The massive winches groaned like beasts in pain, their iron teeth scraping against gears as they dragged impossibly heavy obsidian blocks skyward.
Below them, thousands of bare-chested laborers worked like moving pistons—arms straining, backs slick with sweat, muscles trembling under the relentless glare of the afternoon sun.
Their voices rose in a rhythmic chant, dull and steady like the beating of a war drum. With every pull, the great black stone climbed another inch skyward.
Meereen's central plaza—once a chaotic space filled with hawkers, slaves, and exotic traders—had been sealed off entirely. Armed guards in reinforced leather patrolled the perimeter with hard, expressionless faces. Banners depicting a black dragon whipping through flames fluttered in the hot breeze.
From the marble balcony of a distant mansion, Hidhara Nahat watched the tower rise.
He had once been Meereen's most brazen noble, arrogant enough to raise a sword against a dragon and foolish enough to believe men could withstand fire and shadow.
Yet he had also been the first to kneel—first to grasp the terrifying truth.
Now, he stood cloaked in the deep-blue official robes of the Imperial Administration, bearing stamped seals that granted him command over the entire city.
A man who used to dine with equals now had subordinates who bowed until their foreheads nearly touched the floor.
One such subordinate approached him now—thin, nervous, and eager to please.
"My lord," he said, voice trembling. "With progress at this pace, the Tower of Divine Grace is likely to be completed within half a month."
Hidhara's lips curled—not quite a smile, more a contemptuous twist.
"Tower of Divine Grace?" he repeated, tasting the words.
"This is not a tower. It is a beacon. A pillar of His Majesty's will. Astapor and Yunkai are erecting the same monuments as we speak."
His eyes gleamed with fervor as he returned his gaze to the monstrous pillar of obsidian—its surface swallowing sunlight like a void.
He knew what others only whispered in fear.
This structure was one of many nodes—a network stretching across conquered lands—each a silent eye through which the gods could watch the mortal world.
A lattice of magic threading through soil and air, bound to a will greater than kings, empires, and history.
Since **His Majesty the Emperor—Damian Thorne—**departed Slaver's Bay, the three city-states had transformed with terrifying speed.
The decadent masters who once ruled were purged or stripped of their power. Those, like Hidhara, who bent willingly, now served as the empire's most obedient engines of progress.
Everyone understood the same truth:
The dragon could return at any time.
And Damian Thorne's shadow—black as night, vast as a storm—stretched over the world.
"Send word," Hidhara said, snapping out of his thoughts.
"Double the food and wages for every craftsman and laborer. But the deadline moves up by three days."
He rested both hands on the balcony rail, eyes never leaving the tower.
"And any man who slacks in his work… throw him into the arena. Let the lions feast."
"Yes, my lord!" the subordinate squeaked, backing away with visible relief.
When he finally vanished from sight, Hidhara exhaled deeply.
Not from fatigue—but anticipation.
Stone by stone, decree by decree, the empire was being forged in flame, sweat, and blood.
And this tower… this tower was where the future began.
Astapor — The End of the Old, the Birth of the New
The sounds of exertion echoed across a dusty training field in Astapor.
A final group of shirtless youths forced themselves through the last stage of their grueling endurance run. Muscles strained, legs quivered, lungs burned with every sharp breath of hot air.
Sweat streaked down their faces, mixing with grit and dust, leaving dark trails across hardened bodies.
Yet their eyes remained hollow—vacant, numb, stripped of spirit.
They were the last batch.
The last generation molded under the Unsullied method.
The elderly master trainer—his shoulders bowed from decades of labor—watched silently as the boys buckled shields to their backs and picked up spears with identical precision.
They formed a phalanx without a word, steps perfectly synchronized as they marched toward the barracks.
Beside him stood a younger instructor—eyes filled with emotions he wasn't sure he was permitted to feel.
"It's over," he said quietly. "An era has ended."
The old trainer didn't turn. His voice rasped like a blade against stone.
"No. It is merely the beginning of another."
He gestured behind them, his hand trembling slightly.
A second training yard sprawled across the horizon—filled with thousands of fresh recruits.
Not slaves.
Not mutilated boys molded into emotionless killers.
These were citizen-soldiers—young men from Astapor's new generations.
Some noble-born, some common-born—but all bound by choice rather than chains.
Their eyes were bright, alive with curiosity. They trembled with fatigue and fear—but also pride.
In place of cold numbness, they bore ambition.
His Majesty's decree had been clear and absolute:
"No more mutilation.
No more breaking of minds.
No more extinguishing of humanity."
Instructors were commanded to keep the discipline, the courage, and the skill… but strip away the darkness.
"I do not need a host of brittle tools," Damian Thorne had proclaimed.
"I need an army of loyal warriors who can train their sons, and their sons after them."
The old trainer—once a butcher paid in blood—felt the words echo within him.
He had spent his life cutting boys into weapons.
Now he was being asked to forge men.
He waved his younger counterpart forward.
"Go. The next class begins shortly."
"And remember," he added, voice softer than expected,
"Teach them what they fight for."
The young man nodded, resolve swelling in his chest.
"Yes, master!"
He sprinted toward the new formation, where another company lined up—breathing hard, yet eager.
The old trainer remained a moment longer, watching the last silent column of Unsullied recruits disappear from sight.
Not with pride, nor nostalgia.
But acceptance.
Astapor's old bones were buried in the dust.
And from them, the empire was raising a sharper, greater blade.
For the first time in decades, the old man let himself feel something close to hope.
The Summer Sea — A Fleet That Feared Nothing
Far to the south, night crept over the waters, smudging the line where sky met sea.
A vast armada—hundreds of black-sailed warships—slid across the waves like a migrating continent made of obsidian and iron.
At the prow of the flagship, the Styx, stood Old Blind Man—naval commander, veteran strategist, and servant to the Emperor.
His long grey hair whipped in the salty wind. The heavy black-and-gold leather armor he wore gleamed faintly beneath the moonlight.
Though his eyes were milky white and dull, he saw more clearly than most living men.
Not with sight, but with certainty.
Behind him, hundreds of sailors rowed in unnerving, perfect rhythm.
No one spoke.
No one panted or groaned or faltered.
Their muscles worked like clockwork, but their faces remained lifeless.
They were Wights—the living dead bound by Damian Thorne's power.
Fearless, tireless, obedient to the last bone.
Their destination: The Basilisk Isles, the entryway to Sothoryos.
Their mission: Rebuild the ruins of Qohor, plant the Empire's first banner, and carve a foothold into the greatest wilderness in the known world.
Sothoryos was feared by every living sailor.
Plagues worse than greyscale.
Jungles filled with venomous horrors.
Diseases that killed within days.
Nightmarish insects that drained the blood of armies.
Creatures whispered about but never seen.
Explorers vanished by the thousands.
Empires tried and failed.
But Old Blind Man's lips curled into a feral grin.
What could plague kill?
What could hunger starve?
What could terror shake…
…when the army was already dead?
The fleet surged ahead, Wight oars smashing through waves with inhuman strength.
No food stores filled the hulls.
No water barrels clanged in the hold.
Every beam and plank carried only soldiers, weapons, and tools of construction—or conquest.
Old Blind Man raised his head toward the horizon.
The jagged coastline of the Basilisk Isles had appeared.
Beyond it lay the continent that terrified mapmakers.
"Your Majesty…" he whispered into the dark.
"Your will is the wind at our backs."
And with the certainty of a fanatic, he knew:
The empire would not merely survive Sothoryos.
It would claim it.