Chapter 6: Cracks in the Obsidian City
The air in Valyria, always thick with the tang of sulphur and latent magic, now carried an additional, acrid scent: paranoia. Seventeen years. Seventeen short years remained until the fiery retribution Aerion foresaw with chilling clarity. He was twenty-three, a man grown, his youthful features hardened into an expression of calm, watchful intensity that many found unsettling. His public facade as the astute, if somewhat eccentric, master of Veridian and Umbrax held firm, but beneath it, the architect of a new world order laboured tirelessly.
The three secret dragons in his subterranean sanctuary were maturing into awe-inspiring beasts. Ignis Regis, the King's Fire, was now a veritable inferno clad in scales of crimson and gold. His roars were thunder, his flames capable of melting obsidian in moments. Aerion pushed him through brutal training regimens, forging him into a living siege weapon, a testament to Valyrian destructive might, refined and controlled. Caelus, the Sky Queen, danced on the winds with impossible grace, her lightning-quick movements and blindingly bright fire making her an unparalleled aerial combatant. Aerion had even begun teaching her to manipulate atmospheric pressure on a larger scale, creating localized vacuums or concussive air blasts – a fusion of her innate abilities and his understanding of elemental forces.
Glacies, however, remained the most fascinating, and potentially the most powerful in unconventional ways. The white dragon, with his silent, feathered wings and eyes like frozen sapphires, had developed an astonishing affinity for cryomancy. He could not only project intense cold but also shape ice with incredible precision, creating razor-sharp projectiles, defensive barriers, or even intricate, temporary constructs. More remarkably, Aerion discovered Glacies possessed a unique sensory ability: he could 'see' flows of magical energy, perceive life forces, and even detect the faintest traces of residual emotional imprints on objects or locations, all as variations in a spectrum of cold. This made Glacies an invaluable tool for reconnaissance and magical analysis, far surpassing any mundane scrying.
"You see the flaws in their fire, don't you, my silent one?" Aerion murmured one day, as Glacies stared intently at a complex Valyrian ward-stone Aerion had 'acquired'. Through their bond, Aerion perceived what Glacies saw: the ward-stone, glowing with fiery Valyrian magic to most, appeared to Glacies as a lattice of intensely 'hot' energy, but with hairline fractures of 'cold' – weaknesses, points of potential failure. "Their reliance on brute heat makes them blind to the subtleties of absence, of control."
This unique perception led to a significant breakthrough in Aerion's Valyrian steel research. While he still couldn't replicate the true soul-binding process of the ancient smiths, Glacies could identify the precise resonant frequencies and energy patterns within existing Valyrian steel samples. By mimicking these patterns using Nocturne Steel as a base, then subjecting it to controlled blasts of Glacies's focused cold followed by Ignis Regis's intense fire, and finally quenching it in alchemically treated water under specific runic empowerments from the Elder Wand, Aerion created a new alloy. It was not true Valyrian steel, but it was incredibly close – lighter than Nocturne Steel, almost indestructible, and with an even greater capacity to absorb and channel magical energies. He named it 'Umbral Steel,' for its smoky, dark-grey sheen and its birth in both fire and profound cold. He began to envision his Skagos stronghold not just carved from rock, but reinforced and perhaps even partially constructed with this new, superior material.
The political climate in Valyria continued its downward spiral. The shadow war between the Targaryens and Belaerys had erupted into a brief, vicious aerial skirmish over the city's outer districts, a brazen display that shattered the facade of Dragonlord unity. Several lesser houses were caught in the crossfire, their manses damaged, their dragons injured. The ruling Conclave, paralyzed by internal divisions and ancient rivalries, could only issue toothless condemnations.
Aerion observed the chaos from the Vaelaros estate, Veridian and Umbrax occasionally taking to the skies in 'defensive patrols' that conveniently allowed him a dragon's-eye view of the destruction and the tactical responses of the warring factions. He saw arrogance, poor strategy, and a reckless expenditure of precious draconic power. Fools, Voldemort's voice sneered in his mind. Wasting their strength while the true threat gathers beneath their feet.
