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Chapter 8: primus gradus ardeat
🕑 Added 2024-07-18 02:44:22 +0000 UTCThe subterranean forge roared with life, a symphony of fire and metal echoing through the cavernous halls.
I stood in the middle of it with Greyworm, some of his Unsullied, and a smith called Bhakaz. The air was thick with the scent of molten steel and magical auras, intertwining in a dance of creation.
Honestly, this place was one where it would be impossible for any normal person to survive for long.
I had created it that way on purpose. If someone wanted to steal the weapons I created, they would first have to find a way to dig at least ten kilometers deep into the earth without being caught by me or anyone else noticing something strange was happening.
If they succeeded in doing so, they would then have to survive the heat in my forge, which I knew could melt skin, flesh, and bones. If that didn't work, the magic would act as a second deterrent by attacking them at the molecular level.
Was this overkill? Maybe, but better a dead thief than someone succeeding in stealing something I created to use in a way I hadn’t intended. Plus, the warlocks made me understand that I could never take too many precautions.
It was only the modified, reduced versions of infinity I had given the people surrounding me that kept them alive.
Bhakaz was the smith I had received after requesting one from the representative they had chosen.
In his words, Bhakaz was clever, loyal, and hard-working. The man himself looked like a mountain cursed to be human, with a height that would make the average NBA star look like a child, arms and legs that seemed like tree trunks, a bushy beard that weirdly made him look cooler instead of weird, bad, scary, or creepy, a face stuck in a frown, and pale blue eyes.
“Do you think it would be enough?” I asked the man as we looked at the compound I had made with my magic to create a magic blade for Greyworm.
I had watched enough YouTube videos in my youth to know that using materials other than high-carbon or Damascus steel wasn’t the best idea when you wanted to make a sword as sharp and durable as possible, but I had magic. It had to count for something.
For that, I had modified a piece of steel available from my smiths with my magic, pumping in enough power to rival what I had used against the Undying Ones, with three commands: strong, flexible, and easy to manipulate. The result was a blue stone-like material.
I knew that the Unsullied favored the spear, but Greyworm had also told me he was as good with a sword as with a spear, and let's be honest, swords were the coolest. They were classics for a reason. What kind of badass general didn't have a sword? A lame one!
I could take an example existing in the universe I was reincarnated in. Let's take Robert Baratheon with his hammer. Sure, he was cool with it, was called the Demon of the Trident, and won against Rhaegar because of it, but in the end, he was also the guy who didn’t marry the girl he loved, who was cuckolded by his wife, and who had most of his bastards killed by said wife, the guy whose best friend/brother and adoptive father were killed in ignominious ways because they only wanted to help him.
He was the guy who died because of a boar. Sure, he was drunk, but that wasn’t an excuse. How can you be called the Demon of the Trident and be killed by a pig? It was a clear sign that hammers sucked because a sword wouldn’t have missed the boar.
Was I fair? No, I wasn’t. Did I care about that right now? Hell no. All of that to say that swords are cool and magical swords even more.
As our first experiment, our first sword, we sought to craft a weapon unlike any other: an enchanted sword that would…cut more things than normal swords.
It sounded underwhelming, but we had to begin somewhere, and I'm sure it would be more impressive when in battle, with one slash, Greyworm would cut a dude in two from afar due to how sharp the blade is. First, that, and then we’ll think about improving it to go to the second phase, the Excalibur-like sword beams.
“We will see,” he gruffed before grabbing the blue-looking stone.
If it was a normal sword he was making, I guess that he would have begun with the core of the weapon, maybe a billet of Damascus steel. If I remember correctly, the technique originated at least in my ancient world from Asia and involved the repeated folding and hammering of layers of steel to create a blade that was not only incredibly strong but also beautiful, with a distinctive wavy pattern. The process, however, was arduous, but I guess you could expect nothing less when you wanted the best.
I watched as he placed the billet into the forge, the flames licking hungrily at the metal I had changed.
I focused, pouring more magic into the fire. The flames shifted from their usual orange to a brilliant blue, the heat intensifying beyond mortal means. The guy didn't look fazed at all.
Normally, doing this would have been a really bad idea that would have resulted in him being hurt and the sword-making process disturbed if not ruined, but the infinity I placed on his skin ensured he could feel no discomfort or pain. The guy probably felt cold instead.
