The Sunless City showed itself layer by layer.

  First came the defensive ditch.

  Though to call it a ditch would be putting it lightly. Eirik had visited medieval castles in his previous life, but the moats he'd seen were tiny in comparison to this. The gap here stretched east and west as far as Eirik could see, like scars carved by a divine blade tearing through the earth. The deep pits were over three hundred feet wide, their depths dropping into darkness.

  "Natural formations?" Eirik asked, though he already knew the answer.

  "Man-made," Velthan replied with amazement. "The General ordered the engineers to widen and deepen the existing cracks until they formed an impossible-to-cross barrier surrounding the entire northern sector. Any army trying to attack the city must cross these gaps—while facing a constant rain of arrows from the walls."

  Eirik stared into the darkness below. The engineering work needed to do this was incredible.

  "How did they move the dug-out earth and rock?"

  "They didn't." The Archmage pointed toward the walls.

  Eirik followed his gesture and understood.

  The walls were built of packed earth and stone, rising in three stepped levels, each stepping back slightly from the one below. The very earth and rock dug out from the canyon had become the defenses against attack.

  He was beginning to understand the kind of mind that had built this place.

  The group moved forward toward the only visible passage: a black stone arch bridge crossing the northern canyon. Its surface was barely wide enough for four people to walk side by side—not an inch wider.

  "The Flying Bridge," Velthan announced. "One of the General's most dramatic designs."

  Dramatic was putting it lightly.

  The bridge had no railings. No protective features whatsoever. A mere three hundred feet of exposed stone hung over the deep pit, with strong winds howling up from the valley floor.

  "Archers on the walls could kill hundreds before soldiers reached the opposite bank," Eirik pointed out.

  "Thousands," Velthan corrected. "Records state this bridge was designed to carry no more than one hundred fifty soldiers at any given moment. Overload it, and hidden devices would trigger, causing the middle part to fall down."

  Eirik's respect for the fallen general grew.

  They crossed the bridge in single file.

  The wind tore at Eirik's cloak. Below lay total darkness. He stared steadily at the back of the soldier ahead, refusing to look down.

  When the column finally reached the opposite bank, the first wall towered before them.

  The wall stood roughly sixty feet high—not the tallest defensive structure Eirik had seen, but the slope leading up to it was deadly. Any attacking force would have to move uphill under fire, while the path to the wall was deliberately covered with loose gravel, making progress dangerous.

  Eirik found himself admiring this almost overly cautious defensive design.

  Three layers of steel-strengthened wooden doors, each set at a different angle, made sure battering rams could never strike all three at the same time. The upper sections were filled with murder holes, bordered by channels for boiling-hot oil. Through the gate, Eirik glimpsed a passage that sharply turned right, forcing any enemy breaking through the first line to expose their unprotected sides to the inner wall's defenders.

  "First gate," Ser Konrad declared. "Form ranks."

  Soldiers took their positions, shields raised, weapons at the ready.

  The gate stood open.

  Not broken through—open. The massive doors hung partly open, as if the last defenders... had already given up their fight.

  Velthan raised his staff, and a pale light poured into the depths of the passageway.

  All was silent.

  "Move forward," commanded the Archmage, "proceed with caution."

  As they passed through the first gate, the entire army fell into a tense silence.

  The passage's end proved as Eirik had predicted—a killing hallway, designed to slaughter invaders. The walls showed arrow marks, splashes of boiling oil, and blood-red stains only blood could form.

  Yet no dead bodies were visible.

  "Where are the skeletons?" Jory whispered behind him.

  Eirik was thinking about the same question.

  They came out from the passageway onto the broad square between the first and second walls.

  The second wall rose high behind the first, but it wasn't just taller—it was built at an exact distance back, allowing the defenders to shoot over the heads of the guards on the first wall. The third wall followed the same mathematical design, rising like the final layer of an onion's defense behind the second.

  Three walls. Three chances to crush any foolish attacker.

  "The General studied the great fortresses of the ancient world," Velthan noticed Eirik's gaze. "He adapted those ideas to the north and improved upon them."

  "How did he improve them?"

  "The walls aren't just defensive positions. Each level houses barracks, weapon storage, hospitals, and food stores. This city could support itself for years under attack."

  Eirik thought about the information.

  "The General is a practical man," Velthan's voice softened. "He has no noble blood, no ancient family line, no god-given right to rule. He has only wisdom and willpower. So he built a city that works without such things."

  They passed through the second gate.

  This gate was more complicated than the first—its passage wound in two turns rather than one, and Eirik counted at least seven independent defensive positions from which death could rain down upon attackers.