He used the turmoil to his advantage. During the height of the conflict, when security was lax and attention diverted, he orchestrated, through his network, the acquisition of several key assets from a minor Belaerys-allied house that had suffered heavily. This included their entire private library of dragonlore, rumored to contain unique insights into Valyrian bloodlines, and, more importantly, two dragon eggs they had been desperately trying to keep secret, hoping to rebuild their strength. The acquisition was masked as a fire sale, a desperate attempt by the ruined family to recoup losses, with Aerion's agents acting as intermediaries for an 'anonymous benefactor.' The eggs, one a deep sapphire blue, the other a mottled bronze, were swiftly transported to his hidden lair. Seven dragons. His hidden council was growing.
His father, Maelys, was visibly aged by the recent strife. "This city is eating itself, Aerion," he confessed one night, his voice hoarse. "The bonds of blood and honor that held the Freehold together are unraveling."
Aerion offered a platitude about strength in unity, but his mind was already calculating. The weakening of the central authority, the fracturing of the great houses – it all played into his hands, making his own eventual, quiet departure less likely to be noticed or effectively opposed.
The time felt right for a personal visit to Skagos. The animated constructs, guided by his warged arctic predators, had excavated the main halls and foundational chambers of his mountain stronghold. Now, he needed to place the primary wards, the deep enchantments that would make his sanctuary truly hidden and impregnable.
Under the cover of a new moon and a carefully orchestrated series of diversions – a rumored wild dragon sighting far to the east that drew away patrols, a 'generous' contribution to a city festival that kept many Dragonlords occupied – Aerion made his move. He didn't use Veridian or Umbrax, whose Valyrian fire signatures might be detected even at a distance. Instead, he chose Glacies. The white dragon's silent, feathered wings and his aura of cold made him virtually undetectable against the night sky, especially when combined with Aerion's own disillusionment charms and the Cloak of Invisibility.
The journey was swift and uneventful, Glacies's unnatural flight a marvel of stealth. They arrived at the hidden bay on Skagos as dawn touched the icy peaks. The air was bitingly cold, clean, and carried the scent of pine and salt. It felt worlds away from the oppressive, geothermal fug of Valyria.
Aerion, cloaked and hooded, disembarked. The entrance to his nascent stronghold was a cleverly disguised fissure in the mountainside. Inside, the stone golems, forged of rock and early Nocturne Steel, stood silent, their tasks completed for now. The air was frigid, but Aerion, drawing on Flamel's alchemical understanding of thermic regulation and his own magical resilience, felt invigorated.
For three days, he worked tirelessly. With the Elder Wand as his conduit, he wove a complex tapestry of wards. He drew upon Valyrian principles of fused stone and impenetrable barriers, but layered them with Harry Potter world enchantments: anti-apparition jinxes, Muggle-repelling charms (adapted for those without Valyrian blood magic), disillusionment spells tied to the very rock face, and powerful cloaking enchantments that would bend light and magical scans. He inscribed master runes of endurance, secrecy, and sanctuary into the foundational stones, fueling them with his own potent magic and the ambient cold energy of Skagos, which Glacies seemed to amplify. He also placed the first of his Umbral Steel reinforcements, creating doorframes and lintels that hummed with contained power. When he was done, the stronghold was not just hidden; it was practically erased from the mundane world, accessible only through specific magical keys or by those of his direct bloodline who knew its secrets.
Before leaving, he took Glacies high above the island. The white dragon soared, reveling in the frigid winds. Through Glacies's senses, Aerion saw the island's wild, untamed beauty, its hidden valleys, its ancient weirwood groves, and the ring of standing stones his greensight had shown him, radiating an ancient, powerful, and distinctly non-Valyrian magic. This land has its own secrets, he thought. Secrets I will unlock in time.
His return to Valyria was as seamless as his departure. He slipped back into his role, none the wiser. But the visit had solidified his resolve. Skagos was real. His sanctuary was taking form.
Loremaster Lyraenys, however, remained a persistent thorn. Her ancient eyes seemed to miss nothing. She had noted his brief 'indisposition' during the festival, his slightly more distant demeanor upon his 'recovery'.
"The northern winds cling to you, young master," she commented idly one afternoon, as he browsed texts in the Vaelaros library. "A chill that Valyrian fire cannot quite dispel."
Aerion met her gaze, his own as cool and unreadable as a winter sky. "I merely find the old sagas of ice and snow a refreshing counterpoint to our endless summer, Loremaster. Do you not appreciate the balance of opposites?"
