Days turned to weeks in the ruins of Old Valyria. Andrew rode Vharaxes above twisted spires and steaming fissures, searching for what the Codex had called the blade that drinks the soul. He found it deep in the heart of a drowned city, buried beneath a mountain of dragonbone.
In a vault of obsidian and glass, guarded by heatless fire, rested a sword blacker than midnight and etched with crimson runes. When Andrew touched it, screams echoed in the air—whispers of the dead who had once wielded it.
The blade slid free from its altar like it knew him. It burned cold in his hand.
"Souldrinker," Andrew whispered. The name came unbidden. The sword pulsed with crimson light.
From that moment, it drank from every enemy he slew. And Andrew heard them—their last thoughts, their terror, their regret—fed to the blade.