  The engineering bordered on being too much, yet had its own beauty.

  The stonework was exact, the angles perfect. Every kill hole, arrow slit, and oil channel was placed with perfect accuracy. This was not a cruel ruler's barrier to separate friend from enemy.

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  It was an artist's perfect work, though one whose material was death.

  The third gate was totally different.

  Where the first two focused on usefulness, the third was a statement.

  Twin towers bordered the entrance, their surfaces carved with scenes of battle: warriors in ancient armor, warhorses trampling fallen enemies beneath their hooves. And on top of the towering dome, a giant dragon wrapped around it.

  The dragon lifted its head, roaring in a silent rage. Its massive jaws opened wide. Its body wrapped around the twin towers, its tail sinking into the stonework on one side, its claws breaking through the rock on the other. The scales were carved with such detail that Eirik could even make out the pattern on each individual plate.

  "The Black Dragon of the North," Velthan explained, "the General's personal symbol."

  Son of a charcoal burner, Eirik thought to himself, who made himself a dragon.

  They passed through the dragon's shadow, officially entering the Sunless City.

  The sight within... was very different from what Eirik had expected.

  The harsh effectiveness of the outer defenses had led him to expect the same within, yet before him lay an unexpectedly beautiful square.

  The round plaza measured roughly two hundred feet across, its surface paved with switching black and white stone blocks that formed patterns like frozen waves. At its center stood an altar—a smooth, polished box-shaped base of obsidian, empty of any markings or decorations.

  Behind the altar lay a pool.

  Its surface was perfectly still like a mirror, reflecting the darkening sky like polished metal. Steps led down to its depths on all sides. Eirik noticed channels carved into the plaza's edges, probably designed to collect rainwater.

  Even the decorative elements hid function.

  But the buildings around the square told a completely different story.

  They lay in ruins.

  Collapsed roofs caved in like broken ribs. Burned door frames split open, their doorways hanging empty. The stone walls had obvious burn marks—blackened streaks running up to where windows used to be.

  The difference was disturbing.

  "Something's wrong," Eirik said quietly.

  Velthan turned. "Oh?"

  "The outer walls are almost perfect. The gates, the walls, even that dragon carving—looks like it could stop an army tomorrow." Eirik pointed at the buildings around them. "But here?"

  The Archmage's eyes lit up with approval.

  "You're observant, Lord Stormcrow."

  He walked to the altar, his staff tapping lightly on the stone floor.

  "The Khorath—nomads before the Skarls—were terrifying warriors. But they didn't know anything about engineering. No huge war machines, no battering rams that could break through walls this thick." Velthan's hand moved over the altar's black stone surface. "They won this battle the old way."

  "Starvation," Eirik said.

  "Exactly. When the Khorath came through the gates, they didn't face an army—just walking skeletons who couldn't even lift their swords."

  Eirik's eyes moved over the destroyed buildings.

  "So the damage happened after the city fell."

  "The winner's celebration," Velthan's voice carried. "For thirty years, they lost tens of thousands of people trying to break through these walls. When they finally got inside, their rage exploded."

  "But they didn't touch these." Eirik nodded toward the altar and the pool. "Why?"

  The Archmage gave a small smile.

  "By any normal standard, the Khorath were brutal savages. They used blood magic, killed prisoners for their gods, and believed strength was the only thing that mattered." He stopped. "But there was one thing they never destroyed: the sacred."

  "Sacred?"

  "This altar in front of you isn't just decoration, Lord Stormcrow. It sits on the exact spot where General Abercrombie made his first sacrifice—the ritual that opened the door to the power we now call 'cultivation'" Velthan lowered his voice. "The Khorath worship the Sky Father. Whatever the General was when he was alive, he's become part of that same sacred system."

  Eirik thought for a moment.

  "This land's religion has always confused me," he admitted. "The Skarls worship the Sky Father, the Northern Kingdom pray to the Frost Mother, and then there's Malakor—the First Hunger—plus dozens of others whose names I don't even remember." He looked at Velthan. "What exactly connects these gods?"

  The Archmage laughed quietly.

  "Ah, that's the question," he said casually, sitting on the altar's edge without caring about its holiness. "Are you sure you want to get into such a complicated topic? We're running out of daylight."

  "A quick explanation is fine."

  "Alright." Velthan put his hands together. "In every part of the world, there's what scholars call 'primitive religion'—ancient belief systems older than written history. Despite surface differences, they all follow one basic truth: the worship of the One."

  "The One?"

  "The single divine force that created everything. The Source of All." The Archmage's voice became more serious. "Different cultures give this force different names and forms, but they all point to the same thing."

