"You're really going to trade them for magical elixirs?" Inside the temple of the God of Magic, Quillor looked at Quemor with a grave expression, confirming the decision once again.
It was no surprise he was being so cautious—he knew that the string of human heads was the finest spellcasting medium for a Shadowbinder currently known in Asshai. With it, a Shadowbinder could conjure a shadow assassin without the need for blood sacrifice. More importantly, the medium could be used repeatedly.
The only drawback was that it worked only for Shadowbinders. Anyone else who even wore it, let alone tried to use it, would suffer adverse effects—such as hearing the heads whisper in an incomprehensible tongue.
"Yes."
Though Quemor had made up his mind before coming here, standing in the temple still made him hesitate. That string of heads was the best magical medium he had ever crafted. But if he wanted to break through the limits of the Shadowbinder path, he had to give it up.
Quillor fell silent for a moment before asking, "I know I probably shouldn't pry, but I want to know—why?"
Quemor stared at him for a long while and finally said, "Faith really has changed you, Quillor. The once hard-edged Bloodmage has gotten soft. But since you asked, I'll tell you. Someone showed me what lies beyond the path of the Shadowbinder. I need the elixirs to complete my transformation."
"Beyond the path of the Shadowbinder?" Quillor was visibly stunned. "You're one of the top Shadowbinder masters in Asshai. Who could possibly know the legacy better than you?"
"I thought the same—until I saw him use..."
Halfway through his sentence, Quemor abruptly stopped, clearly unwilling to say more.
At that moment, Jaben, who had been silent nearby, suddenly spoke. "The one who tried to hire you as a guide to the City of Corpses, right?"
"Yes," Quemor nodded.
Jaben didn't hesitate. "That man is dangerous. And twisted. You'd best not trust him. Or you'll end up paying for it."
Quemor ignored the warning, turning his gaze back to Quillor, waiting for his response.
"Wait here," Quillor said, taking the string of heads and disappearing into a room behind the temple. A few moments later, he returned with an iron box in hand and passed it to Quemor.
Quemor opened the box without delay, eagerly removing and inspecting each bottle of elixir with meticulous care.
These magical elixirs had become widely known in recent years as the most effective arcane potions in Asshai. They didn't just enhance spellcasting—they could be used in sacrifices, and even as spellcasting media themselves. In short, they were versatile and powerful. The only downside was that after using them, a caster's resistance to the black stone's corruptive influence would temporarily drop to the level of an ordinary person. After taking the elixirs, spellcasters were advised to leave Asshai for a time until their resistance returned.
But to Quemor, that wasn't a problem. Once he completed his ritual, he would no longer need the black stone at all. He'd be free to wield his magic unaided. Leaving Asshai would mean liberation.
"The goods are good. We're square."
Quemor confirmed everything was in order and left the temple in a hurry.
Watching his silhouette fade into the gloom, Jaben let out a cold chuckle.
"He won't be coming back. I could smell death on him." He glanced at Quillor. "You saw it too, didn't you?"
Quillor said nothing. He simply returned to the statue of the God of Magic and resumed his silent prayers.
...
In the days that followed, Asshai remained wrapped in its usual, suffocating stillness. Life went on, as it had for centuries. During the dim daylight, Jaben sat outside the temple, basking in the sun that was neither bright nor warm.
To a dark sorcerer of Jaben's level, sunlight was no comfort. It clashed violently with his magic—touching his skin like fire. Yet for him now, perhaps that pain had become something he welcomed.
But today, something was different.
Six well-known Shadowbinders appeared outside the temple—rarely seen gathered together in one place, much less at a place of worship. Naturally, they weren't there out of faith.
They had come for one thing: the string of human heads that Quemor had traded away.
A Shadowbinder who looked no different from an ordinary man stood at the temple entrance and called out loudly, "Master Quillor, you're a Bloodmage—those enchanted heads are useless to you. I'm willing to pay a high price for them."
"High price? What could you possibly afford?" sneered another Shadowbinder, seated in a massive palanquin carried by over a dozen slaves. "If I recall, you're still deep in debt." Raising his voice, he added, "Master Quillor, I'm willing to trade you a gemstone mine I currently control."
A third Shadowbinder, short as a dwarf and completely draped in black robes, gave a cold glance at the others and said, "To people like us, what use are gemstones or gold? Magic is everything. Quillor, I offer you a bloodstone in exchange."
As soon as the dwarf finished speaking, the others around him stared in shock—not just because of the rarity of a bloodstone, but because this particular bloodstone had once belonged to a master Bloodmage. That master had been mysteriously assassinated several years ago in his own dwelling. All his belongings had vanished, including the bloodstone—regarded by many as a sacred relic among Bloodmages.
In Asshai, murder isn't considered a serious matter. Some even take pride in it. Silently killing a powerful mage with magic is enough to secure an ordinary spellcaster a position in the city's inner quarters.
What had puzzled many was that no one had ever claimed responsibility for the Bloodmage's death—an unusual silence in a city where bragging about such kills is common. Some had investigated, but no one ever uncovered the truth.
Now that this dwarf Shadowbinder was presenting the bloodstone, it clearly implied he was the one who'd killed the Bloodmage. Yet people couldn't help but wonder—why had he kept it secret all these years instead of seizing the opportunity for fame?
Even now, he still hadn't completed a pilgrimage through the Shadow Lands and was living in the outer districts. Had he claimed the kill back then, he could've secured a residence in the heart of the city and risen among the most elite of spellcasters.
