Quemor was a member of the Red Masked Hermits, one of the cloistered sects affiliated with the Shadowbinders of Asshai. While Asshai was home to many types of spellcasters, the largest and most dominant group remained the Shadowbinders, as the city's unique environment was particularly suited to their magical practices. The demons and monsters lurking in the Shadow Mountains provided some of the finest magical materials for their craft.
Members of the Red Masked Hermits painted their wooden masks with intricate markings that denoted their status, using a special dye made from a toxic herb unique to their order. To join their ranks, one had to complete a pilgrimage through the Shadow Lands. The ritual was deceptively simple: travel upstream along the Ash River to the area near Stygai, catch a green-scaled fish native to those waters—without succumbing to its poison—and complete a journey into the Shadow Realm. Only then would one be deemed worthy to join the Red Masked Hermits.
Membership in the order didn't just confer status and recognition—it also granted the right to claim a black house in the city's central district, to be used as both residence and place of magical practice.
The entire city of Asshai was built atop a vast, unbroken mass of oily black stone—so massive that it eclipsed the combined size of the largest cities on both Essos and Westeros.
Every building in the city had been constructed from bricks cut and polished from fragments of this black stone quarried from the nearby mountains. No one knew who had built them; they had stood there since before any written record. Some believed, like the labyrinths of Lorath, that these structures were the work of giants. And it wasn't an empty theory—the scale of the architecture supported it. Even the tables and beds inside the buildings were massive, far beyond the proportions suited for any normal human.
This black stone possessed unusual and powerful properties. It could absorb light—so completely that even at midday, with sunlight shining directly on the streets and buildings, everything in Asshai remained dim and gray. At night, the darkness was nearly absolute. A torch could barely light a foot ahead, and everything beyond was pitch-black, as though the world had sunk into a bottomless abyss.
Light absorption was merely the most superficial of its abilities. To the spellcasters of Asshai, the black stone's greatest value lay in how it awakened and amplified magical power.
Outside of Asshai, a pyromancer might only manage to ignite a thread or light a candle. But within the city, that same pyromancer could unleash jets of flame, like a dragon breathing fire.
Once spellcasters experienced the full potential of their magic in Asshai, they almost never left. The exhilaration of wielding such power was incomparable. As those who did leave described it, they felt as though part of their soul had remained behind. A hollow emptiness would settle over them, gnawing at their spirit. Some went mad. Others sought refuge in fanatical faith—because only belief could fill the void.
But no one left Asshai by choice. They left because they had to.
Stay too long, and the dark power infused in the black stone would begin to corrode them. In time, they would become one of the lost—soulless husks, little more than walking corpses.
The black stone's magic could magnify a spellcaster's strength, but it also harmed all living beings exposed to it.
Mages fared better than most, as their bloodlines granted them some resistance to the corruption. But ordinary people weren't so lucky. Within two years, the magic would reduce a normal person's mind to nothing. Only the base instincts remained—eating, sleeping, walking. The mages of Asshai called it soul-loss.
Even mages weren't immune forever. As they aged or fell ill, their resistance would fade rapidly. Eventually, they'd become no different from common folk—utterly vulnerable to the black stone's corruption.
And if they didn't leave in time, they too would become lost.
Because of this, despite Asshai's enormous size, its permanent population was under forty thousand. Of those, only about a thousand were true spellcasters. The rest were slaves brought in from Slaver's Bay or other Free Cities, or transient sailors, merchants, and adventurers.
There were no native Asshaians. No one could live in Asshai long enough to call it home, and no children were ever born there. Everyone in the city—Quemor included—was an outsider.
As for those referred to as "Asshaians," they were typically the spellcasters living in the city center. These mages often rubbed their skin with a powder made from crushed black stone mixed with a rare aromatic oil, giving their bodies the appearance of the dark skin seen among the people of the Summer Isles.
