Eirik emerged from the pool, gasping.

  Not blood this time. Water—clean and cold. He hauled himself over the basin's edge and collapsed onto stone.

  His eyes snapped open.

  The plaza stretched before him—the same plaza he had just fled, with the same altar and the same pool. But it was full of people.

  Merchants hawked wares from wooden stalls. Children chased each other between the legs of passing adults. Soldiers in black armor patrolled in pairs, their breastplates bearing a sigil Eirik recognized instantly.

  The Black Dragon.

  Someone screamed.

  A woman had spotted him—a middle-aged vendor whose cart of dried fish now lay forgotten as she stumbled backward.

  "DEMON! DEMON FROM THE SACRED WATERS!"

  The crowd reacted like a flock of startled birds. People scattered in every direction, knocking over stalls, trampling goods.

  Eirik pushed himself to his feet, water streaming from his clothes.

  The fuck is this?

  "HALT!"

  Guards were converging from three directions. A dozen men in black lacquered armor, their polearms leveled.

  Eirik raised his hands slowly.

  He had just escaped Velthan's dreamscape and expected to emerge face-to-face with the artifact—or at least somewhere closer to it than where he'd started.

  Instead, he found himself in... what?

  Another illusion?

  He'd watched films about this in his previous life. Dreams nested inside dreams. The concept had seemed clever in fiction. Living it was a different matter entirely.

  "ON YOUR KNEES!"

  A guard's polearm pressed against his throat.

  Eirik knelt.

  The guards bound his wrists with practiced efficiency. One of them produced a strip of cloth and forced it between his teeth before he could speak.

  As they hauled him to his feet, Eirik caught movement from the pool behind him.

  Kael emerged first, coughing and sputtering. Then Jory. Silas. The others, one by one, dragging themselves from the sacred waters like drowned rats. Olaf was the last to appear.

  The crowd's screams intensified.

  "MORE OF THEM! THE DEMONS MULTIPLY!"

  Within minutes, all eight surviving Talons were bound, gagged, and arranged in a line.

  Eirik's mind raced as they were marched through the streets.

  The city felt alive.

  Not the hollow perfection of Velthan's dreamscape, where every building had stood pristine and empty. Here, there was life. A child crying in an upper window. A drunk sleeping in an alley. Two women arguing over the price of cloth while a bored merchant waited for their decision.

  This felt different.

  But "feeling different" wasn't evidence. Maybe Velthan had learned from his failure. Of course the next attempt would be more sophisticated.

  Eirik bit down on the gag in frustration.

  The guards led them through a maze of narrow streets, past markets and workshops and residential quarters. The architectural style remained consistent—curved roofs, paper screens, and whitewashed walls.

  Which made sense, in a way. The General had built this city a thousand years ago.

  They arrived at a compound surrounded by high walls.

  Inside, a courtyard. More guards. A building with heavy doors that opened onto a long corridor lined with cells.

  The guards shoved all eight of them into a single room.

  The door slammed shut.

  He worked at the gag with his tongue, but the cloth was tied too tightly. The guards had known what they were doing.

  Minutes passed. Then an hour.

  Footsteps in the corridor.

  The door opened.

  A man entered. Middle-aged, perhaps fifty. His left eye hid behind a simple black patch. Though the remaining eye was sharp enough to compensate.

  His gaze lingered on each face in turn.

  "This one." He pointed at Jory.

  Two guards seized the young Talon and dragged him forward. A third removed his gag.

  "Simple questions. One lie, I take your tongue. Understood?"

  Jory's jaw set.

  "Who are you?" the one-eyed man demanded. "Where do you come from?"

  Silence.

  A slap.

  Jory's head snapped to the side. Blood welled from a split lip.

  "I asked you a question."

  Silence.

  Another blow. Harder this time.

  Jory swayed but didn't speak.

  The one-eyed man studied him for a long moment. Then he shrugged.

  He gestured again. "This one, then."

  Silas was dragged forward. His gag removed.

  "Same rules. Who are you? Where do you come from?"

  "We were here on an expedition mission," Silas said slowly. "Issued by the Duke of Frostfall. To explore the ruins of the Sunless City. We traveled with Archmage Velthan, the Duke's son Lord Caelum Frostgrip, and—"

  The blow caught Silas across the mouth.

