The charcoal burner's shop was small and dirty. The walls were made of rough-hewn timber rather than the clean stone that characterized the rest of the city. The roof sagged slightly in the middle, and in places it looked like dried thatch.

  "Commander." Kael had stopped beside him. "Are you seeing what I'm seeing?"

  "I am."

  Had the General modelled it after his own childhood?

  The door hung slightly crooked on its hinges. Eirik pushed it open and it scraped against the floor with a sound.

  The shop was cramped and cluttered.

  A kiln dominated the far corner—a brick structure that had been blackened by countless firings, beside it stood a stack of wood. Tools hung from pegs on the wall: tongs, rakes, shovels. The earthy scent of packed earth filled his nostrils.

  "Someone actually worked here." Eirik ran his finger along the kiln's edge and it came back black with soot.

  The Talons filed in behind Kael, their weapons drawn but lowered. The shop was too small for them; most of them crowded the doorway.

  Eirik went deeper into the shop.

  A workbench sat beneath the window, its surface scarred with knife marks and burn rings. On it lay an assortment of small objects: a broken clay pipe, a leather cord, a piece of flint, a wooden cup with a crack running down its side.

  "Commander!" Jory's voice had called out from outside.

  Eirik emerged from the shop.

  Jory stood at the edge of a small clearing behind the shop—a patch of bare earth that might have been a garden in another life. He was pointing at the ground.

  A grave.

  It had been marked with a simple wooden cross, weathered but unbroken. Letters had been carved into the horizontal beam.

  "What does it say?" Eirik asked.

  Silas had dropped to one knee, studying the writing.

  "Here lies my heart," he said slowly. "Who gave her final breath that I might live one day more."

  Not the General, then.

  "Dig it up."

  Jory looked uncertain. "Commander, is that—"

  "Now."

  The Talons exchanged glances and set to work with their blades and hands.

  They didn't have to dig very deep.

  The bones were buried about two feet underground. Female, by the narrow pelvis and delicate skull. And like the others in the castle cellar, this one had been butchered.

  "Frost's breath," Olaf muttered.

  The marks were unmistakable. Someone had carved the flesh from these bones with the precision of a butcher at work. Even the long bones of the arms and legs had been cracked.

  For marrow.

  But in the skeleton's curled hand, there was something that had not been eaten.

  A letter.

  The parchment was old and yellowed, but the wax seal remained unbroken.

  Eirik retrieved the parchment carefully.

  The handwriting was cramped but legible. His eyes remained on the page for a long moment. Then, deliberately, he crumpled the letter in his fist.

  Olaf's face contorted.

  "Well, Commander?" The big man's voice was carefully neutral. "What does it say?"

  Eirik tucked the crumpled parchment into his belt.

  "Quite interesting, actually." He turned to face the assembled Talons. "The author was a mage. From the Mage Tower, specifically."

  Several heads turned toward him.

  "Does this connect to Velthan?" Kael asked.

  "Not directly. The dating suggests this was written perhaps two hundred years ago—long before Velthan's time. If there's any connection, it would be ancestral. Perhaps someone from his lineage of instruction."

  He gestured toward the grave.

  "The woman was a chantress from the Order. A mage and a holy sister—forbidden love, by any tradition. They came here with an expedition of eleven others." Eirik paused. "They were the last survivors. She gave her life so he could continue the search."

  The Talons were silent.

  "The letter confirms what we suspected," Eirik went on. "There are limits to this place. The food is poisonous to living flesh. The gates won't let you leave—try to walk out, and you simply appear back where you started. They were trapped here for forty days."

  "Forty days," Jory breathed. "And they searched..."

  "They spent most of their time exploring obvious locations while the real answer lay elsewhere."

  "And what is the real answer, Commander?" Kael asked.

  Eirik was silent for a long while.

  "The mage had a theory," he said at last. "In his last days, he realized something fundamental about this place."

  He paced back and forth across the disturbed earth.

  "Think about it. We know this place is an idealized version of something that actually existed a thousand years ago."

  The Talons nodded their heads in agreement.

  "But here," Eirik said, waving his hand toward the charcoal burner's shop, "here we see imperfection."

  He stopped pacing and looked at his companions.

  "The mage theorized that this entire place exists because of a central anchor. Remove that anchor and the dream dissolves."

  Olaf leaned forward. "And how to remove it?"

