The night fell heavy over King's Landing, carrying the scent of smoke, salt, and fear. Aurelian stood atop a narrow rooftop, the city sprawling beneath him like a living, writhing map. The Veil Anchors at his side pulsed in quiet rhythm, attuned to every shift in magic, every heartbeat of the city.
Elayne crouched beside him, eyes scanning the alleyways and streets below. "They've doubled their patrols. Something tells me Ser Vayne isn't working alone this time."
"No," Aurelian agreed, his gaze narrowing. "He has reinforcements… agents who understand the Anchors' call. But they do not understand me."
From below, the faint glow of lanterns traced the streets—gold cloaks moving in lines, systematically searching for the source of the disturbance. Each patrol felt the pull of the Anchors, even if they did not know it, their instincts twisted by the faint whisper of magic.
"This city," Aurelian murmured, "is a cage. And I intend to open it."
He leapt silently from the rooftop, shadows stretching and coiling around him like liquid night, softening his landing. Elayne followed, her steps muted, trained to move like a ghost. Together, they slipped between the patrols, unnoticed, though the city itself seemed to lean in, curious, wary.
At the heart of Flea Bottom, a street was barricaded. A patrol had intercepted a rumor of Anchors, searching doors, basements, and cellars. Aurelian paused, letting the shadows ripple ahead of him, weaving a path through darkness.
A sudden flare of green light from the Veil Anchors marked their presence to the enemy. Gold cloaks froze, their armor reflecting the unnatural glow.
"By the Seven!" one shouted, raising a torch.
Aurelian moved. The shadows around his legs surged, lifting and wrapping around the men like vines, binding them without harming. Panic swept through the patrol—muscle, instinct, and fear all reacting to something they could not name.
Elayne dispatched the remaining few silently, blades flicking like water. No one could see them clearly, yet every action felt precise, unstoppable, and inevitable.
The last patrolman fell to his knees, clutching his head as shadows receded. Aurelian's voice was calm, absolute, and carried in the still air. "Tell the crown this: the shadows are not the threat. The prince of Nightbloom is."
He turned, and the green light of the Anchors flared brighter than ever. The streets trembled. Windows shattered silently, glass falling like rain. Magic pulsed outward, cutting through wards and barriers, unseen by the mortals who had tried to contain it.
Elayne glanced at him, a mixture of awe and concern. "You're not just scaring them… you're rewriting the rules."
"Rules are for men who forget the cost of power," Aurelian replied. "I am here to remind them."
From the distance, a bell tolled—the signal from Ser Alric Vayne, calling reinforcements, alerting the city to something beyond comprehension.
Aurelian did not flinch. He lifted the Anchors high, letting their pulse extend through the streets, a low hum that vibrated through stone and soul alike.
Shadows poured from every corner, from every alleyway, forming around him like obedient specters. The gold cloaks fled or froze, unable to comprehend the force that moved through the streets.
And in the distance, atop the Red Keep's battlements, eyes gleamed—watchers who had counted themselves immune to whispers of magic.
Aurelian smiled faintly beneath his hood. "Then let the city see the first strike."
He stepped forward into the heart of Flea Bottom, shadows stretching with him. The Anchors pulsed in unison, a warning and a challenge. The streets of King's Landing had been touched by the power of Nightbloom for the first time—and nothing would ever be the same again.
Far across the Sunset Sea, in Nightbloom, Queen Maleficent stirred. A ripple passed through her dark wings as the Veilpulse echoed. Her son had begun the game in earnest.
And in Westeros, fear learned a new name: Aurelian Darkthorn.