"Opposites can create great power, or great destruction," Lyraenys replied, her voice a dry whisper. "Be wary of which you cultivate, Aerion Vaelaros. Some seeds, once sown, grow beyond any gardener's control."
He knew she was probing, trying to elicit a reaction. He gave her none, merely a polite nod before returning to his studies. But he increased the complexity of the wards around his personal chambers and lair, and began to subtly use Legilimency to monitor her own inquiries, ensuring he stayed several steps ahead of her suspicions. He even fed false information into her network of informants, leading her down paths that would reveal nothing but his feigned interest in obscure Valyrian poetry.
His work on the 'spiritual accumulator' for the Doom progressed in the deepest, most heavily shielded section of his lair. He had moved beyond mere theory. He was now constructing prototypes of the runic anchors, small, intricate devices of Umbral Steel and obsidian, designed to resonate with geothermal energy and spiritual frequencies. He experimented with them in controlled environments, using the life force of dying animals (vermin from the city's underbelly, or creatures succumbing to natural causes) to test their ability to draw and condense faint spiritual echoes. It was dark work, requiring a detachment that even Voldemort might have found taxing in his original life, but Aerion, tempered by Flamel's scientific objectivity, viewed it as essential research. The results were promising, if disturbing. The anchors pulsed with captured energy, and he could feel their collective resonance, a precursor to the vast network he planned to create.
The Elixir of Life, brewed in small, potent batches from the Philosopher's Stone, was now a regular, albeit minuscule, part of his five primary dragons' diet. Veridian, Umbrax, Ignis Regis, Caelus, and Glacies were vibrant with unnatural vitality, their scales gleaming, their eyes burning with heightened intelligence, their magical abilities developing at an accelerated rate. He had not yet begun taking it himself; he would wait until the Stone was fully empowered by the Doom. His current youth and magical prowess were sufficient for now. His focus was on his draconic guardians; they needed to be at their absolute peak.
The two new eggs, sapphire and bronze, lay in a carefully prepared nesting chamber, warmed by controlled geothermal heat and surrounded by enchantments. Aerion spent time with them daily, subtly weaving his magic around them, guiding their development, just as he had with Umbrax and the Smoking Sea clutch. He envisioned riders for them from his future bloodline, his children or grandchildren, extending the power of his hidden council.
One evening, as a precursor tremor from the increasingly unstable Fourteen Flames shook the Vaelaros manse – a tremor barely noticed by most Valyrians, who were long accustomed to the earth's grumbling – Aerion was struck by a greensight vision more potent and disturbing than any before. He saw not just the destruction of Valyria, but a wave of utter desolation spreading outwards, a shadow falling over the world. He saw ice and fire clashing on a continental scale, figures of immense power, both light and dark, and a threat from the far, frozen North that had nothing to do with Skagos's mundane chill. It was a glimpse of the Long Night, the return of the Others, though he did not yet know their name. And crucially, he saw that this great darkness would arise long after Valyria's fall, in an age when his own hidden sanctuary on Skagos would be ancient, its guardians perhaps the only true bulwark against oblivion.
The vision shook him to his core. His plans had always been focused on the survival and prosperity of his own lineage, a hidden empire of magic. But this… this suggested a future role, a responsibility that extended beyond his own kin. The Voldemort aspect railed against such a notion – why should he care for a world that would soon be a graveyard? But the Flamel aspect, the ancient scholar who understood the cyclical nature of history and the preciousness of knowledge and life, recognized a deeper imperative. And Aerion, the pragmatist, saw a threat that could eventually reach even his Skagosi haven if left unchecked.
His purpose, he realized, might be grander, and far more terrifying, than he had ever imagined. He was not just building a sanctuary; he was forging an ark, a repository of power and knowledge that might one day be the world's last hope. The thought was sobering, the responsibility immense.
He looked at his hands, at the faint glow of the Elder Wand resting on his desk, at the silent promise of the Philosopher's Stone hidden nearby. He was a creature of shadow, born of ambition and a lust for eternal life, forged in the fires of two lifetimes. Yet, perhaps, destiny had a more complex tapestry in mind for him.
The Doom was only the beginning. A cleansing fire, from which he would rise, empowered and prepared. But for what? The answer, he suspected, lay far in the future, in the icy winds of a world plunged into a darkness even deeper than Valyria's coming fall. His caution deepened, his resolve hardened. He had much work to do.