  "Ruins?"

  The man's voice had changed.

  "Open your whore-son eyes." He seized Silas by the jaw, forcing his head toward the window. "The Sunless City stands tall. It has stood for decades. It will stand for centuries more." His grip tightened until Silas winced. "How dare you speak of ruins? Are you mad? Are you mocking me?"

  Eirik's mind crystallized.

  They don't know.

  To these people—if they were real—the city hadn't fallen. The General still lived.

  Which meant either Velthan had created an elaborate historical fantasy complete with inhabitants who genuinely believed their world was real...

  Or Eirik had somehow traveled backward through time.

  Neither option was comforting.

  The man released Silas with a shove.

  "Your 'expedition.' Who leads it? Which of you worms gives the orders?"

  Silas opened his mouth—

  Eirik made a sharp sound through his gag.

  Every head turned.

  The man's remaining eye narrowed. He approached slowly, studying Eirik with renewed interest.

  "You? You're the leader?"

  Eirik held his gaze without blinking.

  "Remove his gag."

  A guard complied.

  Eirik worked his jaw for a moment, restoring feeling. Then he spoke.

  "I am."

  His laugh was short and harsh.

  "You? A boy not older than my son's age?" He turned to his men. "Did you hear that? This child claims to lead a military expedition."

  The guards laughed dutifully.

  Eirik waited for the noise to subside.

  "If you judge people's worth based on appearance alone," he said calmly, "then I fear for the men you lead."

  The laughter died.

  The man's face went through several transformations in rapid succession.

  "What did you just say to me?"

  Eirik met his gaze steadily. "You heard me clearly enough. Unless your ears are as damaged as your eye."

  One of the guards sucked in a breath.

  For a long moment, the man stood perfectly still. His hand had dropped to the knife at his belt.

  Then, unexpectedly, he laughed again. A laugh that shook his shoulders and crinkled the skin around his remaining eye.

  "Ha! This one's got some bite." He stepped back, reappraising Eirik with something approaching respect. "Alright, leader. I'm asking you the same questions I asked your men. Who are you? Why are you here?"

  Eirik considered his options.

  Silas had already told the truth—and been slapped for it. He hadn't believed a word about ruins and expeditions because such claims were incomprehensible to him. If someone had appeared in Fort Abercrombie claiming his city was a thousand-year-old ruin, Eirik would have assumed madness too.

  World-shattering facts from the mouths of strangers mean nothing, even if they're true.

  So truth was useless here.

  If this was another of Velthan's fabrications, then this questioning seems pointless. The Archmage already knew who they were and how they came.

  But if this was real—if he had somehow traveled back to a time when the Sunless City still stood—then only one thing mattered.

  The General.

  "I am Eirik Stormcrow," he said. "These are my men."

  The man waited.

  "We are here because your General needs us."

  A ripple of reaction through the guards.

  "The General needs you? A boy and his band of half-drowned rats?"

  "The manner of our arrival—these things aren't meant for men of your station. That's not an insult." Eirik kept his voice level. "Certain knowledge is reserved for certain ranks. I'm sure you understand the principle."

  The one-eyed man's jaw tightened.

  "What I understand is that eight strangers emerged from the Sacred Pool and disrupted the morning market, and now somehow demanding audiences with the General himself."

  If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

  "Yes."

  "On what authority?"

  Eirik smiled thinly. "On the authority of things you haven't been told. Things you shouldn't be told. The General will understand when he sees us. You need only ensure we reach him."

  The room went very quiet.

  "Moreover." Eirik's voice hardened. "You've displayed excessive rudeness to men belonging to me. If you don't wish to explain that treatment to the General directly, I suggest you apologize. Now."

  The silence stretched.

  The one-eyed man stared at Eirik as his guards shifted uncomfortably, caught between their superior and the wet prisoner who spoke as if he were the one giving orders.

  One heartbeat.

  Two.

  Three.

  The man threw his head back and roared with laughter.

  "HA! Apologize! He wants me to APOLOGIZE!" He slapped his thigh, wheezing. "Boy, I've skinned traitors and fed them to my dogs while they watched. And you—bound, weaponless, at my mercy—you demand apologies?"

