"Before I answer that," Velthan raised a finger, "I need to correct a small misunderstanding."

  Eirik's eyes narrowed.

  "You assumed the General performed his ritual before the Thaw Blizzard—as if he were timing his actions to coincide with some pre-existing cosmic event. That's not quite accurate."

  "Then what—"

  "The Thaw Blizzard didn't exist before General Abercrombie. His sacrifice created it." Velthan spread his hands. "The massive release of spiritual energy, the tearing of the veil between worlds, the blood poured onto this very altar—all of it generated a wound in reality that has been bleeding ever since."

  So that's how it is.

  "Every year," Velthan continued, "when the conditions align, that wound reopens slightly. The Blizzard is the symptom."

  "So we're not waiting for the alignment," Eirik said slowly. "We're going to cause it."

  "Precisely." The Archmage's smile was thin. "Seeking the exact astronomical and meteorological conditions from a thousand years ago would be... impractical. Instead, we take the spirit of the act, not the form."

  Eirik felt ice crawl up his spine.

  Spirit of the act? He couldn’t possibly meant…

  The General had performed a ritual. A sacrifice in blood.

  Eirik felt his stomach drop.

  No. It couldn't be. There had to be another interpretation. Animals, perhaps. The General could have sacrificed livestock—cattle, horses, something valuable but not...

  But Velthan had already dismissed that possibility, hadn't he? If they were to use animals now, the Archmage was going to make sure they bring those ponies along, however challenging it might be.

  So if the ritual required recreating that sacrifice—not the form, but the spirit—

  Oh gods.

  Oh gods no.

  Human sacrifice.

  The words hung unspoken, but everyone understood. The soldiers standing at attention around the plaza shifted uneasily. Even Ser Konrad's weathered face had gone pale.

  "Gather around," Velthan called out, his voice carrying across the ruins. "All of you. Form a circle around the altar."

  The command brooked no argument.

  Within minutes, nearly a hundred men stood in a rough ring around the obsidian platform.

  Eirik found himself standing between Olaf and Kael, his Talons clustered nearby. Brenn was propped against a broken pillar, still playing his role as the dying man.

  "We will settle this in the traditional manner," Velthan announced. "Lots will be drawn."

  Holy shit.

  "Wait." Eirik stepped forward before he could stop himself. "Why can't we go back outside and capture some Skarls? There were plenty of them in that camp. Caelum already spilled enough of their blood to fill a lake."

  Several soldiers nodded at this suggestion.

  Velthan's expression didn't change.

  "Skarl blood won't work, Lord Stormcrow."

  "Why not?"

  "Expeditions before us tried exactly that approach. They dragged Skarl prisoners to this very altar, slit their throats, performed every ritual they could reconstruct from the ancient texts." The Archmage shook his head slowly. "Nothing happened. The door remained closed."

  "But—"

  "By definition, sacrifice entails you gave up something dear to you. General Abercrombie spent his entire life slaughtering the nomadic tribes. Their blood cost him nothing." Velthan's voice hardened. "The ritual requires Northern blood. Preferably from someone... special."

  Special.

  He fucking meant Eirik, didn't he?

  "We will require a blood sample from everyone present," Velthan continued. "A small cut, nothing serious. This blood will be collected and blessed. Then, we will select three among us to serve as intercessors."

  Intercessors.

  Such a gentle word for what he meant.

  "The intercessors will carry our combined blood with them as they make the ultimate offering. In this way, we all participate in the sacrifice, yet only three bear its full weight." He said it matter-of-factly.

  "So we draw lots?" Eirik forced his voice to remain steady. "Random selection?"

  "Precisely." Velthan nodded. "Everyone except myself, Lord Caelum, and you, Lord Stormcrow."

  "Why are we exempt?"

  "I am necessary to perform the ritual itself. Lord Caelum represents His Grace's interests and must survive to report our success. And you..." The Archmage's eyes glittered. "Your presence is essential for accessing the artifact."

  Of course. They needed him alive. For now.

  Lord Caelum stepped forward. "Two lots," the Duke's son declared. "Not three."

  Velthan raised an eyebrow. "Explain."

  Caelum pointed directly at Brenn, still slumped against his pillar.

  "That one is already dying. Look at him—he won't last another day. Instead of wasting his death on infection, we might as well put him to use here and now. His life still has value as an offering."

  No.

  Eirik's blood ran cold.