After a while, Bhakaz retrieved the metal with tongs, laying it on the anvil even though he could have done so with his hands, but I guess habits truly held. Each strike of his hammer was precise, creating a sound akin to the notes of a piano being pressed. Each strike created and added to a melody I felt I could lose myself in. Blue sparks flew with every impact, and the metal began to take on an ethereal glow.
“Yes,” the smith spoke. “It will do. Time to create the blade shape.”
Bhakaz heated the metal once more, then began to hammer it out, stretching and thinning it into the form of a sword. The process was slow and laborious. I could see that not only strength was required but also precision. He used a variety of tools – hammers, tongs, and chisels – each one playing a vital role in shaping the metal, each one I had enchanted like the metal to do more than they originally could.
“Water,” he spoke.
“You got it,” I told him. At his size, a giant bucket, also of enchanted water, appeared. He just nodded to me before focusing back on the sword.
To ensure the blade's perfect balance, Bhakaz periodically quenched it in the bucket of enchanted water, checking its alignment and straightness. He would then ask me to reheat and continue hammering, each step bringing the sword closer to its final form. This cycle of heating, hammering, and quenching was repeated numerous times, the blade gradually taking shape under the smith's expert hands.
“You told me before you wanted to put drawings onto it. Now is the time,” the smith told me.
Technically, they weren’t drawings. They were runes, Norse runes. They probably meant nothing in themselves in this world, but the fact that I would inscribe them with my magic and intention should be all that was needed to give them meaning.
It would be as if I were casting a spell with a wand, but the runes were the movements of said wand.
I didn't remember much about Norse runes, to be frank. I just remembered three bind runes, probably because of the interest I had in the Fate franchise more than anything else.
I traced the first rune with the tip of my finger. First, a rhombus if I wasn’t wrong, except that the ends continued, and then a line that passed perfectly through the middle of it. It was courage, I think.
The second rune was much simpler. Three lines. Two crossing from each side into the middle of a vertical one. The bind rune of strength.
I began to trace the last rune, the health one. A slightly turned parallelogram, a line passing through two points in it before coming down a little on the side.
I poured magic into them to make sure they would stay and that they would work in the sword that was to be created.
“I have finished,” I told the blacksmith after retreating.
“Good. Can you heat up the flames as hot as you can without destroying the blade?”
As hot as I could without destroying the blade? I knew there was nothing to fear. The sword wouldn’t melt or break.
It meant that I could go wild.
I grabbed my magic, pumping it into my veins, between my palms with wild abandon. Orange flames bloomed between my palms, looking like a mundane fire, yet I knew it was an abomination that was probably as hot as the sun.
“Fuga,” I whispered before the divine flames leapt almost alive, like a pack of angry wolves, toward the blade, covering it.
Now, it was time to quench it one last time, but this time, it wouldn’t be through the bucket of magical water.
Bhakaz had been chosen for a reason. Yes, he was clever, hard-working, and loyal like thousands of other blacksmiths in Astapor.
I was the one they saw as a god. I could ask one of them to jump, and they wouldn’t ask me why but how high.
The true reason why Bhakaz had been chosen was that he had been a personal investment of one of the Good Masters.
The smith had been paid tutors in the past for two lessons, magical ones, to make him learn how to reforge Valyrian steel and make blades even if nowhere close to them but only second to them.
When I had spoken of creating a magical blade for the general of my army, he had asked some of the Unsullied to take a bucket containing some foul dark liquid with them.
Instead of using water, he used that liquid, and the blade hissed and spat as it was plunged into it.
I wondered what that dark liquid truly was. I would have to ask the guy later.
Normally, I would have guessed blood, the blood of some creature native to this world but I knew that quenching a sword in blood wasn’t a good idea. Blood has a very slow cooling curve, which made it incapable of hardening even the simplest steels. Blood was also acidic, salty, and contained iron, which made it prone to rusting a sword.
Maybe I was wrong, though. I was relying on memories of things I had watched a long time ago, while the guy before me had literally dedicated his life to smithing. More than that, this was Planetos. Dragons shouldn’t exist or be able to fly due to gravity, but they did. The dead shouldn’t be able to be resurrected, but they were here. I was a literal reincarnator capable of burning pyramids with my thoughts. Maybe I shouldn’t focus too much on what was realistic or not.