  Eirik did not answer right away.

  He looked at the crumpled letter in his hand, then at the grave, then at the charcoal burner's shop behind him.

  He knew it was there. The mage had been thorough in his last writings—meticulous, even, as scholars tended to be when faced with their own mortality. The ritual was spelled out in detail: blood spilled on the kiln's hearthstone, words spoken in the old tongue, and the dream would dissolve like morning frost in the sun.

  Simple enough.

  And yet...

  Eirik's heart was uneasy.

  He knew this feeling. The same feeling he had when Velthan first appeared in the Duke's study, when every word out of the Archmage's mouth seemed to be leading him down a very specific path.

  The feeling of being herded.

  And then he thought about the events that had transpired.

  They had escaped through the blood pool. Found themselves in this dreamscape. Searched the obvious locations and found nothing. And then, conveniently, they had discovered the corpses in the castle cellar. Corpses that led him here, to this shop, to this grave, to this letter.

  Every clue had been left precisely where an smart man would expect to find it.

  Eirik's jaw set.

  If Velthan was as good as he seemed to be—and he had no reason to believe he was anything less—then just how much of this was real?

  The corpses could have been created. The letter could have been set out. Even his conversation with Gedrick about Olaf's eyes...

  Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.

  Eirik's blood ran cold.

  What if that had all been part of the plan as well?

  Gedrick could be playing him like a puppet on a string, planting the seed of suspicion within him so naturally that he had accepted it without question.

  But he had no way of verifying whether or not Olaf's mother's eyes had indeed been brown. He had no way of verifying whether or not Gedrick had indeed drunk with the big man.

  He had no way of verifying whether or not Gedrick himself was real.

  And then he thought about everyone else. Olaf could be fake. Gedrick could be fake. Kael, Jory, Silas—any one of them could be an illusion created by the power of the Archmage. This whole world could be nothing but an illusion created to lead him precisely where he was meant to go.

  All certainties had simply dissolved into smoke when examined too closely.

  This, Eirik realized, was Velthan’s true genius. Not the sheer power of the Archmage’s illusions, but the seed of doubt that accompanied them. The Archmage hadn’t had to replace everyone with fakes; he had simply had to make Eirik believe that he might have done so.

  To drive him mad with uncertainty until he made a fatal mistake.

  Perhaps Velthan had realized that Eirik had switched the blood at the altar. Perhaps the pig-creature’s appearance had made that rather obvious. Which meant that it was possible that, in the very last possible second, the Archmage must've used something on them so that what they (or he alone) entered was a fake reality, instead of the actual portal through the pool.

  But did Velthan know that Eirik knew? And did Eirik know whether Velthan knew that he knew? The recursion threatened to spiral into madness.

  Eirik forced himself to breathe.

  He realized that Velthan had set him up with two terrible choices, and he had been falling into one of them all along.

  The first choice had been to trust.

  To trust the trail of breadcrumbs that had led him here so conveniently. To trust that the blood ritual had to be done exactly as Velthan had instructed, and walk directly into whatever trap the Archmage had set.

  He was way past that choice now.

  The second choice had been distrust.

  Distrust every clue, every ally. Do not make one single move that could possibly fall into Velthan’s trap.

  But if he did that, he would never leave this place, and time—however distorted—would go on passing.

  So, neither of those two options worked for him.

  He needed something of his own to anchor himself to, something he could cling to as the world spun around him.

  What did he know for sure?

  Velthan needed his blood.

  This was something he was certain of. The Archmage had demanded blood samples before the ritual. Had asked for Northern blood, and had specifically wanted it to come willingly. And when the pig-thing had risen out of the pool, a creature born of corrupted offerings, Velthan's face had gone pale with genuine shock.

  The old bastard had realized Eirik's blood hadn't been in the basin.

  This whole elaborate dance, the dreamscape, the conveniently placed clues, the letter detailing the blood ritual—all of it had been designed for one purpose and one purpose alone: to get Eirik to willingly give his own blood into a place where Velthan could use it.

  The ritual would probably work. The blood it demanded was simply not meant to break the dream.

  But it was meant to complete whatever Velthan had begun at the altar above.

  Eirik's grip on the letter tightened.

  Why my blood?

  Something to do with his lineage, probably. The way Velthan had looked at him during their first meeting, the look of barely concealed excitement...

  It did not matter.

