The next three days vanished in the glorious absence of impending doom.

  Eirik Stormcrow, the man who’d faced down the Everwinter Order, dueled a demon with words, and rebuilt a goddess-statue taller than most keeps, was… reading.

  Not tactical treatises. Not ancient grimoires (though Mara’s ‘Gelu Praxis’ sat neglected in a corner). Not ledgers or reports.

  He was devouring novels.

  Specifically, the kind peddled by traveling merchants in gaudy bindings – overwrought epics of chivalry, lurid tales of forbidden romance between minor nobles and milkmaids with improbably pert features, and pulp ‘adventure’ chronicles featuring heroes whose muscles had muscles.

  A sizeable pile, pilfered from the belongings of pilgrims and merchants during Abercrombie’s chaotic growth, occupied one corner of his newly carved ‘man cave’.

  It wasn’t luxurious – a rough stone slab served as a table, another as a bench, torch providing light – but it was undisturbed.

  He hadn’t slept much initially; waking, he'd felt like an exhausted dishcloth.

  And the thought of facing the council, the pilgrims, the demands... it made his recovered arm hurt.

  So, he'd searched around. And found distraction.

  His current victim was The Lusty Lad of Lornstead, its cover depicting a suspiciously well-groomed peasant lad flexing amidst swooning noblewomen.

  He snorted, turning a page with unnecessary force.

  "Absolute drivel," he muttered aloud. "This ‘Braedon the Bastard’ single-handedly defeats twenty knights after a three-day drinking binge? While simultaneously wooing the Duchess with… ah, yes. ‘His eyes held a melancholy depth that promised both danger and untamed passion.’ Melancholy depth while hacking limbs off? Ridiculous. And why is the Duchess always conveniently bathing in secluded forest pools?"

  He tossed the book onto a growing pile of discards. "Next."

  He picked up The Chronicles of Grimwald the Grim, promising ‘Epic Battles and Dark Sorcery!’ By page five, he was groaning.

  "Grimwald, supposedly a master strategist, just charged headlong into a fortified position because the enemy commander ‘insulted his beard’. And this sorcery? ‘He waved his gnarled staff, chanting words of power… and a badger appeared.’ A badger? That’s the ‘dark sorcery’?"

  He shook his head.

  "You know what? I kind of respect the badger. Probably the smartest character so far."

  He was debating whether the badger deserved its own spin-off series when a subtle chime resonated through the ice wall sealing his chamber.

  Someone requesting entry. Someone who knew where to request.

  Eirik sighed, the brief bubble of absurdity popping. He waved a hand, the ice wall thinning to opacity, revealing Isolde Fenrir.

  He sighed again, and dissolved the ice entirely.

  Isolde stepped in, impeccably dressed.

  She took in the scene: the pile of lurid paperbacks, the discarded mead skin, Eirik slouched on the stone bench in a worn tunic, looking more like a hobo than the commander who’d reshaped reality days before.

  One eyebrow arched eloquently.

  "Commander. You’ve been… difficult to locate."

  "That was rather the point, Isolde," Eirik replied.

  Isolde remained standing, her gaze sweeping the titles.

  "The Lusty Lad of Lornstead? The Duke’s Secret Stablehand? Commander, are you feeling quite well?"

  "Never better," Eirik declared, picking up Grimwald again. "Escapism, Lady Fenrir. Highly underrated. Keeps the existential dread at bay after one banishes primordial hungers. Speaking of dread, Grimwald here just summoned a badger. Dark times indeed."

  Isolde pinched the bridge of her nose. "Eirik. We need to talk. Urgently."

  "We are talking," he pointed out, flipping a page. "See? Talking. About badgers and improbable heroics. Much more pleasant than whatever fresh hell awaits outside. Did Yorick discover we’re bankrupt? Has Borin sent another passive-aggressive raven demanding Birgitte’s trousseau details? Has the statue started weeping maple syrup?"

  "The Order," Isolde stated. "Sister Mara sent word. The Ascendant Circle is in uproar. Varina’s faction is spinning tales of your ‘blasphemous desecration’ and ‘collusion with demons’. They’re debating whether they should held a formal trial for you at the Everwinter Peaks. They’re citing the size of the new statue as proof of hubris."

  Eirik didn’t look up.

  "Hubris? It’s just ice. Big ice. They’re welcome to come melt it if they’re that offended. Takes pressure off the Skarls."