Bhakaz lifted the sword from the quenching trough, inspecting his work. The blue pattern was now intertwined with what seemed to be veins, and the runes I had carved glowed faintly. Honestly, the blade screamed magic.
The final touch was a scabbard. I let the smith craft it the way he saw fit. It didn't take long before he slid the sword into its sheath. The little smile on his face was all I needed to know that he was satisfied with the experience.
The smith nodded at me before giving me the sword. He did so almost as if he was cradling a newborn.
“This blade, your grace, won’t fail against Valyrian ones. No, it will surpass them,” he spoke, his pale eyes bright as if there were a fire in them.
“Yes, she won’t fail,” I told him. I was sure that Valyrian weapons were probably made with more steps, more ingredients, and probably with sorcery fueled by enough blood and sacrifice to depopulate a city, but this weapon was made by me, for my general.
I didn't care that it shouldn’t be stronger because it will be stronger. There was no chance I was going to fail against inbred sister-and-brother fuckers.
“Stand tall and be proud. You helped in making something the world will sing legends about.”
After all, the weapon was more than a mere tool; it was a masterpiece of magical and smithing prowess, a testament to the possible synergy of smithing and magic, and no one could tell me otherwise. I removed the sword from its sheath to hold it aloft, the forge's light reflecting off its gleaming surface.
The blade was beautiful. Up close, I had to admit that it reminded me of the Master Sword from Zelda, at least if it had been forged in Raya Lucaria. Yet a little voice in the back of my mind whispered that the sword wasn’t complete, that I could add a little bit more of something.
This was to be the sword of the general of my army; the sword of the person who would be on the front lines to propagate and defend the ideas I believed in. Even if the weapon could be improved later, not adding something more right now felt wrong.
The question was what to add? What spell or enchantment could I try to weave directly into the weapon?
I looked into the eyes of Grey Worm. I could read his mind, and in it, I only saw devotion and loyalty, a loyalty that could only be deemed inhuman. This man would choose to die for me without hesitation. This man had faith in me.
Wasn’t it only right for me to reward him for it? I began to weave my magic, my essence, into the blade.
Pyat Pree had taught me, knowingly or not, some of the intricacies behind soul manipulation.
I used his teachings and connected the blade to myself the same way I was connected with the barrier over Astapor.
Wherever this blade would go, I would know where it was. Whatever this blade experienced, I would know it.
More than that, the same way I could use my magic through the invisible barrier around Astapor, it was possible for me to channel magic into it.
As long as Grey Worm needed it, as long as Grey Worm believed in me, the blade would hold true for him.
Finally, I turned toward the Unsullied and presented him with the blade with both hands.
“She is yours,” I told him. “She won’t fail you.”
The man’s gaze locked with mine for a few seconds as if searching for something before he nodded with a smile. He turned his attention toward the sword.
The moment he took the blade, he went stiff before relaxing. At the same time, the runes I had inscribed began to shine a soft blue, a blue shimmer escaping softly from it.
I watched him lightly swing the sword, slashing at the air as if testing its weight. I turned to the sound of tortured steel, to the sight of the anvil cut in two.
I guess it was a sign that it was a success. The guy had just been playing and had cut a heavy and dense object made of magically reinforced steel.
‘Welcome back, Dark Slayer,’ I thought to myself while smiling. This was just the beginning. I couldn’t wait to see what it would do when the Unsullied really tried.
So, a magical badass sword was a check.
Strengthening potions and spells to make them bigger and stronger were in the works.
The armors were yet to be begun, but looking at how shiny the eyes of the blacksmith were, something told me he would be more than enthusiastic to help me. Soon, I'll have my space marines- I meant- people who could stand at my side against the entire world.
There was only one remaining thing.
“How are you going to name the sword?” I asked Grey Worm. After all, what kind of legendary sword didn’t have a name?
“Irudy hen Kaerīnio,” the Unsullied whispered with a smile as he met my gaze once more. He was smiling completely, not in a half or polite way. It was a true smile.
I didn’t know at that moment if I wanted to laugh or cry more. The Gift of the Savior, I mentally translated.
This was but another proof that I couldn’t fail, that I needed to continue moving forward until every slave in this godforsaken world could smile as brightly as him now.
*scene*
I was finally alone, for once without the presence of Nileyah, Greyworm and his Unsullied, and all the other members of my household.
I had asked them for this, and while it had been difficult to make them understand, they finally caved after I told them it was just for experimenting with my magic. To do so, I needed to be alone, which technically wasn’t a lie.