  His laughter subsided into chuckles.

  "You know what, boy? I like you. I really do." He turned to his guards. "Did you hear that? This wet little fish is making demands of me. Of ME! Centurion Titus, who's been keeping order in this city since before his balls dropped!"

  The guards laughed again—louder this time, sensing their superior's mood had shifted from dangerous to amused.

  "Let me explain something to you, boy. Every month, some fool crawls out of a hole claiming special knowledge for the General. Last spring, it was a monk who said he'd dreamed the location of enemy supply lines. Month before that, a merchant's wife who claimed her dead grandmother whispered secrets about assassination plots." He held up a finger. "You know what they all had in common?"

  Eirik said nothing.

  "They all thought they were special. But they weren't. Nobody ever was. Now, if I were to grant an audience to the General for every piss-soaked prisoner who crawled out of sacred waters claiming importance..." He scratched his chin thoughtfully, then barked another laugh. "Well, let's just say the General would have my balls for earrings and my cock for a door-knocker. And I'm rather attached to all three."

  The guards sniggered.

  Centurion Titus's false joviality drained away. He snapped his fingers.

  "Knife."

  One of the guards handed him a blade.

  "Bring that one forward again." He pointed at Silas. "On his belly this time."

  Two guards seized Silas and forced him to the ground. A third grabbed his right arm and stretched it out, pressing his palm flat against the stone floor.

  "Wait—" Silas's voice cracked. "I told you the truth! I—"

  Titus pressed one boot onto Silas's shoulder, pinning him in place. He positioned the knife's edge directly above the little finger.

  "Now then." The Centurion’s voice had gone conversational. "Leader-boy. You've had your fun playing mysterious stranger. But here's how things actually work in my prison."

  The blade pressed down, creating a dimple in the flesh.

  "The next piece of bullshit that comes out of your mouth costs your man a finger." He smiled pleasantly. "I've got a dog at home—ugly thing, missing half an ear—but he does love his treats. So please, keep talking. Old Blackie hasn't had fresh meat in weeks."

  Silas had gone rigid.

  Eirik's mind worked rapidly.

  The centurion wasn't bluffing. Men like this—scarred veterans who'd clawed their way to authority through violence and competence—didn't make empty threats. If Eirik pushed further, Silas would lose a finger. Perhaps more.

  But men like HIM respected only strength. Show him submission, and Eirik would spend the rest of his time here (however long that might be) as a prisoner to be exploited.

  "Centurion Titus."

  Eirik's voice was almost gentle.

  "I'm certain you could do exactly as you describe."

  The knife pressed slightly deeper. A bead of blood appeared at the edge.

  "However." Eirik continued. "I wonder if you'd prefer that I reveal my true identity here. Now. With all your guards present to witness it."

  Titus's remaining eye narrowed.

  "Your true identity? You mean there's more to this performance?"

  "Much more." Eirik held his gaze without blinking. "But certain knowledge, as I said, is reserved for certain ranks. If you force my hand now, in front of these men, the information becomes... uncontainable."

  The centurion studied him for a long moment.

  Then he laughed.

  "Nice try, boy. But I've heard better bluffs from men twice your age." His grip on the knife tightened. "Last chance. Who sent you? What are you really doing here?"

  Silas began to scream.

  Titus's arm rose, the blade catching the torchlight as it prepared to descend—

  Eirik reached to the power that had become as natural as breathing.

  The timing had to be perfect.

  As the knife began its downward arc, frost bloomed across its surface. In less than a heartbeat, the frost flowing from the knife onto Titus's fingers, across his knuckles, up his wrist.

  The knife hung in the air, three inches from Silas's finger, frozen mid-swing.

  Silence.

  Complete, absolute silence.

  Titus stared at his frozen hand. His mouth opened, but no sound emerged.

  The guards had gone pale. One of them had dropped his weapon, the clatter of metal against stone obscenely loud in the quiet.

  Eirik rose to his feet.

  "Centurion Titus. I offered you the opportunity to handle this matter with discretion. Yet You refused my courtesy and threatened my men. And now—"

  He let the frost spread another inch up the centurion’s forearm.

  "—you've forced me to reveal exactly what I hoped to show only the General."

