The corridor leading to the dungeon was narrow and dark.
Every dozen steps, a burning brazier mounted on the wall provided flickering light, but it wasn't enough to dispel the oppressive sense of foreboding.
Samwell, led by an Unsullied, arrived at one of the cells.
Inside, the room was completely empty—save for a puddle of green liquid on the ground.
The flickering torchlight illuminated Samwell's face, casting shifting shadows that made him appear ghostly.
"Why is there only one puddle? Weren't there two of them?" he asked.
"There were," the Unsullied replied, "but later they merged into one."
Samwell lowered the torch to examine the green puddle more closely.
Or was it green blood?
It was thicker than water, though it lacked the vividness of fresh blood.
The orange glow of the torchlight reflected off the liquid's surface, making it seem even more eerie.
"Did they scream before turning into this?"
"No," the Unsullied answered, shaking his head.
Samwell suddenly remembered that the Unsullied were trained to feel no pain. He amended,
"Give me your sword."
The Unsullied unsheathed his short sword and handed it over.
Samwell took it and cautiously dipped the blade into the green liquid.
Clink.
The tip of the blade struck the stone floor beneath the liquid with a soft sound.
He closely observed the sword but found no visible reaction.
Withdrawing the blade, he inspected it again—still no sign of corrosion or damage.
Just as he was puzzling over this, a hand covered in green fur shot out of the puddle, grabbing his ankle.
The hand exerted an inhuman amount of strength, attempting to drag him into the green liquid.
Startled, Samwell instinctively plunged the short sword into the furred arm.
Clang!
Despite its slender appearance, the green-furred arm emitted a metallic clang when struck. The sword snapped into several pieces.
Thrown off balance, Samwell stumbled but managed to stay upright.
Discarding the broken blade, he unslung his greatsword, Dawn, from his back.
Whoosh!
The sword traced a sharp arc through the air, severing the green-furred arm.
A spray of viscous green liquid burst from the stump, splattering onto Samwell.
He frowned, but before he could inspect the liquid on him, a second arm shot out from the puddle, grabbing his other ankle.
Then a third, a fourth, a fifth...
In an instant, over a dozen arms emerged, clawing their way out of the green puddle. They reached for him, creating a nightmarish scene.
"What the hell is this!?" Samwell roared as he swung Dawn, slashing through the writhing limbs.
The severed arms dissolved into mist, but more took their place, surging out of the green puddle as though endless.
A deep, mournful voice echoed from the liquid. It was impossible to tell whether it was crying or laughing.
Samwell suddenly ceased his frantic hacking, his eyes narrowing.
His gaze seemed to pierce the green surface of the liquid, locking onto something deeper within—a single, staring eye.
The countless arms clawed at him, gripping his ankles, wrists, sword, and even his neck.
But Samwell stood motionless, as if surrendering.
Only his eyes remained fixed on the liquid, a flicker of fire dancing in his pupils.
Splash!
Samwell was pulled into the green liquid. Yet he didn't feel the suffocating pressure of drowning.
His body sank deeper and deeper, as though descending into an endless abyss.
All around him, green arms writhed, clawing at him in a frenzy.
They seemed intent on tearing him into pieces.
But Samwell remained unmoved, a faint smirk curling his lips.
Perhaps sensing his disdain, the arms grew increasingly frenzied—yet their desperation was palpable.
Boom!
Suddenly, all the green arms exploded into smoke, vanishing into the void.
Samwell's vision spun, and a wave of clarity washed over him.
When his senses returned, he found himself back in the cell, short sword in hand, its tip touching the green puddle.
"What just happened?" he asked the Unsullied standing nearby.
"Nothing," the soldier replied plainly. "You've been staring at the sword's tip."
So it was all an illusion.
The arms and the green abyss had been nothing but a hallucination.
Samwell discarded the broken sword by the puddle.
"This cell is off-limits to everyone. Understood?"
"Yes, my lord."
With that, Samwell exited the dungeon.
Outside, the sky remained a chaotic tableau of lightning and thunder, as if heralding the end of days.
But after his encounter, Samwell couldn't shake the suspicion that this, too, might be a more elaborate illusion—one he had yet to see through.
"Ghiscar gods…" he muttered, his tone laced with derision.
Mounting Cleopatra, he spurred the dragon toward the Temple of the Graces.
Boom! Boom! Boom!
The deafening claps of thunder seemed to shake all of Astapor.
Tonight, no one would find rest.
Thankfully, his earlier orders to impose a curfew and deploy the Unsullied to maintain order had likely prevented the chaos from spreading—unless some greater force intervened.
His thoughts drifted to the Green Grace's ominous prophecy about Astapor's doom.
For a moment, a heavy weight settled on his chest.
Still, Samwell dismissed it with a scoff. That grotesque woman's claims weren't necessarily trustworthy.
"Is she even still alive?" he wondered aloud.
Lost in thought, Cleopatra landed near the temple.
The massive golden dome shimmered eerily under the storm's flashes of light.
Following his orders, a squad of Unsullied had stationed themselves at the temple's entrances, barring all entry or exit.
As Samwell dismounted, one of the guards approached.
"What of the Green Grace?"
"She lives."
Samwell wasn't surprised.
She was likely some pawn of a god. Death wouldn't come until she'd served her purpose.
"But the Blue Grace tending to her has died," the guard added.
"Turned into green liquid?"
"Yes."
Samwell sneered and strode into the temple.
The variously robed women huddled near the entrance, begging him to let them leave. He ignored them entirely.
If the gods of Ghiscar were truly awakening, why were their followers so terrified? Shouldn't they be rejoicing instead?
Samwell couldn't help but scoff at the hypocrisy.
Still, recalling the Green Grace's grotesque state, he suspected this so-called awakening wasn't what it seemed. Perhaps it wasn't the Ghiscar gods at all, but their ancient enemies—the gods of Valyria.
He entered the prayer hall, where thirty-three shrines to the Ghiscar gods stood amidst a haze of incense.
At the hall's center loomed a colossal harpy statue, its golden surface engraved with intricate runes. Two blood-red garnets formed its eyes, glinting like fresh wounds.
Samwell couldn't shake the feeling that the harpy's eyes were watching him.
Beneath the statue lay the Green Grace, her body grotesquely bloated once more.
The bandages the Blue Grace had applied now bulged ominously, as if on the verge of bursting.
"Lady Graznys," Samwell said, his tone calm. "How are you feeling?"
Her blood-red eyes fixed on him with desperation. Her lips moved soundlessly, as though pleading for release.
Her abdomen swelled faster, stretching the bandages to their limit.
Samwell's expression hardened as he unsheathed Dawn.
"Lady Graznys, let me end your suffering."
Relief flickered in her tortured gaze, as though she welcomed death.
But as Samwell stepped forward, her stomach suddenly began to expand at an alarming rate.
Realizing the danger, Samwell leapt backward without hesitation.
(End of Chapter)