#faceless men

In the depths of Oros, a grand ashed city of the Valyrian Freehold. A lone firemage stood vigil underneath the flames, beneath the molten rocks.

Sweat dripped down the mage’s temples as he pressed both palms against a sacred Valyrian black stone. One that was given by the Bloodstone Emperor himself, etched with sacred glyphs, of sorcery that would be soon lost to the world.

He whispered spells and counter-spells, the ancient craft he was born to and trained in, which kept the flames at bay.

Tonight was no different, the tremors were growing more frequent since the birth of the chosen one, yet his training proceeded as usual.

Soon, a scrape of motion sounded in the tunnel behind him. The firemage tore his gaze from the lava and squinted into the darkness.

A hooded figure emerged between the stalagmites of black rocks.

The figure looked like a common bedraggled slave, carrying a bucket of coal.

The intruder’s face was in shadow beneath the cowl, but as the figure stepped into the ruddy light, the mage caught a glimpse of its face. Yet, it was not a face.

Under the hood, was a slave the firemage had sentenced to death, yet the dead man's eyes were gazed upon him in that moment.

The firemage gaped with confusion.

Is this a ghost?

Before he could speak, the hooded figure smiled coldly,

The “slave” slid a dagger from the bucket, moving with unnatural speed.

The firemage opened his mouth to shout, but the assassin was faster.

In an eyeblink, a blade slit across his throat. The firemage’s final cry gurgled into death as blood poured down his chest. He fell forward against the altar, knocking the steel chalice of wildfire he’d been using for the ritual into the lava pool.

Green and red flame flared and died on the surface of the rocks. The last thing the firemage saw as his life faded was the hooded killer backing into the darkness.

The assassin's face had suddenly changed, no longer the dead slave’s visage, but an unknown, faceless black mask. Then it shifted to multiple faces, of multiple slaves that the flames devoured through the centuries.

The Faceless Men, it became… the Many-Faced God’s servants of death.

Far to the west, another volcano rumbled. Its caverns glowed red with rivers of fire. In the mines, slaves stilled as a hooded figure in a tattered cloak slipped past.

A young boy with an empty water bucket froze. For he stared at the figure in awe, for it was his friend that had been killed a moon ago. Darro. His friend, yet here he was walking.

The boy knew once, not Darro returned, but something wearing his face.

Others saw, too. Some gasped, one knelt. They bowed to their savior.

“Lo Zaldrīz Ārliñta,” the boy yelled.

For the Zaldrīz Ārliñta

The Faceless Man inclined his head and moved into the low tunnel toward the firemage’s sanctum.

The boy followed, along with a number of slaves.

There in the vault was a pyromancer, silver-haired and stout, he chanted binding spells before a weirwood door to the volcano’s core, then struck a gloved hand over his mouth. A dagger across his throat, the chant ended in a wet choke.

The pyromancer sagged to the floor, blood spilling black in the flame’s light. The boor gripped the stone, as the mountain began to tremble. Darro’s features started shifting to the features of his father, his brother, and all slaves that had perished within the mines.

Valar morghūlis

Were the last words from the slave boy.

At that same hour, the other twelve of the Fourteen Flames were struck. Sorcerers, pyromancers, mages—every guardian—fell as one, their wards and spells disappeared into the flames.