Travelers choked the road leading to Estoril’s main gate. The sluggish river of men, horses, and carts extended more than a hundred yards. Esteban shuffled forward with them, careful to avoid the hooves of the horses around him.

  Ahead, the walls of the great city rose like a cliff face, stretching for a mile in either direction. They were built of white stone, veined with faint pink. Esteban’s stomach knotted. He had spent his life in Ardan, a town of a few hundred souls that didn’t even merit a wooden palisade.

  Two towers, thirty feet higher than the walls, loomed over the iron gates. In a stone niche built into the right tower, a bored guard collected the entry tolls. But it wasn’t the guard that made Esteban stiff with worry.

  Standing just inside the shadow of the archway was a figure in a blue robe, clutching a staff taller than himself. A Dowser, Esteban knew, although he’d never seen one before. Those were Bound who could sense magic. They were trained to sniff out Resistance spies.

  Esteban had heard the stories, but he didn’t know if any were true. Some said that only men could become Dowsers, and that their eyes were plucked out upon their initiation. Others claimed that not only could they see the magic of the Bound like a burning torch, but that they could peer into your skull to read your thoughts.

  Don’t take any risks. Clear your mind.

  But he still worried. If the Dowser could see the power the ring had granted him, he wouldn’t make it past the gate. Like any unregistered magic user, he would be tortured for information, then executed.

  The line moved. Ten yards. Five.

  Esteban kept his head low, letting his matted black hair shield his eyes, but he felt the Dowser’s gaze on him as he stepped through the archway.

  Once he passed the Bound, he risked a single glance back. The Dowser’s hood was pulled low, shadowing his face. The man’s head was tilted, fixed directly on him.

  Esteban did not flinch. He forced his feet to keep the same plodding rhythm as the merchant in front of him. Don’t run. Don’t look back.

  “Name and purpose,” a voice barked.

  “Saren Wills,” Esteban said, his voice raspy. “Here to join the Culling House.”

  The guard scribbled something, splashed a dollop of red wax onto the paper, and stamped it with a heavy thud.

  “That’ll be four bits,” the guard said, finally glancing up with tired eyes. “Stay in the Sprawl. Don’t go where you don’t belong.”

  Esteban fumbled with his coin pouch, fishing out four copper bits. He handed them over and snatched the stamped parchment.

  “Move along,” the guard grunted.

  Esteban walked through the archway, suppressing the urge to look over his shoulder. He turned a corner and exhaled. He was in.

  He looked at the scene in front of him, and his breath caught in his chest.

  The city rippled across a series of rolling hills that resembled a storm-tossed sea frozen in stone and timber. The gate sat on the crest of the nearest rise, offering Esteban a sweeping view of the metropolis. The view sloped downward for hundreds of yards, the dense tapestry of the Sprawl’s cluttered houses packed tight against one another, before climbing the slopes of the opposing hills.

  A massive arena, built from light brown stone, nestled in a valley where the earth began to rise. Esteban had heard of such places—pits where criminals, slaves, and mercenaries addicted to violence fought and died.

  Far on the horizon, the Valyr quarter crowned the tallest peaks, looming over the city with towers that ended in domes covered with golden leaf.

  Estoril was one of the largest cities in the Dominion, yet it wasn’t the largest. That honor belonged to Rovina, the capital to the east, and the seat of Ascendant Krovos. Staring at the endless expanse, Esteban couldn’t fathom how a city larger than this could even function.

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  The Sprawl itself was a canyon of stone and wood. The streets had clearly been laid out with intention once, a grid of wide avenues and square blocks. Time had made a mockery of that order.

  Flimsy wooden shacks had been built atop the original stone structures, stacking three or four stories high. Many leaned precariously, looking like they were about to collapse. Rope bridges and wooden planks connected rooftops, lines of laundry strewn among them, flapping lazily in the light breeze. Some of the bridges were broken, their halves dangling from the posts that once supported them.

  The streets were so crowded that it was difficult to walk without colliding with someone. The air reeked of body odor and sewage, mixed with the scent of meat and spice. Vendors shouted over one another, competing for attention. Some had shops in the stone buildings, while others stood by wooden carts piled high with food and merchandise. Children darted about, shouting and laughing, navigating the chaos with expert ease.