  Titus's mouth worked soundlessly, opening and closing like a fish pulled from water.

  "W-what... What ARE you?"

  Eirik had gambled on exactly this reaction.

  In his time—a thousand years in the future—magic was commonplace. Cultivators walked the streets openly. Ice constructs, element manipulation, blood rituals—all of it had become accepted reality.

  But here, in the era of General Abercrombie's rise, magic was either nonexistent or newly born. The sacrifice that had opened the door between worlds had either not yet occurred, or had happened so recently that its effects hadn't spread beyond the General's inner circle.

  To these men, what Eirik had just done was impossible.

  Not difficult. Not impressive. Impossible.

  The knife dropped from Titus's nerveless fingers, clattering against the stone floor. The frost on his arm began to recede—Eirik pulled the cold back into himself, leaving only a faint numbness behind.

  The centurion stumbled backward, cradling his hand against his chest. He had lost all trace of authority.

  "You attempted to maim one of my men." Eirik repeated. "I will make a full accounting of this incident when I meet with the General."

  "I—" Titus swallowed hard. "Listen, I—you have to understand, in my position, people crawl out of that pool claiming all sorts of things, and I couldn't just—"

  "On your knees."

  "What?"

  "You heard me."

  Titus's face cycled through several expressions. Then he turned to his guards.

  "Out," he barked. "All of you. Now."

  The guards exchanged uncertain glances.

  "MOVE!"

  They scrambled for the door, nearly trampling each other in their haste to escape. Within seconds, the cell held only Titus, Eirik, and the still-bound Talons.

  The door slammed shut.

  "Please." Titus turned back to Eirik. "I'm a high-ranking officer. Fifteen years of service. If anyone even SUSPECTS I knelt to a prisoner—a stranger—my reputation would—"

  "On your knees."

  "You don't understand what you're asking! The men out there, they talk! And if word gets back to the General that I—"

  "On. Your. Knees."

  Titus's last resistance crumbled.

  He dropped.

  The thud of his knees hitting stone was loud in the enclosed space. The veteran of countless battles, terror of prisoners throughout the city—knelt before a man a third his age with his head bowed.

  "Do you understand," Eirik said quietly, "what your little demonstration has cost us?"

  "I—"

  "You and your guards saw what I am before the General himself did. Before I could present myself properly, on my own terms, with appropriate context." Eirik began to pace slowly around the kneeling centurion. "Do you know what kind of rumors will spread? What stories your men will tell their friends, their families, their drinking companions?"

  Titus's face had gone gray.

  "Oh gods," he whispered. "I've done something terrible, haven't I? My one good eye—it should be fed to the dogs. I should have seen—I should have known—"

  He pressed his forehead to the floor.

  "Please, great master. I beg you. Do not mention this to the General. Whatever punishment you see fit, I'll accept it gladly. Just don't—"

  "Stop groveling."

  Titus froze.

  "Get up. Find those guards. Lock them somewhere they can't spread tales until we've had a chance to speak with the General. If you can contain this situation, we may be able to salvage something from your foolishness."

  Relief flooded Titus's face.

  "Yes! Yes, at once! I'll have them in the deep cells within—"

  He was already scrambling for the door when Eirik's voice stopped him.

  "Centurion."

  Titus froze, hand on the latch.

  "You're forgetting something."

  The centurion turned, confusion evident.

  Eirik nodded toward the seven Talons still bound and gagged on the floor.

  "Oh." Titus's face reddened. "Right. Yes. Of course."

  He hurried back, producing a key from his belt. Within moments, the ropes fell away from wrists. Gags were removed. Seven men rose to their feet, rubbing circulation back into their hands.

  Titus completed his task with the efficiency of a man desperately trying to make amends. When the last Talon was free, he practically bowed his way toward the door.

  "I'll have those guards secured immediately. And I'll send word to arrange an audience with—"

  "Go."

  He went.

  The door closed behind him.

  Seven Talons stood in a loose semicircle, rubbing feeling back into their wrists. Their faces showed varying degrees of confusion.

  Eirik studied each face in turn.

  "The dreamscape. The charcoal burner's shop." He paused. "What do you remember?"

  Blank stares.

  "Commander?" Silas's brow furrowed. "What dreamscape?"