  "Be serious!" Isolde snapped. "This isn’t just Varina’s lunacy anymore. The accusations carry weight. They’re saying Malakor’s name reached temples hundreds of miles away. They’re calling you the conduit!"

  Eirik finally lowered the book, meeting her gaze. There was a flicker of the old intensity, quickly veiled by weary sarcasm.

  "Delightful." He picked up the book again. "Tell Mara I appreciate the heads-up."

  Isolde stared at him.

  Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  "Eirik, stop this. You cannot hide down here, buried in… in pulp! The realm needs you focused. Cedric is demanding legal counsel regarding Rurik. Borin is expecting a formal proposal regarding Birgitte. Flint’s caravan is delayed by snows, and his factors are getting restless. Leif is compiling threat assessments on potential Skarl retaliatory paths. Yorick is practically vibrating with budget anxieties. Sindri has seventeen proposals for expansions that require your approval. And the pilgrims…" she took a breath, "they’re starting to whisper about why their savior is unseen."

  "Let them all wait." Eirik said. " The world didn’t end. I deserve…" He gestured vaguely at the books.

  He picked up a different book, The Sorrows of Lady Elara.

  "Look at this one. Lady Elara’s main sorrow, as far as I can tell, is choosing between two incredibly dull suitors, Lord Blandington and Sir Tedious de Monotony. She spends three chapters describing the embroidery on a handkerchief. Three. Chapters." He looked at Isolde. "Is this what passes for high drama in the courts? Because if so, Borin’s realm sounds infinitely more terrifying than Malakor."

  Isolde deflated slightly. The fight went out of her posture. She looked at the pile of books, then back at Eirik’s exhausted, defiant face.

  A reluctant smile touched her lips.

  "Lord Blandington? Truly?"

  "Swear by the Frost Mother," Eirik said, holding up the book. "Page ninety-two: ‘Lord Blandington’s cravat, a marvel of starched linen and indecisive lace, seemed to mirror the turmoil in Lady Elara’s own heart, its folds holding secrets as numerous and pointless as the stars themselves.’ Stars. Comparing a neckcloth to celestial bodies. The sheer, unmitigated audacity."

  Isolde snorted. It was an undignified sound. She clapped a hand over her mouth, but her shoulders shook. "That… that is impressively awful."

  "See?" Eirik grinned. "Finally, someone who appreciates the depth of the tragedy! Sit, Isolde. Before you suffocate trying not to laugh. We have mead. Terrible mead, admittedly, but it burns nicely."

  Hesitantly, almost against her will, Isolde sat on the opposite bench.

  Eirik rummaged in a niche carved into the wall and pulled out another skin of mead and two surprisingly well-carved ice cups. He poured.

  "To terrible literature," Eirik toasted, raising his cup. "May it forever distract us from slightly more terrible realities."

  Isolde raised her own cup. "To neckcloths as deep as the cosmos."

  They drank. The mead was sour and overly spiced. Isolde coughed. "What is this?"

  "Yorick calls it ‘Ironhelm Reserve’," Eirik said, grimacing. "I suspect Borin uses it to clean his boots. But it has character. Like Lord Blandington’s cravat."

  Isolde took another cautious sip.

  "It has something." She looked around the cave, taking it in properly now. "How long have you been hiding?"

  "Long enough to plow through The Lusty Lad, half of Grimwald, and develop a deep and abiding hatred for Lady Elara’s handkerchief," Eirik said. "Also long enough for Olaf to stop pounding on the ice wall every hour. He just grumbles outside now. Progress." He pushed a plate towards her – hard cheese, tougher journey bread, and a few dried mushrooms. "Dinner is served. Fit for a Lord Commander avoiding his responsibilities."

  Isolde picked up a piece of cheese. "It’s… functional." She hesitated. "You scared people, Eirik. Disappearing after… that."

  He met her gaze, the amusement fading slightly.

  "I scared myself, Isolde. That thing… And I stood there and told it to leave its own party because I owned the venue." He took a long pull of the awful mead. "It worked. But Frost knows why. Feels less like a victory and more like… dodging an avalanche by stepping into a bear cave."

  Isolde nodded slowly.

  "Fair enough," she conceded. She picked up The Sorrows of Lady Elara with a distasteful look. "So, tell me about this handkerchief. Does it achieve sentience by the end? Become the true villain?"

  Eirik launched into a detailed, scathing summary, complete with dramatic readings of the most overwrought passages. Isolde listened, initially out of politeness, then with increasing incredulity and amusement.

