(Part I)
Volantis woke the way it always did:loud voices, sharp smells, the low churn of the Blackwater Tide meeting stone.
But beneath the bustle, beneath the ordinary chaos, was a tension that had sat in the city's gut for weeks. A quiet tightening. A shared awareness. The kind that didn't show on faces yet, but you could feel it in the space between every conversation.
Even the gulls seemed to cry a little less today.
"Feels wrong," said Loryn the Fishmonger as he hauled his crates to the north pier. "Air's too still."
Beside him, Old Mavro, a one-eyed dockhand who'd worked these planks since before the Triarchs learned how to shave, spat into the water. "Storm?"
"No," Loryn said. "Storms announce themselves. This feels like somebody holdin' their breath."
Mavro stopped. Turned. "You heard the talk, then."
"Everyone's heard the talk."
Rumors.Whispers.The kind that didn't die even when people tried to laugh them off.
A man returning.A man who left two years ago.A man who walked out of the Smoking Sea untouched.
A man who had sent a message that had unsettled Volantis more than any fleet or army ever had.
Repatriation.A word no one knew how to argue with because no one knew what it meant.
Dockhands kept working, but their eyes flicked toward the horizon whenever they thought no one was watching.
One of the young lads, Farris, shaded his eyes with a hand. "There's somethin' out there," he said quietly.
"Ships pass every day," Loryn said.
"Not like this one."
Mavro grunted. "What d'you see, boy?"
Farris didn't answer immediately. He leaned forward, breath held, eyes narrowed. "Big," he whispered. "Too big for a merchant. No colors."
"No colors?" Mavro straightened. "You sure?"
"Aye."
More workers stopped what they were doing.More eyes turned out toward the haze.
Volantis was a port city—sharp at spotting ships, sharp at identifying sails, sharp at recognizing danger before it arrived.
But this ship…
It was unfamiliar.Dark.Huge.And it moved like it knew exactly where it was going.
"Gods." Loryn's throat bobbed. "What kind o' hull is that?"
"Not ours," Mavro said.
The ship glided forward with unnatural smoothness, slicing through the Blackwater with barely a ripple.
"Look at how she rides the tide," someone muttered. "Not even compensating for the current."
"That ain't natural," another whispered.
"Maybe it's one of the Tiger fleets—"
"No Tiger fleet has a vessel shaped like that."
Slowly, more and more workers abandoned their tasks. They formed quiet clusters, whispering beneath their breaths.
People did not shout.People did not point.People did not cheer or curse.
It was simply too strange.
And then Farris said the words no one wanted to hear:
"Is it him?"
Silence clung to the pier like wet cloth.
Mavro was the first to answer, his voice low, gravelly. "No one sails a ship like that unless they've got reason. And there's only one man left with reason to return."
Loryn swallowed. "Don't say his name."
"I didn't."
"But you thought it."
"We all thought it."
The ship grew larger and larger, every curve of its hull revealing itself:dark wood reinforced with layered black metal, carved with subtle ridges and channels that looked more grown than built.The prow cut the water like a blade.No banner flew.Not even a strip of cloth marked its allegiance.
It was a ship that announced nothing about itself.
Which meant the ship itself was the announcement.
Mavro's voice dropped again. "He said he would come back when it was time."
"No," Loryn said, shaking his head. "He said nothing o' the sort. He never said anythin' at all."
"And that's worse."
Behind them, vendors and merchants began drifting toward the docks as well.The air thickened with bodies and held breath.Nobody pushed.Nobody shoved.
Volantis was a city suddenly behaving.
A small group of traders hurried up from the Elephant Quarter, whispering anxiously among themselves.
"You think the Triarchs know?""They must know.""They would've prepared.""Prepared what? Walls don't stop a man who walked out of the Doom."
None of them spoke loudly.No one wanted to attract attention.Not on this morning.
A trio of Red Temple acolytes moved through the crowd—quiet, orderly, stepping lightly as though following an old rhythm. Their red robes fluttered faintly in the wind.