The Undying Ones may have attacked me, my people, my city. They may have tried to weaken me, but in truth, the only thing they succeeded in doing was making me stronger.
I had looked at their sorcery and had instinctively learned it, my brain and soul breaking down to understand it, maybe even more than its wielders, without me commanding them to do so.
The soul-crafted abominations they had made, the way they had tied suffering, sacrifice, and blood to a thing, had helped me with Greyworm's sword.
The way Pyat Pree had been moving, fighting, swapping through bodies and minds to bring me low, the way he tried to resist my magic—I had seen it.
I had learned it, and it made me realize something. This was something I already knew, in the sense that what he did was a derivative of magic, though not mundane, but not that impressive when you watched the show or read the books unless you were a three-eyed crow.
Pyat Pree had been skinchanging through multiple bodies since the beginning of his attack, just like a warg.
Even then, something told me that while they were similar, that maybe warging and whatever the warlock had done had a possible common origin, they were still different.
A little bit like how blackberries and blueberries may look similar, may share some benefits, but are still different. The analogy wasn’t perfect, but I liked to think the idea stood.
More than that, another reason I was sure they were similar, that they were magics derived from each other or came from a common origin, was the realm I had found myself in when I invaded Pyat Pree’s mind.
The giant heart with blue veins, the tree-like tendrils feeding on what was clearly magic, the color of the shade of the evening when I made it bleed.
The followers of the Old Gods had the weirwoods in Westeros, mostly in the northern regions.
The weirwoods with their five-pointed leaves, their blood-red sap reminiscent of blood, their bone-white wood. The weirwoods with faces carved into their trunks.
Didn't the trees in that strange realm have sap of the same consistency as blood? Weren’t souls trapped in those trees the same way faces were carved in weirwoods?
If I remembered well, wasn’t it said in the books that in the past, in the north, the entrails of the condemned were sometimes placed in the branches of weirwoods?
Wasn’t it through them that greenseers like Bloodraven, like Bran, could see through space and time?
Wasn’t it the same thing that Pyat and his masters did? Wasn’t it through the help of that realm filled with trees so reminiscent of weirwoods that he had tried to flee, that they had looked at me and that I looked back?
Sure, there were differences. I'm sure there was some shade of the evening trickery I hadn’t figured out yet.
The warlocks had been able to escape me. It was something I was sure of, even if I had no proof. Cockroaches like them don't live long without being cautious and sneaky.
In canon, they would have succeeded in tricking Daenerys if it hadn’t been for Drogon.
Unfortunately for them, I was the kind of person to hold a grudge, and I wasn’t stupid enough to think that sooner or later, they wouldn’t crawl out from the hole they had hidden in to try something.
They had been able to attack. It meant that it was only right that I found a way to do the same, that it was only right for me to make my silver bullet.
This was one of the reasons why I was alone, outside of Astapor, at the spot where I had fought against Pyat, hidden through a minor charm that bent light to make it impossible for normal eyes to see.
I didn't think my household would be happy if they knew what I was preparing to do.
Okay, it was time to do it. I pushed some of my magic toward one of my fingers, specifically one of my nails.
The nail looked as if it didn’t change, but I knew that even steel could be cut if it touched it.
This is why slashing it through my wrist made me bleed, the nerves not even aware yet because of how fast it was before the pain made itself known, and I wasn’t able to keep a hiss of pain from escaping my lips.
I seriously thought it would hurt less. I guess new body, new pain tolerance and everything. I took hold of my body, stopping its instinctual response of healing me.
Blood and fire, blood and sacrifice. Canon spoke of the value of blood. There was value in the blood of kings. There was value in the blood of the divine.
I wasn’t megalomaniacal enough to see myself as a god. I barely saw myself as a king, but my people did.
At least a hundred thousand people believed so, and there was power in belief. The blood began to slowly fall, dripping on the ground.
This was really uncomfortable. All of those people thinking self-mutilation was easy. Flash news: it wasn’t because it still hurt.
The only reason I hadn't used my magic to dull my sense of pain was because the kind of magic I was using needed sacrifice. What kind of sacrifice would it be if it were easy?
I was already cheating, skipping many steps through my magic. This step was one I couldn’t skip, at least for now.
Already, my eyes were analyzing the ritual, the weave of magic, breaking it down even more to make it less costly and more efficient.
