The cloak was nearly finished.
Vaelros hunched over the stone table in his workshop, fingers stained with ink and ash, muttering to himself as he traced the final sigil into the lining. The fabric shimmered faintly, pulsing with the breath of old magic. Not fire, not light something subtler. A pressure in the air. A hush before the storm.
"Too tight," he whispered, adjusting the curve of a rune near the collar. "You're not a cage. You're a skin."
He leaned back, wiping sweat from his brow with a soot-smeared sleeve. The cloak was black, but not dull. It caught the lamplight like oil on water, the runes stitched in thread soaked with powdered obsidian and salt. It would resist flame, or so the book claimed. Not forever. But long enough.
He exhaled. "Let's hope you're worth the blood I didn't spill."
The book lay open beside him, its pages brittle with age, the Valyrian glyphs curling like smoke. He'd spent the week deciphering its script, modifying the spells to suit him. The book had been a gift. Or a warning. He wasn't sure yet.
He rolled the cloak carefully, wrapped it in sailcloth, and left the workshop behind.
Tomas Vell's house leaned like a drunk against the sea wall, its shutters rattling in the salt wind. Vaelros found him on the balcony, pipe in hand, staring out at the dark horizon.
"You look like you haven't slept in a week," Tomas said without turning.
"I haven't," Vaelros replied, lighting a cigarette with a flick of his fingers. "You still have that book?"
Tomas grunted. "Which one? The one about the Lyseni courtesans who poisoned their clients with perfume, or the one about the Valyrian house that bred dragons like hounds?"
"The second," Vaelros said. "The one with the seal. The ouroboros with wings."
Tomas glanced at him. "You said you didn't want to touch that kind of history."
"I changed my mind."
"That's not like you."
Vaelros took a long drag, exhaled smoke through his nose. "I'm not looking for power. I'm looking for context."
Tomas studied him for a moment, then nodded. "Come inside."
The interior smelled of salt, pipe smoke, and old parchment. Tomas rummaged through a chest, muttering to himself, until he pulled out a bundle wrapped in faded red silk.
"House Vherion," he said, handing it over. "They weren't dragonlords, not exactly. Not riders. They were... scholars. Alchemists. Obsessed with the blood of dragons. Thought they could distill it. Refine it. Make it into something purer."
Vaelros unwrapped the book slowly. The leather was cracked, the pages lined with diagrams about learning about dragons about how they can be a magical Focus and if he had a dragon it would make you more boundless with the magic he was thinking a lot about this the book was faded away but there was some important details that he could make out from this
"They were the ones who built the Crucible of Ash, weren't they?" he asked.
Tomas nodded. "A forge that burned without flame. Said they could hatch eggs in it. Or melt steel with a whisper."
Vaelros ran his fingers over a page. "Why did they disappear?"
"Too clever," Tomas said. "Too curious. They tried to bind a dragon's soul to a man once. Didn't end well."
Vaelros closed the book. "I'm not them."
"No," Tomas said. "But you're circling the same fire."
They sat in silence for a while, smoke curling between them. Below, the sea whispered against the stones.
"I finished the cloak," Vaelros said. "It worked. At least in the workshop."
"You planning to test it?"
"Not yet. But I think something's coming. I can feel it."
Tomas tapped out his pipe. "Then you'd best be ready."
Vaelros nodded, eyes on the stars. "That's the plan."