One of the dockworkers frowned. "Why're the priests out so early?"
"They don't move without purpose," Mavro said. "Least of all these days."
The lead acolyte paused near the pier's edge. Her tone was calm, simple, and direct."We are here because we were told to be."
"Told by who?" a merchant asked.
She didn't hesitate. "By Kinvara."
"And Kinvara follows—"
"The last instruction she received," the acolyte cut in, voice controlled. "Nothing more."
No chanting.No prayer.No fever.
Just quiet obedience.
The ship was close now—too close for anyone to deny what it was.
The water stilled around it, the tide shifting unnaturally to make way.No oars.No sails shifting.No shouted orders.
Just silent approach.
And the closer it drew, the more the crowd realized how massive it truly was—taller, broader, reinforced with long black plates that glinted faintly in the morning light.
"Who builds a ship like that…?" whispered one of the rivermen.
"The same man who built a city no one can find," someone murmured.
A group of nobles from the Black Wall approached next—robes fine, expressions thin, pacing sharp. They held their dignity like shields.
"What is that ship?" one demanded.
No one answered.
The noble's gaze swept the pier, unsettled by the calm faces, the hushed tone.
"Speak!" he barked. "Is that who we think?"
But before anyone could speak, the ship reached the dock.
And stopped.
No creak.No crash.No strain of rope.
Just a clean, perfect halt as though the water itself had taken orders.
The dockhands froze.The crowd held its breath.The nobles flinched despite themselves.
A single long plank extended outward, locking gently into place.
"Stand ready," Mavro whispered, though he didn't know who he was talking to.
The air thickened.Tense.Formal.Controlled.
Exactly like the man stepping off would be.
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(Part II)
The air shifted.
Subtle.Cold.Controlled.
That was the only warning before the first soldier stepped onto the plank.
The dockworkers had seen every type of mercenary pass through Volantis:Braavosi sellswords with their elegance, Myrish crossbowmen with their swagger, slave legions with their hollow eyes.But nothing looked like this.
The soldier who descended from the ship moved with the kind of precision that made the human body feel like an illusion.There was no wasted gesture.No sound.No breath visible through the helm.
They wore armor that swallowed the light—black metal shaped with angles too clean to be hammered by mundane forgework. No sigils, no ornament, no exposed cloth.Helm smooth.Eyes hidden.Gauntlets shaped for war.
"Sweet R'hllor…" someone whispered.
"No," Mavro said under his breath. "R'hllor didn't forge that."
A second soldier followed.Then a third.Then a fourth.
Each one stepped forward in the exact same rhythm—measured, calm, utterly silent. They formed two lines automatically, without a single barked command or shouted order. No one directed them. They simply knew what formation to take.
"What… what are they?" Loryn whispered.
"The ones who keep the city he built," the fishmonger beside him muttered. "The legion of Valyr'Nox."
A noblewoman inhaled sharply, clutching her cloak. "So the rumors were true."
Even the Red Temple acolytes—normally fearless in their faith—shifted subtly in posture. Respect, yes. A hint of fear? Also yes.
One of the nobles whispered harshly to another,"Where are their faces? What kind of men hide behind masks like that?"
The acolyte nearest him answered simply, without turning:"Men who do not wish to be known. Men who serve a purpose."
The noble bristled but did not argue.
The legion completed its formation—twelve soldiers forming a guarded lane leading from ship to dock.Six remained on deck, standing perfectly still, watching the pier with unreadable stares.
Then—
Heavy steps echoed from within the ship.Not rushed.Not thunderous.But deliberate.Each impact carried weight, like iron touching bone.
The crowd tightened instinctively.Even the gulls went quiet.
Mavro's lips parted as he breathed out,"It's him."
The first hint of him was the silhouette in the open gangway—broad-shouldered, tall, armored in a way that made the legion look almost ordinary.
Then he stepped out.
Kaine.
Two years had passed since Volantis last saw him, but the memory of that moment had never faded. Back then, he came without armor, without ceremony, without warning—but the air bent around him all the same.