I just needed to activate the spell. I could do it silently, but why, when I could do it with style?
“Arise,” I whispered, and the magic went mad.
This place held a form of symbolism. It could be said to be the place where a child, where light battled against darkness, where evil was defeated by good.
Of course, it wasn’t that simple, that black and white, but it was enough.
My barrier was faulty, imperfect. It was something I had to recognize. The warlocks showed me this.
It was only fair that I used them to improve it, to make sure what happened would never happen again. More than that, what they did with those souls, the souls of the enslaved people they had butchered, there needed to be retribution.
“Nemesis,” I continued.
It began to grow from where my blood had touched the ground, golden in color, first nothing but a sapling, but slowly and surely, absorbing, feeding on my blood, on my magic, on the suffering that took place here, on my need and desire to protect the people of Astapor and make the Good Masters pay, until it grew past me, past the pyramids of Astapor, past the giant trees I had created, deep into the clouds.
I knew that even without seeing it, the same thing was happening below me, the roots digging deep, growing and taking root all around Astapor.
I felt a smile split my face as the ritual continued. Nemesis was the name of the Greek Daemon of retribution.
I had chosen this name because the spell, the ritual I was creating, was both a curse and a blessing.
The land held the trace of the foul sorcery of the Undying Ones. It also held the trace of the suffering of the souls they used for their monsters, which made it easy to curse them in return.
“Oh vengeful Nemesis, protector of my domain, oh vengeful Nemesis, giver of sight, oh vengeful Nemesis, curse my enemies forevermore.”
I could feel the magic expanding, traveling. It wouldn’t matter how far the Undying Ones were. They wouldn’t escape me.
The curse side of the ritual was multifaceted. Firstly, it targeted everything with the same sorcery Pyat had used with the simple concept of agony, the same agony the souls in the abomination had felt.
Each time an Undying One, a warlock of Qarth, would use their sorcery, the experience would be an agonizing one, mortal if it was too much for their body to bear. After all, there was a limit to what the body could endure until it fell into shock.
Secondly, each time the mind of a warlock left their body, it would be forcefully attracted by Nemesis to be used as fuel.
The moment a warlock of the House of the Undying touched by my magic tried the same trick that Pyat did, it would be over for them.
Let’s see if the Undying Ones were truly undying. Let's see how long they will struggle against me.
When it came to the blessed side of things, Nemesis did two simple things.
The first was to empower the people of Astapor. The dream that I had, I knew it was one that could only result in me fighting against the world.
I could take care of myself thanks to my magic, through my spells, but could the same be said for the people of Astapor themselves, except the Unsullied?
Most of the Unsullied would be, for example, following me against the Dothraki. What if, while I wasn’t there, Astapor was attacked? What if some kind of magic I didn't yet know about stopped me long enough for my people to be slaughtered?
The question wasn’t that I possibly couldn’t be everywhere but what if I should be everywhere.
The question wasn't whether I could possibly be everywhere, but rather, should I be everywhere?
Of course, these were hypotheticals, but better prepared than sorry. After all, I hadn’t expected the House of the Undying to attack me.
Logistics and preparations were underway so that, in a week's time, my army and I would be ready to depart.
The idea that something could go wrong in my absence frightened me.
Would I return to find dead children? Would I return to butchered freed slaves, or worse?
Nemesis was to ensure that such horrors would never occur. I knew that morally, changing others without their consent was wrong, but surely it could be excused when it was for their own good—not in a Dumbledore way. Moreover, I was confident that if I had asked them, they would have readily accepted.
The second blessing that Nemesis bestowed was upon myself. Wargs could control the creatures they were bonded to and see through their eyes. Greenseers could do the same, but in a way that average wargs could never replicate. After all, wasn’t it said that just as one warg was born among a thousand humans, one greenseer was born among a thousand wargs?
In any case, what Nemesis did was heighten my awareness. The fight against Pyat showed me that there were already gaps in it.
Nemesis made those gaps non-existent. After all, how could they persist when I became Astapor? How could they persist when I was the wind that flowed, the water that streamed, the clouds floating, the earth upon which all living things stood?
How could they persist when, connected to Nemesis, I became omniscient?
I turned to look at you, you who thought I couldn’t see all of you, who thought I would never see you.
