A chilling white light shone down from above, bathing the chamber in an unearthly glow.
All the assistants and apprentices gazed upward in reverent awe. The King stood behind a pure white orb of light so dazzling that his face became indistinct, as if he were some divine messenger too holy for mortal eyes to behold.
Hallyne and several Wisdoms, having descended into the hall, could not help but look about them in wonder.
In the brilliant illumination, every detail of the ancient chamber was revealed—stone walls weathered by centuries, massive pillars carved with forgotten symbols, narrow tunnels branching off into darkness, intricate patterns etched into wooden panels, heavy doors of ancient oak bound with black iron, and obsidian platforms that resembled sacrificial altars.
What a magnificent hall, Hallyne thought with swelling pride, a glorious masterpiece crafted by the Guild's forebears! He drank in every detail with excitement.
In all his decades of service, this was the first time he had beheld the hall in such perfect clarity.
Though the chamber lay some distance from the wildfire storage, caution dictated that no flame should risk igniting the volatile substance stored deep below. This prudence, coupled with long-standing traditions, had led the Guild to employ only sealed oil lamps for illumination, never braziers or open torches.
Even the Iron Torch Corridor, situated closer to the surface, typically contained no exposed flames except during moments of supreme importance—such as welcoming the King.
Hallyne glanced up at King Joffrey, the radiant white light obscuring His Grace's features as if one were staring directly into the sun itself. Fortunately, he could just make out the King's nod of approval.
Receiving this silent command, Hallyne turned his attention to the black stone altar positioned at the center of the hall, where the sacrifices had already been arranged with meticulous care.
Today, at this very moment, the Guild would rise again from obscurity. The alchemists would reclaim their ancient glory, if only the Flame Child could be successfully brought into being.
Hallyne anxiously inspected the ritual preparations.
The outer walls of the altar had been painted with magical symbols transcribed from ancient texts, using ink concocted from a mixture of blood, sulfur, powdered silver, and wildfire itself.
Nine wooden crosses stood upon the altar, the sacrifices bound securely to them, unmoving in their fateful positions.
Three sacrifices had been slaughtered earlier, their blood flowing in thin rivulets along the carved channels in the altar's surface.
Another three wore nooses around their necks, awaiting the moment when flames would rise. Assistants stood ready to strangle them instantly, offering their souls and deaths to the ritual's completion.
The final three sacrifices slept in drugged oblivion, still untouched and unharmed.
All nine surrounded a great vat brimming with wildfire.
Hallyne withdrew a rolled parchment from within his robes, scrutinizing the ancient incantation transcribed upon it word by word, ensuring no errors had been made that might render their efforts worthless.
This incantation required nine recitations, alternating between three languages, each repeated thrice. Hallyne and his fellow Wisdoms had labored for many days to determine its precise meaning, then spent countless hours practicing until they could chant it flawlessly, without hesitation or stumbling.
Finally, he cast his gaze to the floor beneath them.
Crystal stones bestowed by the King outlined a hexagonal array some twelve feet across upon the ground. The black stone altar bearing the sacrifices occupied the center of this hexagram, while Hallyne and five other Wisdoms positioned themselves at each point of the six-sided figure.
This hexagrammic array was not specified in the ancient texts.
Yet Hallyne's greatest confidence resided precisely in this additional magical circle—or rather, in the crystal stones containing the power of divine grace.
Records of ancient rituals were not uncommon in the Guild's archives, and Hallyne believed his predecessors must have attempted this very ceremony many times before, with predictable results: the lost arts had remained stubbornly ineffective.
Those who came before had proposed many explanations for these failures. Dragons, perhaps. Magic itself. Or even the gods.
Hallyne had once been uncertain which theory to credit. But now, with merely a few crystal stones, the creation of wildfire could be vastly accelerated, even without additional incantations or magical circles.
Hallyne believed he understood why those ancient spells had failed. It was not dragons they had lacked, but the power contained within these crystalline vessels.
Would the Flame Child favor these crystal stones?