No one truly remembered why this black coating was used. Some legends claimed it enhanced a caster's ability to draw on the magic of the black stone, but that theory had long been disproven. These days, it was simply considered tradition.
Spellcasters were the unquestioned rulers of Asshai. Any individual confirmed to be a caster was automatically granted a share of the city's rights and wealth. While their authority couldn't extend beyond Asshai, their riches could—though few who left ever managed to keep hold of them for long.
Despite its sparse population and harsh conditions, Asshai was far from poor. The region was rich in gold, gemstones, and dragonglass, all of exceptional quality. Merchant ships from ports across Essos frequently sailed here to trade. They brought cargoes of wine and grain, and left with holds full of gold, gems, and dragonglass. In order to protect this lucrative trade route, these merchants spread rumors that Asshai's treasures were cursed, bringing misfortune to those who used them. In truth, most of the gold and gems had already been melted down or refashioned, quietly making their way into markets across the world.
Over the years, some arrogant fools had attempted to seize or control Asshai, believing its casters no different from petty tricksters outside the city. Those who tried met a grim fate—turned into magical components by the very spellcasters they sought to conquer.
Take, for instance, the string of fist-sized human heads hanging from Quemor's waist. They once belonged to a pirate crew from the Jade Sea. For reasons unknown, their captain had the audacity to try robbing a spellcaster in Asshai. The entire crew was captured, dragged to an altar, and used as ritual components—transformed into a special medium for casting Shadowbinder magic.
It was thanks to those very heads that Quemor had survived his pilgrimage to the Shadow Lands and earned his place among the Red Masked Hermits.
Now, however, they had little value left. Quemor intended to trade them at the Temple of the God of Magic for ten vials of elixir.
...
Asshai was vast and desolate. Outside the docks, a spellcaster might go ten or fifteen days without seeing another living person—apart from their own slaves. The closer one lived to the center of the city, the more pronounced this solitude became.
On the outskirts, slaves could survive for some time, so casters in those areas usually had servants. But nearer the city's heart, ordinary people would fall ill within a month or two, from causes unknown and uncurable. Their bodies would weaken day by day until death took them.
As a result, most spellcasters who lived in central Asshai lived entirely alone, with only a rare few attended by their own apprentices.
Quemor, a Shadowbinder, had no disciples or companions. Alone, he moved through the pitch-black streets of Asshai, making his way toward the Temple of the God of Magic.
Though shadows were his domain, even he felt unease walking these streets in the dead of night—despite the many years he'd lived here.
Fortunately, the temple was not far from his dwelling. As he turned a corner, he saw the unquenchable flame burning atop its altar. The fire lit the surrounding area and offered a sliver of warmth to any who approached.
No matter how dark the outside world believed the spellcasters of Asshai to be—no matter how much they were said to revere shadow—those who were still human, with human minds and thoughts, would always be drawn to fire in the dark. Even Shadowbinders were no exception.
"Quemor... you actually came to the Temple of the God of Magic?"
Just as he reached the temple's gate, a raspy voice—like stone scraping against stone—came from beneath the brazier of the eternal flame.
Quemor stopped and turned to look at the figure slumped beneath it, wrapped entirely in black cloth.
"Jaben. You're still in Asshai?" he asked.
The figure was silent for a moment, then replied, "I was brought here as an infant. I grew up here, came of age here, and grew old here. This is my home. I don't want to leave."
A flicker of emotion—long buried—rose in Quemor's eyes. The man before him had once been someone he could only look up to. He had been the most powerful dark sorcerer in Asshai—the most powerful spellcaster in the entire city. Some had called him the King of Asshai. To him, the city had been a private garden, especially at night, when in darkness, he was unstoppable.
If anyone ever deserved to be called a true Son of Shadow or an Asshai-born, it was the man before him.