At that moment, Quillor stepped out of the building. His eyes scanned the six Shadowbinders, finally settling on the dwarf. "Apologies," he said. "That string of heads will be sent to Summerhall on the continent of Westeros as a gift for my lord."
One of the Shadowbinders, who had remained silent until now, finally couldn't hold back and shouted, "Quillor, are you mad? That man is just a slightly stronger spellcaster—you actually revere him like some god?!"
Quillor frowned and turned to look at the man. The Shadowbinder's face instantly went pale as a pitch-black shadow surged from his body, wrapping tightly around him as he tried to melt into the darkness and flee.
But he clearly couldn't escape Quillor's magic. With a scream, he was torn from his shadow. Before he could even beg for mercy, all the blood in his body surged out at once. His form shriveled into a dry husk and collapsed to the ground.
The remaining five Shadowbinders all went rigid, their expressions shifting instantly. Only now did they remember: years ago, Quillor had made his name in Asshai through bloodshed. Starting in the outer districts, he cut down powerful mages one by one until he carved out a place for himself in the city's center.
Every caster in Asshai knew that while Quillor might not be the most powerful Bloodmage, he was certainly the most dangerous to provoke.
In recent years, after converting his home into the temple of the God of Magic, he had taken no lives. Many had assumed he'd grown weak. But now it was clear—it had all been an illusion. Not only was Quillor not weakened, he was stronger than ever. He didn't even need a casting medium—just a single glance was enough to seize control of a powerful Shadowbinder's blood and end his life.
Even Jaben, no stranger to the arcane, was visibly shaken by the display of such raw Bloodmagic.
Seeing this, none of the Shadowbinders dared to linger. Even the dwarf, who had once slain a master Bloodmage, said nothing and hurried away in silence.
As Quemor was preparing to return to the temple, Jaben suddenly asked, "Just now—you didn't use only Bloodmagic. There was something else in the mix. Did you learn it from Summerhall?"
"Yes," Quemor nodded without hesitation. "If you're interested, I can recommend you to study at the Silent Court in Summerhall."
Jaben's eyes flickered with interest, but in the end he shook his head. "No... I'm barely hanging on as it is. It's only Asshai's power keeping me alive. If I left, I might not even make it past the shores, let alone study anything new."
Quemor didn't press further. He turned to head back toward the temple.
At that moment, a bolt of lightning suddenly tore through the thick clouds above Asshai. Its flash was so bright it outshone the dim sun, casting a stark light across the city. Moments later, thunder rolled across the sky, shaking the entire city awake.
"Lightning? Why is there lightning?" Jaben pushed himself off the ground, bracing against the wall. He pulled back the hood covering his strange, deformed head and looked up at the sky, his face full of disbelief.
No wonder he was shocked—Asshai's skies had been shrouded in dark clouds for thousands of years, yet not once had it rained or thundered. Even when violent storms battered the seas outside Asshai, the sky over the city remained eerily calm, as though the massive black stone beneath it had locked nature's laws in place.
Quemor's face was equally stunned, but his surprise quickly shifted to excitement—then awe. A strange, almost reverent smile crept across his face.
Jaben noticed. He turned to Quemor, confused. "You know something... don't you?"
As he spoke, another flash of lightning ripped through the clouds, then another—and another—until streaks of light crisscrossed the heavens, followed by deep peals of thunder that made all of Asshai tremble. Even the most oblivious soul could sense something had changed.
"In addition to being the God of Magic, my lord bears other divine titles," Quemor said, staring up at the sky. "One of those names is the Storm God—master of storms, clouds, and lightning. Lord Jaben... my lord has arrived!"
"Lynd Tarran... he's here?" Jaben froze at the name. His face lit with anticipation. He pulled away from the wall and, despite his trembling body, slowly made his way to the square in front of the Eternal Flame's brazier, lifting his gaze skyward.
Even in remote, forgotten Asshai, the name Lynd Tarran rang like thunder. All knew he was the one who had mastered the true nature of magic—wielding power so vast, so divine, that many called him the God of Magic.
Jaben had longed to meet Lynd Tarran his entire life, but Summerhall was simply too far, and he was too weak to make the journey. He had resigned himself to dying without ever seeing the man. But now... perhaps fate had changed.
As lightning continued to split the clouds, the dense shroud that had cloaked Asshai for millennia began to tear open. Shafts of sunlight broke through, streaming down toward the black stone streets—only to be absorbed at once by the stone, vanishing into darkness.
From ships out at sea, observers saw something stranger still: a land of darkness glowing faintly against beams of sunlight—like shadow and flame locked in battle, light and darkness warring above the world.
Then, from one of the gashes in the clouds, a massive shadow descended.
Under the fractured sunlight, the shadow covered half of Asshai. Everyone beneath it—slave or sorcerer—felt an overwhelming pressure bearing down on them. The sheer weight of it crushed the air from their lungs.
Even as the object casting the shadow plummeted rapidly and the shadow itself shrank, the oppressive force remained.
And then it broke through the clouds—and the city saw it clearly.
A dragon. But not just any dragon—one like no other. It had four limbs, two pairs of wings, and a body that shimmered like it had been carved from a gemstone. Alien, radiant, terrifying.
Asshai had countless records and ancient texts about dragons, but none described anything like this.
Those who kept an ear to the rumors of the outside world suddenly made the connection. Eyes widened. Thoughts aligned. One by one, they turned to look toward the Temple of the God of Magic.
The dragon swooped lower, so close that some believed if they climbed to the rooftops, they might touch its scales.
It glided over the city and, as expected, flew straight toward the Temple of the God of Magic—finally landing in the square before the temple gates.