Now he came armored. Masked. Mantled in shadow and fur.
The helm he wore resembled the sculptures of long-dead kings—angular, expressionless, with a narrow T-shaped visor that revealed nothing.Dark metal shaped with curves like coiled serpents.A single fur mantle wrapped across his shoulders, pale and thick, contrasting violently against the black plate beneath.
The armor itself was alive with subtle patterns—veins of metal that shifted faintly with movement, swallowing color rather than reflecting it. The plates overlapped like dragon scales, jointed with articulations that didn't creak or scrape.
He walked like an executioner approaching a platform.Slow, steady, inexorable.
Dockhands stepped back without thinking.Nobles stiffened, trying not to show fear.The Red Temple stood straight, stilled, reverent but disciplined.
Kaine walked past the first pair of legionaries—who lowered their heads slightly, acknowledging his passage—not bowing, not kneeling, simply shifting in recognition.
His stride never faltered.His pace never changed.
It was as if he had already memorized the pier.
No one dared speak—until a young merchant, too terrified to swallow his curiosity, whispered:
"Why has he returned now?"
Another hissed, "Quiet—"
But Kaine's helm tilted—just slightly—in the direction of the whisper.
Everyone froze.
The noble nearest the pair stepped forward quickly, voice trembling under forced bravado.
"Reaver," he said softly, "Volantis welcomes you—"
Kaine kept walking.
The noble's words died in his throat.
He tried again, louder, "We… we wish to ask… why you have returned—after these years?"
Kaine stopped.
The entire pier seemed to stop with him.
He lifted his head a fraction, the helm's dark visor staring directly at the noble who now looked seconds from fainting.
When Kaine spoke, the voice was deep, calm, unhurried—carrying no anger, no warmth.
A voice like cold iron being drawn from a sheath.
"Repatriation."
One word.And Volantis flinched.
"Repatriation… of what?" the noble whispered.
Kaine resumed walking.
He did not answer.
He didn't need to.
The crowd parted without being told, forming a narrow corridor of bodies. People pressed themselves against crates, pillars, and railings just to avoid brushing his armor.
As he passed the cluster of Red Temple acolytes, the eldest—robes embroidered with flame-patterned thread—stepped forward and bowed her head.
"We stand ready," she said quietly, "under the last instruction given."
Kaine did not pause.
But the faint tilt of his helm—not toward her, but toward the entire Red Temple presence—was enough to make her inhale sharply as though blessed.
Behind him, the legion closed their formation with mechanical precision, following two paces behind, half remaining to guard the ship exactly as instructed.
Kaine reached the end of the pier.
There, two figures waited.
Vaerynna.And The Demon.
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(Part III)
Vaerynna stood at the end of the pier like a pale flame waiting to be acknowledged.
Her visage drew immediate attention even without a word.Hair like molten silver cascading down her back.Gold-ringed eyes glowing faintly beneath the hood of her traveling cloak.A presence both warm and dangerous—like a hearth that could turn into wildfire at any moment.
Beside her leaned the other woman—the one Volantis whispered about in darker hours.
The Demon.
Volantis had given her that name—before Kaine reclaimed her. Before her chains were broken. Before the shadow that once clung to her had been reshaped into something with purpose.
Her posture was relaxed but watchful, arms folded beneath her cloak, eyes bright with amusement and danger.
Both women stood still as Kaine approached, his legion marching like shadows behind him.
Vaerynna's lips curved faintly. "So it is true," she murmured, voice low enough for only the Demon to hear. "Volantis has not changed at all."
The Demon huffed a soft laugh. "Why would it? People cling to fear more than anything." She tilted her head as a noble tripped on his own hem trying to bow too quickly. "But look at them. Two years, and still they shake."
"They should," Vaerynna replied calmly. "But they tremble for the wrong reasons."
"And us?" the Demon asked, one eyebrow lifting. "Do we shake for the right reasons?"
