The hood smelled of sweat, but Eirik accepted it without complaint.

  The guards had been efficient—professional, even—as they'd fitted the rough cloth over each Talon's head and bound their hands with soft rope.

  "No talking," a voice commanded.

  A hand gripped Eirik's elbow and guided him forward.

  He counted paces out of habit. Fifty steps down a corridor. A turn to the right. Another thirty steps. Stairs—descending, then ascending. The air changed, carrying hints of incense.

  The city was alive around him, even if he couldn't see it.

  He would have given much for a glimpse of the fortifications. The supply wagons. The faces of soldiers to gauge their morale. Had the siege begun in earnest, or were the Khorath still massing beyond the walls?

  But the General—or whoever commanded in his name—had made a decision. These nine strangers from the sacred pool would see nothing of strategic value until their loyalties were established.

  Eirik couldn't fault the logic.

  They walked for what felt like half an hour. The ground changed from stone underfoot to polished wood. Eventually, the hand on his elbow tightened.

  "Stop."

  The hood was removed.

  Eirik blinked against the sudden light.

  They stood in a small courtyard with a single cherry tree dominating the center. Stone benches lined the walls, and a narrow stream wound through channels carved into the flagstones.

  This was designed for private conversations away from prying ears.

  Elite guards lined the courtyard's edges, faces hidden behind masks in the shape of snarling dragons. Each held a halberd at perfect rest.

  "Wait here," Titus said, and then he was gone.

  They waited.

  Minutes stretched into what felt like an hour. Eirik's men had arranged themselves in a loose cluster near the cherry tree.

  Finally, a door opened in the far wall.

  An officer emerged—another dragon-masked guard, this one with golden trim on his armor.

  "The leader boy. Alone."

  Eirik stepped forward.

  They passed through the door into a narrow corridor. Two more guards fell into step behind him. At the corridor's end, a small chamber waited.

  "Arms out."

  Eirik complied.

  The search was thorough. Hands ran along every seam of his clothing, checked his boots for hidden blades, even examined the inside of his mouth. His storage ring—still on his finger—drew particular attention.

  "What is this?"

  "A ring."

  "Its purpose?"

  "Sentimental value."

  The guard's eyes narrowed, but he made no move to remove it. Storage rings, like most magical implements, wouldn't exist for another thousand years.

  "Through there."

  They pushed him forward.

  The room beyond was spare. Just cushions arranged on a floor of polished dark wood, with screens of painted silk dividing the space into smaller sections. Incense burned out of sight.

  Eirik lowered himself onto one of the cushions, folding his legs beneath him. The position was unfamiliar.

  His knees began to ache within minutes.

  He waited.

  Light shifted through the silk screens as the sun moved across the sky.

  A simple test, but effective nonetheless: make the petitioner wait. Eirik had played this game before—on both sides of it.

  He was still sitting in perfect stillness when the screens finally parted.

  The man who entered was not what Eirik expected.

  His legs hung uselessly beneath him, supported by a contraption of wood and leather that resembled a primitive wheelchair. Two guards flanked him.

  A cripple.

  Eirik rose to greet him.

  "Sit."

  The word was soft . Eirik lowered himself back to the cushion.

  The guards positioned the wheelchair across from him. The crippled man studied Eirik in silence for a long moment.

  "I am Marcus Aurelius Corvinus," he said finally. "I speak with the General's voice in matters such as these."

  Not the General, then.

  Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

  "Centurion Titus provided a detailed account of your arrival. He was quite shaken, I should say."

  Eirik said nothing.

  "So." Corvinus folded his hands in his lap. "Who are you? And where do you come from?"

  "Eirik Stormcrow. As for where I come from, that would be a matter beyond the comprehension available here. I'd rather keep it to myself."

  Corvinus's expression didn't change.

  "Interesting. But I think one of your men already said something to Titus." A pause. "You come from the future, apparently."

  "My men did not speak falsely."

  "And in this future..." Corvinus leaned forward slightly. "What happened? Did the Sunless City truly become a ruin?"

  Eirik held his gaze. "It would seem so."

  A long silence.

  "A pity."

  "A pity indeed."

  Corvinus nodded slowly, then he gestured to his guards.

  "Help me turn. We're finished here."

  The guards moved immediately, hands reaching for the wheelchair's handles. Corvinus was already looking away, his attention apparently dismissed.

  Wait.

  That was it? The entire meeting?

  Eirik's mind raced. This was too abrupt. A man of Corvinus's obvious intelligence wouldn't arrange an elaborate interrogation only to abandon it at the first philosophical obstacle.

  Unless they wanted to see how he'd react when dismissed. Would he reveal desperation?

  Eirik's knees screamed in protest, but he kept his expression neutral.

  "A shame, then."

  The words came out casual.

  "I had thought the General—or the best of his men, based on the legends I've heard—would be people who could teach me a great deal." Eirik rose to his feet, ignoring the stabbing pain in his legs. "Instead, you succumb to crude logic."

  Slowly, the wheelchair turned back.

  "Crude?"

  "Let me ask you something." Eirik clasped his hands behind his back. "Do you know that you will die eventually?"

  A flicker crossed Corvinus's face.

  "Everyone does. Of course."

  "Then why do you wake each morning? Why do you eat, breathe, think? Why build—" Eirik gestured to the city beyond, "—something so extraordinary, if you know the end from the beginning?"

  He let the question hang in the air.

  "Your logic isn't even that of a simple mother who raises a child knows that child will someday die. If this is what the General truly thinks—that knowledge of eventual failure renders effort meaningless—then like I said..." Eirik's voice hardened. "It is truly a shame."

  He turned toward the door.

  One step. Two.

  "Please. Sit."

  Eirik turned. Corvinus was watching him with a new expression.