  She pointed out historical inaccuracies in the novel’s depiction of courtly life "Pepper wasn’t that expensive in Duchess Althea’s time!", dissected the improbable logistics of Sir Tedious’s clandestine balcony climbs "That ivy wouldn’t hold a squirrel, let alone a man in full plate!", and offered devastating critiques of Lady Elara’s decision-making skills "She chose the handkerchief description over investigating the obviously poisoned wine? Idiot!"

  They demolished the mead, the cheese, and Lady Elara’s reputation.

  Isolde’s formal demeanor melted entirely, replaced by a surprisingly earthy sense of humor Eirik hadn’t seen before. They laughed, genuinely laughed, in the quiet cave.

  At some point, Eirik produced a different book, Ballads of the Borderlands, marginally better written. They took turns reading aloud the most melodramatic death scenes, critiquing the warrior-poet’s lament for his lost love.

  "It’s strangely cathartic, isn’t it?" Isolde mused, wiping a tear of laughter from her eye after a particularly egregious stanza about a dying hero’s horse weeping diamonds. "Mocking the overwrought nonsense."

  Eririk leaned back against the cold stone, the warmth of the mead and the unexpected companionship finally loosening the knots in his shoulders.

  "Thank you, Isolde."

  "For enduring terrible poetry and worse mead?"

  "For not dragging me back upstairs by my ear," he said, his voice losing its sardonic edge. "For understanding that sometimes, the strongest thing a commander can do is… hide. And read."

  Isolde met his gaze.

  "Just don’t make a habit of it, Commander. Abercrombie needs its Lightning Rod. And," she gestured at the pile of books, "your critiques, while entertaining, are perhaps wasted solely on paperbacks."

  He chuckled. "Point taken."

  Eirik was about to suggest they tackle The Duke’s Secret Stablehand when his eyes fell on the cover of Ballads of the Borderlands again. Not the melodramatic artwork, but the map printed on the inside cover flap – a crude rendering of the northern territories, including the Skarl Badlands beyond.

  His gaze snagged on a specific symbol: a coiled serpent—or was it a dragon?—wrapped around what looked like a tower or spire. The creature's maw was open, as if roaring silently at the sky.

  Beneath it, in faded lettering almost too small to read: Urbs Sine Sole. The Sunless City.

  Isolde noticed his sudden stillness. "Eirik?"

  He picked up the book, studying the map intently. "This symbol," he pointed, his voice losing its lazy cadence. "The dragon. And this text—'Sunless City.' Have you heard of it?"

  Isolde leaned closer, frowning. "No. Why?"

  Before Eirik could answer, the subtle chime resonated through the ice wall again.

  Isolde instantly donned her usual mask of stern composure. She straightened her back, placed her ice cup on the stone slab with a decisive click, and smoothed the front of her tunic as if preparing for a formal audience.

  Eirik leaned back and took a deliberate sip of the terrible mead before waving his hand.

  The ice dissolved.

  A Talon strode in, his posture ramrod straight.

  "Commander, my apologies for the—" He stopped short, his gaze taking in the scene in a fraction of a second: the scattered, garish books, the two nearly empty ice cups, the mead skin, and Leif's mother sitting opposite Eirik. "Commander. The matter is urgent."

  Eirik sighed, swirling the dregs in his cup.

  "Gods, what is it? Did Borin send another complaint about the dowry requirement? Was someone bothered by the statue again? Has a chantress fainted from the sheer audacity of my blasphemy? Whatever can wait, soldier. I need some rest."

  The Talon's jaw remained tight.

  "None of them, Commander. It was a letter… from the Duke."

  The Invincible Bastard.

  The Sunless City.

  Damn. This feels good. This is something I want to be doing.

  Danielle, Blackjack, Tony, Romain, John, zxcvjulzs, Fiona, Curthbert, Myrdvang, Lauren, Christine, Suvan, Plop, Cjckal, JW, Rob, Bcopps, SmokeyG, Philip, Helen, Detrox, Maramu, Toby, Raven, Andrew, David, Jonathan, Rod, Elena, Yedek, Connor, Dave_S, Akua, Taylor, Logan, Géraud, The White Hare, Viktor, SC, Haldhin, Marquel, Koranuso, Reader 11, Reader reading, Raymond, Lorenzo, Frardowin, Corey, Ahmed, and Alexander.