  What mattered was the fact that Velthan needed Eirik's blood, and Eirik needed to deny him that while still pretending to play along.

  If Eirik followed the ritual precisely as the letter had instructed—cut his hand, say the words, make the gestures—then substituting the blood at the last second would mean Velthan's plan would come crashing down around empty air.

  Eirik looked at the Talons assembled around him.

  Assume they're all compromised, he decided. Act as if every word you speak will reach Velthan's ears. Perform the script. And at the crucial moment—

  "Commander?"

  Kael's voice brought him back to the present.

  "You've been quiet for a while."

  Eirik looked up from the letter.

  "The letter explains a ritual," Eirik began. "A means of shattering this dreamscape and returning us to the real world."

  "What kind of ritual?" Kael asked.

  "Blood. Spilled upon the hearthstone of this kiln. Words spoken in the old tongue. And the dreamer's anchor will shatter."

  Olaf stepped forward. "Whose blood?"

  "That's the question, isn't it?" Eirik smiled. "The mage theorized that the dreamscape will respond to blood that carries an echo of the dreamer's own."

  "Commander," Jory said slowly, "are you saying..."

  "I'm saying the General built this place. His will sustains it. And to break that will requires blood of similar significance." Eirik turned to face the charcoal burner's shop. "The blood of the current Lord of Abercrombie."

  "You," Kael said flatly.

  "It would appear so."

  Eirik positioned himself before the kiln, examining its construction with feigned interest while his mind worked furiously.

  The problem was execution.

  Last time, he'd had the advantage of chaos—Brennan's convulsions, the attention drawn away at precisely the right moment. Here, in this confined space, with eight pairs of eyes fixed directly on him, there would be no such distraction.

  He needed misdirection of a different kind.

  The pig blood vial was still in his storage ring—whatever remained after the last deception. Maybe a third of its original contents. Enough for one more trick, if he was smart about it.

  A memory flashed. His little sister, sitting cross-legged on the floor of their cramped apartment, eyes wide with wonder. He'd been showing her magic tricks—learned from videos on his phone during his lunch breaks. One trick in particular had fascinated her.

  A cup filled to the brim with red-dyed water. He'd waved his hand over it, spoken some nonsense words, and when he'd lifted his hand—empty. The water had vanished.

  She'd wanted to know how. He'd tried to explain, fumbling through the mechanics. The sponge hidden at the bottom, compressed until it was nearly invisible. When he'd pressed his hand against the rim of the cup, the sponge had expanded, drinking the water faster than the eye could follow.

  Eirik didn't have a sponge.

  He had ice.

  And he had Ice Genesis.

  [SSS-Level Talent - Ice Genesis]

  [Description: Redefine the laws governing your ice constructs for 1 second (duration scales with realm). One use per day.]

  One second. That was all he had to work with.

  If Velthan had given him a script, he would perform it to its fullest. He would give them a show so compelling that no one would even notice what he'd accomplished.

  "I need a vessel," Eirik declared. "Something to contain the offering."

  Kael was already scanning the shop. "There's a clay bowl on the workbench. Would that work?"

  Eirik walked over to the bench and inspected the bowl. It was crude, but it was deep enough to conceal whatever needed concealing.

  "This will do." Eirik picked up the bowl with both hands, holding it at chest level. "The ritual will be performed at sunset."

  He looked over towards the window.

  The light outside had changed, the golden hues of the afternoon giving way to the amber tones of the approaching evening. It would be perhaps an hour or so before true sunset.

  Time enough to get things in order.

  "Everyone out."

  Olaf's brow furrowed in concern. "Commander, is that wise? What if something happens while ye're alone—"

  "Out." Eirik's voice was stern.

  The Talons reluctantly exited, their footsteps dying away as the door closed behind them. Eirik was alone.

  He wasted no time.

  The pig blood vial was still in his storage ring, perhaps a quarter of the vial's contents remaining from the previous substitution. He called it up with a thought, feeling the vial appear in his hand.

  The bowl was on the workbench.

  Eirik stood so that his body concealed any possible line of sight from the window or door.

  He carefully put the vial in the bowl, his movements precise.

  It settled against the bottom of the bowl, hidden in the shadows.

  Next: the ice.

  He reached for his powers, feeling the cold flow through his veins.

  A small construct, no larger than a coin, appeared inside the bowl, settling down beside the hidden vial.

