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Stepstones.
Several merchant ships that had sailed all the way from Essos glided slowly into the harbor of Bloodstone Island.
They carried not only master craftsmen of every trade, but also a huge crowd of mercenaries who had heard the tales and come seeking glory. Every one of them had listened, spellbound, to the stories of Logar and Nettles riding their dragons into Lys, burning the city, and slaying the Archon. Their hearts burned with admiration; all they wanted was to serve under this legendary strongman and earn their daily bread.
In the songs and whispers spreading across the Narrow Sea, Logar had gained yet another fearsome title.
From the earliest "Throat-Cutter," to the world-shaking "Sea Burner"… now he had become the City Swallower!
One man and one dragon had shaken an entire city-state of more than a hundred thousand souls. That feat more than deserved the name.
Even Logar himself knew the truth wasn't quite so exaggerated, but that didn't stop the sellswords and sailors of Essos from treating him like a living legend.
These days the name "City Swallower Logar" traveled farther and farther. Even distant Volantis, and the mysterious shores of Asshai, had people speaking of him.
Logar had long ago ordered Chaman to recruit craftsmen and mercenaries across Essos in large numbers.
Now that these men were arriving of their own free will, Chaman naturally refused to waste the opportunity. He immediately arranged passage and sent wave after wave of newcomers to the Stepstones.
The moment the cargo ships docked, the passengers poured onto the pier, eager to see the fabled Bloodstone Island with their own eyes.
After months of relentless construction, the island was no longer the broken, desolate wasteland it had once been.
Where dragonfire had once scorched ruins, new villages and towns now rose proudly.
At the center stood a spacious lord's hall built of rammed earth mixed with crushed stone, topped with open wooden beams—an unadorned but sturdy structure where Logar gathered his captains and handled daily affairs.
Around the hall lay an orderly trade district. Merchants plying the Narrow Sea docked here to barter; the shouts of haggling and the clatter of goods filled the air, giving the place a lively, thriving atmosphere.
Beside the trade district were the barracks and living quarters of the World Devourers.
The roads here were straight and clean, the flow of people orderly. The prostitutes and idle peddlers who once infested the area had long been swept away.
From the very beginning Logar had issued a ironclad order: no vice or debauchery near the barracks.
He understood better than anyone that an army allowed to wallow in pleasure would soon become soft and useless.
The most striking sight on all of Bloodstone was the half-finished castle crowning the heights.
Thick walls of the island's signature dark-red rock rose like a fortress, arrow towers staggered in neat rows, massive raw-timber beams supporting the interior. It wasn't elegant or lavish, yet it loomed like a sleeping sea monster perched on the high ground—ferocious, indestructible, and deeply reassuring.
One glance was enough to make a man feel both safe and awed.
"Everyone off the ship!"
Chaman, who had escorted the new arrivals, handed them over to Femon waiting on the dock and wasted no time. He still had to hurry back to Essos to bring the next shipment of supplies—his schedule was packed to the brim.
"So this is the territory of the lord we'll be swearing to?"
A Myrish sailor named Andrei stepped down the gangplank with the crowd, eyes wide with curiosity as he looked around.
He had once crewed a Myrish merchant vessel. The ship had sunk in the Battle of the Gullet, its owner ruined. Left with nothing, he had jumped at Chaman's recruitment call and boarded the ship for the Stepstones.
The island was still under construction and far from prosperous, yet it pulsed with raw, vigorous life.
Andrei scanned the scene once more and felt, instead of disappointment, a surge of genuine anticipation.
Everything here was still being built. If he could take part in shaping this place, he would have a real stake in its future.
"Everyone, over here!"
On the pier, Femon waved them forward, his rough voice carrying easily. "Form two lines and move! Collect your wooden tags, new clothes, then head to the bathing shed!"
"Remember—the tag bears your number. Memorize it. Lose the tag and you'll be punished under military law!"
The new mercenaries had never experienced such strict discipline. They kept their mouths shut and obediently lined up.
Next each man received a set of plain gray rough-spun tunic and trousers—sturdy fabric, no style whatsoever, but tough enough to last.
Along with the clothes came a small, smoothly planed wooden tag carved with a number.
Andrei took his and saw:
916.
"Weird number… what does it mean?"
He was still examining the stitching on his new clothes when a sharp bark rang out from the front.
"916!"
Andrei froze, confused, until the man beside him gave him a shove. Only then did he realize the number was him.
"From now on… I'm just called 916?"
Before he could process it, an old World Devourer veteran pushed him into the bathing shed.
The soldiers at the door barked orders to strip and step inside. Several buckets of cold water crashed over their heads. Andrei was instantly soaked.
Before he could even shiver, more shouts urged them to hurry, scrub clean, and change into the new uniforms. Their old, filthy rags were confiscated and burned on the spot.
Still dazed, Andrei finished washing, pulled on the dry gray clothes, clutched his little wooden tag, and rejoined the line.
At the head of the formation stood a young man with a cold, stern face—Alyn, one of the lieutenants Logar had left in charge.
His gaze swept across the new recruits, voice low but carrying absolute authority.
"Listen well. From the moment you join the World Devourers, you are no longer the pirates, sailors, or drifters you once were.
Here, there are no true names—only numbers. When you speak to one another, you use only the number on your tag."
"From today onward, you will obey the rules of the Devourers and the orders of Lord Logar. He feeds you, pays you, gives you a path to live. What do you give in return?
Loyalty… and your lives!"
The new recruits' faces tightened; an invisible pressure settled over them.
Only the veteran World Devourers remained calm—they had gone through the exact same thing.
When they first arrived they had been just as lost, unruly, and defiant.
But under Logar's harsh discipline, those worthless pirate rabble had been forged into sharp, obedient elite warriors.
The rules that once seemed inhuman had stripped away their old vices and become the very foundation of their new lives.
Andrei stood in the crowd, heart beating faster as he looked around.
Everything here was strange and new—new clothes, new barracks, new rules, new identity.
Yet when he saw the steady, razor-sharp gazes of Alyn and the veterans, a fierce envy rose inside him.
One day… could I become someone like them?
The speech ended quickly.
The recruits were split into squads and folded into veteran teams, where they began their first lessons in the Devourers' creed.
Their first meal on the island was simple but plentiful: stew, black bread, and clean water.
No one spoke loudly; only the quiet clink of utensils could be heard. They ate steadily, contentedly.
But the peace was only temporary. From dawn the next day, they would face devilish training. Those who failed would be ruthlessly culled.
The Myrish sailor Andrei drifted into heavy sleep, exhausted and faintly uneasy—just like so many nights before.
Yet deep down he felt something different this time.
This place… might actually become his new home.