Vaerynna's eyes softened, the ember-light within them shimmering."Not anymore. We left our fear in that city."
The Demon smirked. "And now?"
"Now…" Vaerynna glanced toward Kaine, who drew closer with each step, "…we walk beside him without hiding."
The Demon chuckled. "We certainly don't look the same as we did two years ago."
"No," Vaerynna agreed softly. "We are stronger."
Her golden eyes flicked to the legion—twelve armored figures stepping with inhuman discipline."Stronger than Volantis realizes."
"And Kaine?" the Demon asked, her tone shifting—respectful, but edged with a private familiarity. "He hides his face now. Doesn't want mortals seeing what he's become?"
"It is not hiding," Vaerynna said. "It is… preparation."
"For what?" the Demon whispered.
Vaerynna didn't answer.
Because Kaine reached them.
The moment his plated boots touched the final stones of the pier, the crowd instinctively stepped back again—no command, no gesture, just instinct.
The legion split: half forming a protective arc behind him, the other half remaining at the ship as silent sentinels.
Kaine stood before his two companions.
Vaerynna bowed her head slightly—not as a subordinate, not as a worshiper, but as someone acknowledging a shared truth.
"Kaine," she said, her tone soft, steady. "Volantis has waited for you."
"They have feared you," the Demon added with a foxlike grin. "More accurately."
Kaine's helm turned toward the Demon.He did not rebuke.He did not correct.
He simply accepted the truth in silence.
Vaerynna stepped closer, lowering her voice. "We sensed the Red Temple before you arrived. They gather… quietly."
"They obey the last command," Kaine said.
His voice was low and controlled, vibrating faintly through the helm.
The Demon flicked her gaze over her shoulder at the cluster of red-robed acolytes standing at the far end of the pier—straight-backed, disciplined, watching Kaine with unwavering focus.
"No chanting," she mused. "No fire displays. Either they're terrified… or they're showing unusual restraint."
"Neither," Vaerynna said. "They simply remember what he told them."
Kaine didn't elaborate.
He didn't need to.
The acolytes parted silently, revealing two figures stepping forward.
Not the high priests themselves—Kinvara and Benerro remained in their sanctums—but their messengers. Acolytes of higher rank, embroidered with gold-threaded symbols of flame.
The lead stepped ahead, bowing just enough to show respect, but not so deeply as to draw attention.
"We stand as instructed," he said quietly. "By the command given to our High Priests. We follow. We do not question."
Kaine did not nod. Did not acknowledge.
He simply walked past them.
The acolyte exhaled, almost in relief.
"Is… is that all he needed?" whispered a younger priest behind him.
"Do not speak like a fool," the elder hissed. "When he says nothing, it means the moment is not for us."
Vaerynna caught the exchange.A faint smirk touched her lips.
"They still fear missteps," she whispered to the Demon.
"Good," the Demon answered. "Fear keeps people from doing stupid things."
Vaerynna's glance remained warm—not cruel—toward the priests."They fear him. But they follow him because they believe he was shown to them."
"And we follow," the Demon said lightly, "because we've seen him."
Kaine did not react to their words.He simply kept walking.
The crowd parted again.
And the nobles finally gathered enough courage—or desperation—to approach.
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(Part IV)
Kaine stepped off the final stone of the pier and onto the wide, arched promenade leading toward the Elephant Gate. The crowd shifted restlessly as he passed, whispering beneath their breaths in tones hushed by fear more than curiosity.
"He came back.""After two years…""He looks… different.""Don't stare. Don't even breathe too loud."
A group of freedmen, standing together near a low wall, watched silently—some hopeful, some terrified, none indifferent.
"He's wearing a mask now," one murmured."Means he's not here to talk," another replied.
Vaerynna moved just behind Kaine, her steps soundless, her presence radiating quiet fire. The Demon walked on the opposite side, her eyes darting lazily from face to face as though tracking possible threats but finding none worth the effort.
Kaine's legion followed in two symmetrical lines, their synchronized steps tapping faintly against the stones. The sound was unnerving—too precise, too measured for mortal soldiers.