He drew a deep breath, allowing the damp, cold air to fill his nostrils and chest, calming his restless thoughts ever so slightly.
Then, he looked at each of the five other Wisdoms in turn, exchanging meaningful glances with each. In the silent communication between them, the mysterious ritual—lost for countless years—quietly commenced.
The six Wisdoms slowly unfolded the scrolls they held.
The first recitation of the incantation was in the Common Tongue brought to Westeros by the Andals. Hallyne and the others chanted in unison:
"Great Master of Blazing Flames and Life, You are—"
"Your followers gather here to pray... accept our sincerely offered sacrifices, respond to the call of the ritual..."
"Spirits of leaping flame..."
Their voices echoed throughout the spacious hall—trembling, intense, and filled with fanatical devotion, as if calling upon some long-forgotten god.
The second recitation shifted to High Valyrian, sounding more fluid and melodious, like poetry carved from air and fire.
The third employed the tongue of Asshai, its words short and strangely coherent, yet more mysterious and profound—utterly an obscure magical language.
Joffrey stood upon the elevated platform, watching in silence.
The incantation seemed ordinary enough—mere phrases in several languages, apparently simple to memorize and reproduce.
Yet Joffrey had conducted numerous experiments of his own.
The dances and incantations performed by Melisandre and the alchemists did not work for everyone who attempted them. Even if one were to replicate their movements and words precisely, with abundant source energy placed nearby, there remained no guarantee that the corresponding spells would function.
The true wellspring of magical power—those high-level runes that appeared so suddenly—likely stemmed from multiple powerful entities who screened those seeking to wield their power.
How was this response mechanism achieved?
What was their state of being, or His?
Did they possess human-like thoughts, intelligence, or emotions?
Joffrey knew only that They had not manifested physically in the world. Their reasons and motives remained shrouded in mystery.
"Great Master of Blazing Flames and Life..." The six Wisdoms within the magic circle began their second round of chanting.
Master of Blazing Flames and Life. Joffrey pondered this title carefully.
Did it refer to R'hllor, the Lord of Light?
Some other entity entirely?
Or was it merely a meaningless, grandiose appellation designed to lend the spell an air of mystery?
"Great Master of Blazing Flames and Life..."
The Wisdoms commenced their third round of chanting and began to make strange gestures, their movements growing faster and more frenzied, gradually transforming into a dance that mimicked flames themselves.
Bang!
The magical circle painted on the outer wall of the altar suddenly erupted in fire. Deep green flames wound upward, clinging to every black stone they touched, scorching the entire altar in their hungry embrace.
The assistants who had been waiting sprang into action, tightening the nooses and ending the lives of the three bound sacrifices.
The souls of the newly dead slowly dissipated in the air above their bodies.
Joffrey's eyes fixed upon the top of the altar.
Two complex patterns were drawing source energy from the crystal stones, transforming it into dense starlight that sprinkled down upon the altar like mystical rain.
The vat of wildfire at the center of the altar began to glow with an intense green luminescence.
The Wisdoms gradually retreated, their incantations and dance movements continuing unabated.
Tendrils of flame resembling snakes slithered across the outer wall of the altar, climbing onto the platform and converging toward the vat of wildfire at its center.
The Wisdoms abruptly ceased their chanting and fled frantically outward.
Boom!
The wildfire exploded with terrible force, shattering its container. Emerald flames instantly engulfed the entire altar.
The conflagration devoured the three unconscious sacrifices, who awoke in unimaginable agony. Their only response was to scream in utter despair until their throats were consumed and their bones reduced to ash.
Hallyne climbed up to the high platform, panting heavily as he approached the King's side.
Joffrey observed the altar with intense concentration.
The wildfire leaped and danced endlessly, emerald flames shooting upward some thirty feet. All nine sacrifices had been transformed to ash, leaving only six invisible souls hovering above the pyre.
Silver starlight entangled these wayward souls, slowly dragging them toward the passionately dancing wildfire that roared below.
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