  Eirik frowned. "So the Sky Father and the Frost Mother are both..."

  "Sky Father worship points more directly to the One, though followers also honor lesser gods like Malakor. Blood magic comes from this tradition." Velthan shifted slightly. "The Frost Mother, however, is seen as the Holy Matron who brings the One's will into our world. She gave frost magic to humanity specifically to fight against the dark magic of nomadic tribes."

  Eirik thought for a moment.

  "In short," Eirik said slowly, "the One is like... a king. The supreme ruler who created everything, but doesn't directly get involved in day-to-day logistics. The Frost Mother, the Sky Father, Malakor—they're like nobles serving the king. Each controls their own area, pushes their own agendas, and commands their own followers."

  Velthan's eyebrows raised.

  "And we humans," Eirik continued, "are the soldiers who fight their wars. We carry out their orders as the gods battle through us."

  "Crude," the Archmage said, "but surprisingly insightful for someone who claims to know little theology." His eyes suddenly sharpened. "Then, based on this comparison—what exactly is General Abercrombie?"

  Eirik's mind worked fast.

  The general was the first human to connect with divine power through intentional sacrifice.

  "He's the bridge," Eirik said, "the vessel. The Creator made the world but doesn't rule it directly. Divine power—those 'nobles'—exist but can't act in our world. They need human go-betweens." He paused. "Through the General's sacrifice, these powers took root in our world."

  "So, according to your comparison, what is he?"

  Eirik thought for a moment.

  "Not a Noble. He was human and died. But he was more than just a soldier." The answer slowly came clear. "Maybe an Imperial Envoy. His authority came from the King's direct appointment."

  Velthan's smile grew.

  "Exactly. General Abercrombie has a unique position in the cosmic order—his actions go beyond the ordinary, but he ultimately wasn't a god. He's one of a kind." The Archmage's voice became serious. "In another time, under different circumstances, he might have become a Messiah. Someone who bridges the gap between the human and the divine, reshaping the world for a higher purpose."

  "Might have?"

  "His work isn't finished, Lord Stormcrow. He died before completing his grand plan. The door he opened is still wide—chaos runs wild, pouring power into a world that can't handle it."

  Eirik looked at the altar with new understanding.

  "That's exactly why the Khorath kept this place intact. It's not just the General's holy place—it's the holy place of the divine power itself. To destroy it would be like..." He searched for the right comparison. "...a citizen burning the king's embassy. It's declaring war against a supreme being you can't reach."

  "You finally get it."

  Eirik turned away from the altar and looked at the ruins again.

  "I understand this history. But I don't see how it relates to our mission." He waved his hand dismissively. "The whole city is destroyed. There's no sign of divine artifacts. You're not suggesting we drag that dragon carving back to Frostfall, are you?"

  Velthan laughed—a sound that was unexpectedly warm.

  "No, nothing that dramatic." He stood up from the altar's edge. "But this history is crucially important: over the past thousand years, countless expeditions have come here. Treasure hunters, scholars, ambitious people—all looking for the power the General left behind."

  "But none succeeded."

  "Right, none succeeded." The Archmage walked toward the far end of the plaza, where a grand staircase led up to the ruins of the city's former keep. "As I studied those records—and believe me, I studied them thoroughly—I found a consistent pattern."

  "What pattern?"

  "Timing."

  Lord Caelum, who had been silent during the whole religious discussion—his face showing deep exhaustion—suddenly looked up.

  "Timing?" The Duke's son stepped forward. "What timing? You never mentioned—"

  "I was about to explain." Velthan's tone was impatient.

  Eirik's thoughts were already racing.

  Velthan insisted they couldn't delay a single day, couldn't wait for better weather or more preparation with the looming Thaw Blizzard .

  "You mean..." Eirik's voice trailed off.

  "Continue." The Archmage turned, his eyes gleaming in the fading light. "Say what you're thinking, Lord Stormcrow."

  The truth cut through his mind.

  "The General made his first sacrifice right before the Thaw Blizzard. That's when he opened the door—when the barrier between humans and the divine was at its weakest." Eirik's heart pounded hard. "And the deadline you've been pushing us toward, your strict schedule—"

  "Yes?"

  "You demanded we arrive exactly on the anniversary. The same date, identical weather conditions, maybe even the exact same moment the General performed the ritual a thousand years ago."

  Velthan's smile was like a blade.

  "Exactly right."

  Caelum's face went white instantly. "Father never mentioned—"

  "His Grace knows what he needs to know." Velthan's voice was sharp. "As do you, now."

  Eirik stared hard at the Archmage.

  "How much time do we have?"