“Tell me, little bloodmage, were you never taught not to look without permission? Were you never taught that pride comes before a fall?” I spoke before grabbing their magic and pulling.
*scene*
A rare and terrible thing was happening. All the Khals of the Dothraki were gathered in Vaes Dothrak, and for the first time, they were not antagonizing one another.
No, they, along with the Dosh Khaleen, were listening to a tale of destruction, a tale of slaughter, the tale of a demon in a child’s skin, a demon that killed thousands with bare hands, a demon who vowed to come after them all.
Perhaps they would have been skeptical, dismissed it as lies or the ravings of a deluded mind, if the one speaking with a voice filled with horror wasn't Xharo, one of Khal Dharo’s bloodriders, one of the commanders of the second greatest and largest Khalasar among their people.
Xharo was no coward. Xharo was no liar. More than that, Xharo was loyal. How could they not believe him? How could they not feel fear?
“The demon child,” a younger Khal spoke. “It is said that all the Unsullied of the Good Masters became his, that they followed him in the uprising of Astapor.”
All good Dothraki knew of the Unsullied. They may not ride horses as was proper, but they were incredible soldiers, worthy of respect.
They all knew the story of the three thousand of Qohor, how three thousand Unsullied held back a Dothraki Khalasar over fifty thousand strong. Only six hundred Unsullied survived, but in return, they killed twelve thousand Dothraki.
What would happen now if an army of Unsullied came to attack them, backed by a demon?
They all knew what could happen: the end of their culture, the end of their way of life, the end of their people.
They needed to act, they needed to fight if they didn't want their culture to die. Either they would triumph, or they would end, and even with all of them united, they didn't feel as if the odds were in their favor.
Had it been a simple army or even just an army of Unsullied, they would have welcomed the challenge because they were Dothraki.
They were the greatest warriors, but what could the blade of a warrior do against a demon?
“I could never back down from a battle against another man, but what's coming is no man. I won’t fight with you!”
They turned toward the Khal who had spoken. Khal Motho was an old Khal, the oldest among them here, which made him respected.
Only strength allowed you to live long among the Dothraki, especially when you were a Khal.
“I won’t sacrifice my Khalasar, my Khalakka, for what is surely damnation!”
“I never took you for a coward, Motho,” a younger Khal's voice rumbled.
“Were we not in Vaes Dothrak, I would have challenged you and painted the ground with your blood and entrails, Zekko.”
“Then, what do you wish us to do, Motho?” Khal Ogo asked the oldest Khal.
Khal Ogo and Khal Motho had been bitter foes and greatest allies. They had been Khals even before some of the other Khals in the room, like Khal Drogo, were in their mothers' wombs.
“The logical thing to do, Ogo. I would ask you, if you still had some of your wits, to leave. The demon may be powerful, may have an army, but that doesn’t mean we have to make it easy for him to butcher us.”
“There is no escaping him,” Xharo spoke softly. “I have seen him move impossible distances in the blink of an eye. The only thing leaving would do is turn it into a hunt for him, one where we are the prey.”
The vigor in the old Khal seemed to drain at the words of the other Dothraki. He sat back, looking as if his old age had finally caught up with him.
“There must be something to do,” the Khal whispered.
The answer came from an unexpected source. “There is something that can be done, something so that we could win against the demon.”
All the Khals turned toward where the voice had come from, from one of the Dosh Khaleen, from the eldest among them.
“What would a crone know that could he—”
The gaze of Khal Drogo was all that was needed to shut Khal Zekko up.
“Let her speak.”
It wasn’t a suggestion, it was an order, and none of them went against it. How could they when Khal Drogo was the greatest among all of them?
The great stallion hidden under the skin of the crone smiled. He ignored the despair of the mortal he was inhabiting.
The Dothraki were his. He was their master, their god. He was the reason they existed. He was free to use them in any way necessary to accomplish his bidding.
The divine child may come, but he won’t be the one to prevail. It would be him, and after he finished devouring him, he would crush his old enemy who should have ended him when he could.
Stuck in her own body, unable to stop the end her people were walking toward, the eldest of the Dosh Khaleen stopped believing. Stuck in her own body, unable to stop the end her people were walking toward, the eldest of the Dosh Khaleen, the woman ice known as Nayah felt for the first time something other than love and devotion for her god, for her master, and it was hatred.
Comments
allen 1996
Glad that you liked
Rachel N
Love. This. Chapter!!!
