In, Kaa!"
"I give you five thousand Dothraki warriors and five thousand newly formed noble coalition troops. Go and eradicate those blind estates. I want one result: all land and people brought under the Empire."
Dhaka's chest heaved. He fell to one knee, pounding his fist against the ground in reverence.
"For Kaa!"
Damian turned to another captain. "Sauron."
A cunning and shrewd man stepped forward.
"You will take three thousand men and station them in Meereen, under Governor Sidara's command."
"Yes, Kaa," Sauron replied.
Finally, Damian's gaze fell upon Ma Zhuo.
"Majo, take the remaining men back to the Dothraki Sea."
Ma Zhuo blinked. "Kao…"
"Ensure the horses have ample grass, the warriors rest, and escort supplies to the Holy City for the Dosh Khaleen. When the next rallying call sounds, I want an iron hoof capable of flattening the world."
Ma Zhuo inhaled deeply, finally understanding Damian's plan. This was not a release—it was a preparation, a calm before the storm of conquest that was to come.
"I understand, Kaa," he said, bowing respectfully.
---
In the chambers atop the Great Pyramid of Meereen, Damian's hands hovered over a basket of fist-sized obsidian stones, their rough surfaces emanating a cold, volcanic chill. Flames ignited in his palm, not crimson, but a pure, platinum white, hot enough to distort the air itself.
He placed a piece of obsidian over the fire. The stone did not burn; it melted, slowly liquefying like wax in a furnace. Using his mental prowess, Damian guided the molten obsidian with precision, carving, twisting, and shaping it with a master's touch.
In moments, a black candle, arm-length, smooth as polished glass and containing a swirling galaxy within, hovered in his palm. A Glass Candle.
He repeated the process, piece after piece. As night deepened, dozens of identical Glass Candles were lined neatly before him. Each one represented a secure, instant communication channel. Every captain under his command would now receive his orders without delay, no matter the distance.
This was more than a weapon—it was the pulse of the empire, the invisible thread uniting a hundred thousand warriors into a single, unstoppable force.
Damian Thorne allowed himself a rare smile. The unification of Slaver's Bay was complete, the empire's infrastructure solidified, and the first steps toward domination of the continent had begun. Fire, blood, and magic now flowed together as one under his command. The world had no choice but to acknowledge the rise of the Dragon King.
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