  "The fake reality Velthan created. After we jumped through the blood pool the first time. The perfectly preserved city with the blue sky. The castle, the cathedral, the letter from the dead mage."

  More confusion.

  "We jumped through the pool," Jory said slowly. "And then... we were here. In the market. With all the screaming."

  Eirik's jaw tightened.

  "None of you remember anything between jumping and arriving?"

  Heads shook around the circle.

  Eirik absorbed this.

  The dreamscape had been his alone.

  Velthan had crafted an entire fabricated reality—complete with fake Talons, fake clues, fake everything—targeted specifically at him. The real men had passed through the blood pool directly into... wherever this was. Only Eirik had been diverted into the Archmage's trap.

  Which meant instead of completing whatever scheme he had in mind, the old bastard had gotten a faceful of pig blood.

  The image brought a grim satisfaction.

  Eirik turned to face Olaf fully. "Olaf."

  The big man stepped forward. "Aye, Commander?"

  "I need you to tell me about the first time we met."

  Olaf's brow furrowed. "The first time? Ye mean after the troll fight? In the holdin' pens below the Frost Pit?"

  "Yes. But I need details. Everything you remember."

  "Commander, with respect, what's this about?"

  "Humor me."

  Olaf scratched his beard. "Alright. Let's see. I'd just killed that frost troll—nasty bugger, bigger than most. Took down two other prisoners before I finally got it with the chain trick."

  "What chain trick specifically?"

  "Eh? Ye were there, Commander. Ye saw it."

  "Tell me anyway."

  The big man's eyes narrowed slightly, but he continued. "I tangled its legs with the prisoner chain, blinded it with hot coals from the brazier, then knocked loose one of them wall-bolts. The chain whipped down and broke its neck."

  "Which wall?"

  "What?"

  "Which wall was the bolt on? Left or right from where you were standing?"

  Olaf paused, his face screwing up in concentration. "Right. My right. The beast slammed into it headfirst when I dodged."

  "Good. What happened after?"

  "After?" Olaf's expression turned wary. "The crowd went mad. Guards came and dragged me out. Took me to a side chamber to clean up."

  "Describe the chamber."

  "It was... Frost's breath, Commander, this was months ago. Why does it matter—"

  "Describe it."

  Olaf's jaw set. "Fine. Small room. Maybe ten feet square. Stone walls. A wooden tub in one corner that was steamin'. "

  "Who entered first? Me or Lady Fenrir?"

  "Ye both came in together. Ye said somethin' about seeing the fight, congratulatin' me on earnin' me freedom." Olaf's eyes opened. "Then Isolde, though I didn't know her name yet—she tossed me a pouch of silver."

  "How much silver?"

  "How should I know? I didn't count it there and then!"

  "But you did count it later. How much?"

  Olaf's expression darkened. "Twenty-something talons. I don't— It was months ago! Why are ye askin' me this?"

  "What did I say to you?"

  "Commander—"

  "Your response too. The whole conversation."

  The big man's hands had curled into fists. "Ye said I'd used me head. That ye could use a man like me. Then ye introduced yourself—Eirik Stormcrow, Third Son of Baron Cedric. I made some crack about ye bein' softer than a whore's tits, based on rumors. Ye told me to ask around about the duel, about what happened in court. Then ye had the lady give me the silver and told me to clean up, buy decent clothes, eat a real meal, and report to yer quarters after midday the next day."

  Eirik allowed himself a small smile.

  "You're you."

  "Frost's frozen teats, Commander. Was there ever any doubt?"

  "There was." Eirik's smile faded. "In Velthan's dreamscape, one of the fake versions of you made me question whether the real you had been replaced."

  Olaf's expression darkened.

  "The old snake put a copy of me in yer head? A fake Olaf running around saying fake things?"

  "Eight fake Talons. An entire fabricated city. All designed to make me willingly give my blood for his ritual."

  "And ye didn't?"

  "I gave him pig blood instead."

  Olaf laughed—a genuine, belly-deep sound that echoed off the cell walls.

  "Pig blood! Ye fed an Archmage pig blood and he fell for it!" The big man slapped his thigh. "Commander, I could kiss ye. I truly could."

  "Please don't."