  Esteban kept his hand on his coin pouch and pushed into the crowd. Shoulders slammed into him. A cart wheel missed his foot by an inch. No one apologized. No one even gave him a second glance.

  The flow of traffic was suddenly disrupted. People and carts scrambled to the sides, squashing against one another to make way for a palanquin that swayed through the gap. It was supported by four polished wooden beams. A dozen men shouldered the weight, three on each beam, their heads bowed as they moved down the street. Each wore a thick leather collar that marked them as property of the Valyr.

  The passenger compartment was a box of lacquered wood, its windows draped in heavy velvet curtains that obscured the Valyr within.

  Esteban watched them pass, a heavy feeling settling in his chest. There had been no slaves in Ardan, simply because no Valyr lived there, and by law, only they could own slaves. But as he watched the collared men trudge through the muck, he found the distinction meaningless. The Unbound back home were worked to death in the mines, ruins, and fields for a pittance that barely bought enough food to survive. They might not have worn leather collars, but they were slaves just the same.

  It was already past noon, and Esteban needed to find the Culling House before night fell.

  “Excuse me,” Esteban shouted at a food vendor flipping a brown paste on an iron skillet. “Do you know the way to the Culling House?”

  The vendor didn’t even blink. “Best fried beans in town, two bits! Famous fried beans. Come get your fill. Two bits!” He called to the crowd.

  “Excuse me…” Esteban tried again, louder.

  “Listen friend,” the vendor sneered, finally looking at him. “Do I look like a tour guide? I sell beans. You want beans or not?”

  “Will you tell me where the Culling House is if I buy some of your fucking beans?”

  The vendor’s grin was missing three teeth. He nodded.

  Esteban slapped two copper bits onto the cart. The man scooped a pile of the greasy paste onto a wide, waxy leaf and shoved it into Esteban’s chest, before going back to shouting about his fried beans.

  “Excuse me…” Esteban said, holding the leaf with one hand, while his other clenched until his knuckles turned white. The man ignored him.

  “Excuse me!” Esteban yelled, grabbing the man’s collar and yanking him close. He gritted his teeth. “Do you know the way to the Culling House?”

  The man raised his arms. “All right, all right. Calm down. It’s that way,” he motioned to his right. “Six or seven streets that way. Past the temple. Turn left at the tanner’s. You can’t miss it. Big ugly rock.”

  Esteban let go of the man and looked around. Not a single person had paid him any attention.

  He made his way down the crowded streets, chewing on the unappetizing paste he had just purchased. It tasted better than it looked.

  As he moved deeper into the maze, the crowd grew denser and their faces harder. He passed a narrow alley where three men sat on crates, passing a bottle between them, shouting and laughing. They went quiet as he approached, their eyes tracking his leather armor and the coin pouch on his belt.

  One of them, a man with a scar splitting his lip, stood up and drifted into his path.

  Esteban did not break stride. His hand came to rest casually near the hilt of his knife, his gaze locking with the stranger’s. The man offered a menacing smile, then hesitated. Something in Esteban’s eyes made him reconsider. He stepped back, clearing the way.

  Esteban breathed a sigh of relief once he was past them. He had no interest in brawling with street thugs. The Valyr and their allies were his enemies. Everyone else their victim.

  A few blocks down the road, the crowds thinned, and the jumble of the Sprawl gave way to a small, flagstone square. In its center sat a Temple of the Spheres. It was built from pristine white marble, and the filth of the city seemed to stop at its steps, as if held back by divine will. What truly held it back, Esteban saw, were the men and women walking around the complex with their brooms and mops.

  He slowed for a moment, staring at the elaborate half-dome of six nested spheres. The one in Ardan was built from wood. This one was made from the same marble as the rest of the structure, and Esteban wondered how it was able to bear its weight.

  He looked away and kept walking. He was never a man of faith. He never felt the urge to seek comfort in the religion of the Valyr, even before they robbed him of everything. In the deepest recesses of his mind the Black Ring called to him.

  Have faith in me.

  Esteban pressed his lips together. Faith was a crutch for the weak, a lie sold by the powerful to keep the desperate in line. He would put his faith in his own will, and nothing else.

  I have faith in myself.

  The Ring did not respond with words. Instead, a cold sensation ran through him—a vibration that felt like deep, amused laughter.