  The ice was unremarkable: clear, solid, and utterly unremarkable.

  For the moment.

  Eirik stepped back, surveying his handiwork.

  The bowl looked empty to the casual eye. The vial and ice cube were hidden in its depths, placed where his hand would naturally come to rest when he made the cut.

  And yet, the hardest part of all still lay before him.

  He spent the time he had left studying the words of incantation provided in the letter. He didn't have the slightest idea what any of them meant. But he still needed to recite them convincingly.

  When the color of the light coming through the window matched the color of blood, Eirik opened the door.

  "It is time."

  ———

  The Talons stood in a loose circle around the kiln.

  Eirik had placed them where he could see both Olaf and Gedrick, without appearing to look at either one. He had placed Kael near the door, positioned so he could watch Eirik's hands.

  Good, Eirik thought. Everyone watch the hands.

  He picked up the clay bowl and held it before him like a chalice.

  "What I do now, I do for all of us. For all the men who died to bring us here. For Brennan, who died to open the door."

  The Talons bowed their heads.

  Eirik began to move.

  He moved around the kiln in slow, deliberate steps.

  "Dra'keth vor'ashan, kil'moth en'duras..."

  The words meant nothing to any of the people in the room. The point of the incantation was that all eyes were focused on the bowl held high.

  Eirik completed his first circuit of the kiln.

  He started on the second.

  "Vor'shan dra'keth, mol'vuras kil'en..."

  The bowl swayed and tilted.

  Third circuit.

  Eirik felt the drops of sweat on his brow. The next few seconds would decide everything.

  He stopped in front of the hearthstone.

  "The offering must be given freely," he declared. "Blood of the willing, spilled upon the stone of origin."

  He set the bowl down on the hearthstone.

  Then he pulled out his knife.

  "Commander—" Jory took a step forward.

  "Back." Eirik's voice cracked out like a whip. "The circle must not be broken."

  Jory halted.

  Eirik held his left hand over the bowl. He held the knife above his palm.

  Now.

  He plunged the knife into his flesh.

  The pain was bright—a line of flame across his palm. He felt the blood well up immediately, dark and thick, beginning to fall towards the bowl.

  All eyes were on the falling drops of blood.

  Eirik tilted the bowl towards himself—a slight movement, as if he were angling the bowl to catch the falling blood. From the Talons' positions about the kiln, the inner contents were blocked by the rim of the bowl.

  [ICE GENESIS - ACTIVATED]

  His world contracted to a single point of absolute attention.

  You are a sponge, Eirik thought. A structure that absorbs liquid like nothing that has ever existed.

  The blood falling into the bowl touched the changed ice.

  And vanished.

  His will struck out again, just as quickly. Ice began to form around the sponge, a thin layer, encasing his blood.

  Now, the vial.

  A small spike of ice shot up from within the bowl, driving down and forming holes in the vial. Pig's blood spilled out, filling what could be seen of the container.

  The second ended.

  Eirik pulled his bleeding hand back from the bowl, holding it tight to stop the flow.

  To anyone who could see, it seemed that Eirik's blood had filled the offering vessel.

  "The blood is given. The offering is made."

  He covered it with his other hand, lifting it carefully, mindful of the glasses and ice formations within it.

  "Now, the words of release."

  He tilted the bowl toward the hearthstone.

  Pig's blood spilled across the hearthstone, running in small streams down the ancient grooves.

  Eirik recited the final incantation.

  "Dra'vor kil'moth, en'shan vuras!"

  The words reverberated off the low ceiling of the shop.

  For a moment, nothing happened.

  Then, the hearthstone began to glow, a white light, as the ground began to shake.

  "OUT!" Eirik roared. "EVERYONE OUT!"

  The Talons didn't need to be told twice. They scrambled for the door, shoving past each other in their desperation to escape. Eirik was the last to leave, still clutching the empty bowl with its hidden frozen payload.

  "Commander!" Olaf's voice cut through the chaos. "The plaza! We need to get back to the plaza!"

  Eirik didn't argue.

  They ran.

  The streets dissolved around them as they fled—cobblestones becoming mist, walls evaporating into nothing. It was like watching a dream collapse from the inside.

  The central plaza appeared ahead.

  "JUMP!" Eirik commanded.

  He didn't wait to see if the others followed and leaped into the silver light.

  And the world dissolved around him.