"What are those things?" someone whispered."Not slaves.""Not sellswords either.""They move like they share a spine…"
"They're his," Vaerynna said under her breath, only for the Demon to hear. "Every one of them."
The Demon chuckled softly. "Volantis doesn't know how to fear them yet."
"They will," Vaerynna answered, her gold-ringed eyes glinting.
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Nobles Attempt Diplomacy
A group of lesser triarch officials hurried out from the lower steps of the Black Wall district, robes swishing, breaths short. None of them wanted to be the one to speak to Kaine, but they had drawn short straws—or been punished—so here they were.
A portly noble tried first.
"Reaver," he called, forcing a polite tone. "Volantis welcomes your return to—"
Kaine did not stop.
And no one dared step in front of him.
Another noble, younger and braver or simply stupider, rushed forward a few steps ahead.
"Reaver! Volantis seeks… clarity. We—we received your message and—"
Kaine's helm tilted a single degree.The noble froze mid-step as though the very air around him had thickened into glass.
Kaine's voice slid out, low and cold:
"Repatriation."
The noble licked his lips nervously. "Y-yes, but… of what?"
Kaine resumed walking.
And that was his answer.
The nobles stood rooted in place, breaths shallow, faces pale.
One whispered shakily,"He doesn't negotiate."
Another pulled at his cloak nervously."Then the Triarchs have doomed us… if we do not even know what he intends."
A third, voice trembling,"We should have never allowed the pirates to go near his island."
A sharp elbow jab silenced him immediately—eyes darting around for legion ears.
But none of the legion reacted.
They didn't need to.
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Red Temple Presence — Quiet, Disciplined, Obedient
Along the main street, a long line of red-robed priests and acolytes waited—silent, organized, standing in two even rows. None chanted. None prayed aloud. None raised their hands as they usually did when invoking flame.
They simply watched.
Benarro's chosen messenger stepped forward as Kaine passed.
"We remain prepared," he said softly. "As instructed. Your word remains our directive."
Kaine did not pause.
But his helm angled in acknowledgment—a gesture so small most would miss it, but enough to make the priest bow deeply.
Kinvara's envoy stepped next to him."Our fires have not dimmed since your message," she said. "We stand."
Vaerynna's gaze flicked to them, expression unreadable but faintly approving.
The Demon leaned closer to her companion. "They obey more cleanly than the nobles."
"They obey because he commanded it," Vaerynna murmured. "Not because they expect reward."
"You think they're not afraid?" the Demon asked.
"They are," Vaerynna replied. "But their fear is disciplined."
Kaine kept walking, never breaking stride.
The Red Temple parted before him like a curtain drawn too slowly.
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(Part V)
As they moved deeper into Volantis, the crowd thickened, though still no one dared block his path.
Inside a small spice stall, a young boy tugged on his father's sleeve.
"Papa… is that the man from the stories?"
His father didn't answer.Didn't look away from the black-armored figure approaching.He simply pressed a hand gently on the boy's head and whispered:
"Don't speak. Not now."
A group of Tiger guards shifted nervously on a street corner, hands on their spears, eyes flicking down the road as though expecting an order to stop Kaine—an order none of them intended to follow.
"He looks like he's walking to judgment," one muttered.
"No," another whispered. "Like judgment's walking with him."
Farther down the street, merchants whispered in frantic bursts:
"Repatriation?""What does he want?""If the Triarchs angered him—""Seven protect us, the Triarchs anger everyone."
A freedman with rough hands and tired eyes watched Kaine pass, his voice barely more than breath:
"Last time he walked these streets… nobody dared beat a slave for a whole month. Nobody dared steal bread. The city… went quiet."
His friend nodded."And look. It's quiet again."
The friend swallowed."But this time… he didn't come alone."
Vaerynna and the Demon exchanged a look—subtle, knowing.
"We've changed," the Demon whispered.
"Yes," Vaerynna replied gently. "And so has he."