  "The look on his face when he realized—" Olaf wiped tears from his eyes. "Frost's teats, I'd give my left arm to have seen that."

  "You might get your chance." Eirik's voice sobered. "Velthan and Caelum might come after us."

  The laughter died.

  "Here? Now?"

  "Probably. Though 'here' and 'now' are complicated concepts at the moment." Eirik turned toward the cell's small window, where distant sounds of city life filtered through. "Which brings us to the larger problem."

  He stared at the slice of sky visible through the bars.

  "If this is another illusion—though I highly doubt it now, given what you just told me—then we're still trapped."

  "And if it isn't?"

  Eirik turned away from the window.

  This was an excellent question.

  When he'd leapt through that blood pool, his expectations had been straightforward enough. Find the artifact, grab it and get out. Maybe face some guardian—a dragon, perhaps, or some ancient construct left to protect the General's legacy.

  A straightforward heist.

  If this isn't a fake dreamscape served by Velthan, then there should be at least some sort of lead to that artifact, not this another layer of complexity to untangle.

  But it had never been a heist, had it?

  The artifact wasn't sitting in some dusty vault waiting to be claimed. If it were that simple, the dozens of expeditions over the centuries would have found it.

  No. Maybe the artifact—whatever it actually was—couldn't be taken.

  Velthan had been obsessed with the General's legacy. Had spoken of him with an almost religious reverence. And the ritual—the blood, the willing sacrifice, the need for Eirik's specific bloodline—none of that made sense if they were just retrieving some dusty relic.

  But if the artifact was the General himself...

  The thought sent a chill through him.

  If the goal was to somehow bind the General's power, his essence, his accumulated divine authority, into something that could be controlled in the future...

  That would require more than just showing up and grabbing it.

  That would require playing a role in events that had already happened—or rather, were happening right now from this temporal vantage point.

  His frustration began to shift into something else as he considered the situation from this new angle.

  If the artifact was the General himself—or some intangible form of his authority—then the power it granted wouldn't be a simple magical tool.

  It would be command.

  Not over ice or fire or any element. Over something far more valuable.

  Eirik's breath caught as the pieces snapped into place.

  The spirits.

  He could still see them—that vast army of ghostly warriors descending from the churning sky. Thousands upon thousands, each one a soldier who had served the General in life and continued to serve him in death.

  An army that required no food. No gold for wages or horses for transport.

  An army that could sweep across the North like a tide of pale fire, overwhelming any force that stood in its path.

  If Velthan had been right about the artifact's power—if even a fraction of what he'd witnessed was truly possible—then the political games that had consumed Eirik's attention for weeks suddenly seemed small.

  The endless calculation of who wanted what from whom... All of it could be swept aside by a single command.

  Patience, he reminded himself. Such power often comes at a cost.

  In the world above—the real world—Eirik had been perpetually outmatched since he left Fort Abercrombie. The Duke's authority suffocated him. Velthan's magic dwarfed him. Caelum's cultivation outranked him by entire realms.

  He'd spent the entire expedition playing defense.

  But here?

  The centurion's reaction had been instructive. A veteran of fifteen years had dropped to his knees at the sight of frost spreading across his hand.

  Because he'd demonstrated power that shouldn't exist. Power that would demand attention at the highest levels.

  The General's attention.

  The General needed strategists. The siege that had eventually doomed this city was either ongoing or approaching. And here was Eirik, who possessed knowledge and techniques that wouldn't be developed for another thousand years.

  That was Eirik's strength.

  Not the raw power of Caelum. Not the deception of Velthan. But the ability to look at a situation and find the path that others had overlooked.

  Here, in this place, with an audience—he finally had room to take the offensive.

  "Commander?" Olaf was watching him with concern. "Ye've got that look again."

  "What look?"

  "The one ye get right before ye do something that makes the rest of us nervous."

  Eirik allowed himself a smile.

  "I'm thinking about leverage, Olaf."

  He stopped pacing upon hearing footsteps in the corridor.

  The door opened.

  Centurion Titus stood in the threshold. Behind him, two guards in finer armor than the previous escorts—officers, judging by the insignia on their breastplates.

  "The General will see you," Titus said. "Now."

  Eirik nodded. "Talons," he said without turning. "With me."