And yet now, this once-unstoppable warlock—the one who most deserved to be called an Asshai—was being eaten away by the very powers that had once made him great. The darkness he once ruled over had become his torment. Even his former enemies no longer saw the point in harming him. That alone spoke volumes about just how far he had fallen.
Quemor said in a low voice, "If you stay here any longer, you'll either end up a lost soul, or be consumed by the dark curse festering inside you…"
"I know, boy. I've dealt with more lost souls and curse-corrupted warlocks than I can count. I know exactly how this ends."
The figure rose from the ground. His height was clearly abnormal—nearly three meters tall, like a small giant. It was a stark contrast from the frail shape he'd appeared to be when curled on the ground.
Now that he stood, the black cloth draped over him could no longer hide the grotesque changes to his body. Though still human in form, his bones and muscles had been unnaturally stretched and enlarged, his skin covered in blotchy black markings—not painted on, but emerging from deep within his flesh. The most disturbing part was his head. His forehead had sunken inward, forming a shallow pit in which a swirling sphere of darkness spun—darker even than the pitch-black streets around them.
Quemor felt a twinge of unease and instinctively took a step back. "Are you here to beg aid from the so-called God of Magic—who doesn't even exist?"
"Don't speak so carelessly about things you don't understand," Jaben replied, shuffling forward with heavy, labored steps toward the temple entrance.
Though massive in size, Jaben's bulk resembled a sickness more than strength. He couldn't even walk properly, inching forward slowly, supporting himself against the temple wall to avoid collapsing.
...
"Lord Jaben, is the pain returning? You just drank a dose earlier—you can't take more right now. Please, try to endure it," said a man inside the temple, dressed in a monk's robe. He had been in the middle of prayer but stopped when he saw Jaben struggling through the entrance.
"Brother Quillor, don't concern yourself with me," Jaben said as he reached the altar, leaning against the wall to sit down. "I was just tired of sitting in the dark outside. Thought I'd come in and listen for a while. Go on with what you were doing."
He turned his gaze to the statue atop the altar—a figure carved in black stone, fashioned in the likeness of Lynd. Unlike the ornate idols of the Storm God or the Seven's chosen, Lynd's image bore no embellishments—not even runes on his armor. It was simple, austere.
Quillor was a bloodmage, a renowned spellcaster of Asshai. Years ago, while gathering materials in Qohor, he happened to witness Lynd unleashing magical devastation upon the city—and for reasons even he couldn't fully explain, it left him in awe.
Later, he followed Qohor's mages to Summerhall, where he encountered the organizations Lynd had founded: the Silent Court, the Mage's Association, and others. Yet he chose not to join the Association, nor the Black Hollow, nor even the Silent Court. Instead, he devoted himself to the God of Magic, becoming a missionary monk and traveling to Asshai to spread the faith. His mission was twofold: to guide Asshai's spellcasters toward belief and, ultimately, to lead them to Summerhall—to join Lynd's magical order. To Quillor, Lynd's vision represented the true future for spellcasters.
Because Asshai lay so far from Summerhall, and Quillor had passed the Redemption Sept's highest trial, his loyalty had never been questioned. Before he departed, Lynd even used dragonglass to forge a replica of the Sacrificial Tablet, and instructed Malora to teach Quillor how to craft potions with it. These became the basis for the magical elixirs now widely used across Asshai—his own creation.
Unfortunately, most spellcasters in Asshai were skeptics. They eagerly accepted the potions, but scoffed at the God of Magic. In all his years here, Quillor had not gained a single follower. The only success he'd seen was in persuading a handful of mages who were already planning to leave Asshai to visit Summerhall instead, intrigued by his tales of a sacred land of magic.
But this month, that changed.
The infamous Dark Warlock of Asshai—the so-called King of Asshai—Jaben himself had begun to believe in the God of Magic. Even though he was dying, ravaged by curses and illness, his conversion gave Quillor a profound sense of accomplishment. It was why he spared no effort in using every potion and elixir at his disposal to prolong Jaben's life.