  He returned to his cushion.

  "Are we done with those low-grade philosophies, then?"

  "Indeed we are." Corvinus gestured, and his guards positioned him properly again. "By what means did you cross the veil of time to reach us here?"

  "Are you certain you want to discuss that here? Now?"

  Corvinus waved his hand. "Leave us."

  The guards exchanged glances.

  "Sir, this man demonstrated magical capabilities that—"

  "I said leave."

  The guards bowed and retreated through the screens.

  Corvinus turned back to Eirik.

  "What the General knows, I know. So please—speak freely."

  Eirik considered his options.

  He wasn't inexperienced in games of deception. It had served him well enough against enemies who expected such tactics.

  But Velthan was coming.

  The Archmage had decades of experience in court intrigue. He would spin lies wrapped in truth, construct narratives designed to position himself as an ally and Eirik as a threat. Every deception Eirik attempted would be matched and exceeded.

  Unless Eirik changed the rules entirely.

  Truth. Complete, unvarnished truth.

  "We arrived a thousand years later, on the same ritual ground, and sacrificed—"

  "Stop."

  Eirik fell silent. Touchy subject, I guess.

  Corvinus sat very still for a long moment.

  "The people your men mentioned," he said finally. "This Archmage and the Duke's son. Who are they? What are they after?"

  "Velthan is an Archmage in service to the Duke of Frostfall. He seeks the General's power to further the Duke's military ambitions—the specific nature of which I don't know, though I can speculate."

  "And the Duke's son?"

  "Caelum Frostgrip. He was groomed from childhood, presented before nobles and influential figures across the North as a great warrior. A one-of-a-kind talent, supposedly destined to wield the General's power."

  Corvinus's eyes narrowed. "What kind of power?"

  "The power of armies. That's what Velthan told me."

  "And is the Duke's son truly a one-of-a-kind talent?"

  "I believe he is not."

  "How so?"

  "If I'm not mistaken, they'll appear shortly after me. Then you can judge for yourself."

  Corvinus nodded slowly, absorbing this. His fingers drummed against the arm of his wheelchair.

  "And what about you, Lord Eirik Stormcrow? What are your purposes?"

  "My purpose is to prevent Velthan from corrupting what the General built." Eirik met the man's gaze directly. "In my time, I hold Fort Abercrombie—just south of the Icefang Pass. In fact, that was the very reason the Archmage invited me on this expedition."

  Corvinus's eyebrow rose. "Fort Abercrombie?"

  "Verily. And my powers are closely linked to that place. I built the fort not with stones and clay, but with ice. The display Titus described was merely one of my capabilities. There are many more."

  A long silence.

  "What do you plan to achieve here, Lord Stormcrow?"

  Eirik had expected this question. He had prepared several possible answers—diplomatic and ambiguous. Now, he found himself discarding all of them.

  "I want to achieve what the General wants to achieve. Break the siege, kill all the Khorath, and rewrite history."

  Corvinus stared at him.

  Then he laughed, as if Eirik had told an unexpectedly good joke.

  "Those are strong words. Big, big words for a boy."

  "I've found that assuming humility and accepting my proper station is exhausting, actually. I've been doing it for quite some time, and it's done me more harm than good." Eirik leaned forward slightly. "This is an interview, isn't it? Then, in the spirit of truth—you asked what I want. This is what I truly want."

  The laughter faded from Corvinus's face.

  "I like the sentiment, Lord Stormcrow. Truly, I do." He gestured vaguely at the walls around them. "But you must understand—the Sunless City wasn't built by empty words and lofty ambitions."

  His gaze sharpened.

  "I saw you arrived with eight men. Why don't we use this as a training ground of sorts?" A thin smile. "I'll have twenty soldiers besiege your position. If you can hold for one hour, I'll grant you a meeting with the General himself."

  Of course there would be another test.

  Eirik ran the numbers quickly. Nine against twenty elite guards. His men were good, but they were outnumbered more than two to one, and the guards had home advantage.

  But this was also his only opportunity to establish himself before Velthan arrived and poisoned the well.

  He had already shown his hand—revealed his origins, his purposes, his connection to the Fort. If he failed this test, all that honesty would count for nothing.

  Whatever happened next had to be more than impressive.

  "Make it thirty."

  Corvinus blinked. "I beg your pardon?"

  "Thirty soldiers. Not twenty."

  "Lord Stormcrow, these are elite guards. Each one has trained for years in—"

  "Make it fifty."

  Corvinus's expression hardened. "I was enjoying our conversation up to this point. Please do not overstep."

  "The feeling is mutual." Eirik rose to his feet, ignoring the screaming protest of his knees. "I did not come here as some common soldier or mid-grade commander. I came to help the General win his siege. If I can't handle a simple demonstration, how can he trust me with anything that matters?"

  He took a step forward.

  "Make it one hundred. And I'll stake my life—and the lives of my men—on the outcome."

  "One hundred of the General's elite guard? Against nine men? Lord Stormcrow, you're proposing an execution."

  "Then you'll be rid of a lunatic who wasted your time."

  "This is—"

  "Let him do it."

  The voice came beyond the screens.

  Every guard in the building dropped to their knees simultaneously. The sound of armor hitting wood echoed through the chamber.

  Corvinus's face had gone pale.

  "General—"

  The screens parted.

  He was tall—taller than Olaf—with the broad shoulders and powerful frame of a warrior in his prime. His face was handsome, marked by a thin scar that ran from his left temple to the corner of his jaw. Dark hair, shot through with gray at the temples.

  He wore a simple robe of undyed cloth, as if he'd come straight from his morning exercises.

  General Abercrombie studied Eirik for a short moment.

  "One hundred men," he said. "One hour. If you fail, you and your men die."