  Velthan tilted his head, considering. "Hm. That's actually a reasonable point."

  Reasonable. The word made Eirik want to vomit.

  "The soldier is clearly terminal," the Archmage mused. "Extracting value from an inevitable death rather than letting it go to waste... there's a certain efficiency to the logic."

  Eirik's mind scrambled for leverage. Direct opposition would be dismissed. He needed an argument that worked within their twisted framework.

  "Archmage Velthan," Eirik said, "You said Skarl blood doesn't work because their blood was considered unworthy by the General's standards. Correct?"

  "Correct."

  "Then using Brenn would violate the same principle."

  Velthan's eyes sharpened with interest. "Go on."

  "We don't offer the gods our sickest animals, our rotting grain, our spoiled wine." Eirik gestured toward the altar. "When a lord makes a sacrifice to the Frost Mother, he doesn't drag the mangiest sheep from his flock. He selects the finest—the strongest, the healthiest, the most valuable."

  Several soldiers were nodding now, following his logic.

  "If we truly want to please whatever power waits behind that door," Eirik continued, "we should show proper respect. Offering a dying man isn't sacrifice. We'd be throwing away trash and calling it tribute."

  Caelum's face reddened.

  "Lord Stormcrow makes a valid theological point," Velthan's expression thoughtful. "The quality of the offering matters."

  Eirik pressed his advantage.

  "If we're serious about this, we should rank ourselves by cultivation realm. The strongest warriors go to the altar. Show the gods we're offering our best, not hiding our champions behind the bodies of the weak."

  This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

  Which meant his men—most of them hovering between Snow and Frost—would find themselves comfortably far from the altar. The Duke's champions, however, would not.

  The Duke's son reached for his sword.

  "Careful, Lord Caelum." Eirik's voice was ice. "We're discussing theology, not personal grievances."

  Caelum went white, then purple with rage. "I'll gut you right here, you scheming—"

  "ENOUGH."

  Velthan's voice cracked. Power rippled through the air, pressing against everyone present.

  "Lord Stormcrow raises interesting points," the Archmage said slowly. "However, there's a flaw in his reasoning."

  Of course there is.

  "The sacrifice cannot be forced."

  Eirik blinked. "What?"

  "A victim dragged screaming to the altar, fighting every step—that's execution. True sacrifice requires acceptance. The offering must, on some level, consent to their fate."

  "You're saying the person has to want to die?"

  "Not want, necessarily. But accept. There's a difference." The Archmage began pacing slowly around the altar. "If we simply selected our strongest warriors and forced them onto the stone, we wouldn't be making offerings of power. We'd be punishing excellence. The ritual would interpret that as an insult."

  "So what do you suggest? Three willing, powerful warriors who are perfectly happy to have their throats slit?" Eirik let sarcasm bleed into his voice. "I'm sure there's a long line of volunteers."

  "Actually, there is."

  Velthan turned to face the assembled soldiers.

  "Every man here signed documents before this expedition began. Documents stating their understanding that they might not return." His gaze swept across the ranks. "These soldiers knew they were coming here to potentially die."

  "They're soldiers," Eirik said through gritted teeth. "They expected to die fighting, not this."

  "Death is death, Lord Stormcrow. The manner matters little to the dead." Velthan's voice was gentle. "What matters is that they made their peace with mortality before setting foot on this expedition. That acceptance is exactly what the ritual requires."

  The Archmage turned back to Eirik.

  "But I understand your position. You brought your own men. Men who perhaps weren't fully informed of the mission's... requirements." A pause. "So let's be fair about this."

  Fair.

  "You have ten soldiers," Velthan continued. "We have approximately eighty remaining. I propose the following: your group selects one volunteer. My group selects two. Three offerings total, as originally planned."

  "And if I refuse?"

  "Then the matter is out of your hands entirely, and we might select all three from your group." The Archmage's voice didn't change. "I'm offering you a chance to participate in this decision, Lord Stormcrow. I suggest you take it."

  Eirik looked at his Talons.

  Olaf's face was stone, but his knuckles were white around his axe handle. Kael had gone perfectly still. The others—Jory, Silas, the rest—stared back at him with expressions ranging from fear to resignation.

  "You have one hour," the Archmage said. "Make your decision."

  ———

  The hour stretched before them.

  In the cover of a fallen building, Eirik assembled his Talons away from the Duke's soldiers.

  Eirik surveyed the men ranged before him. Ten in all, including himself. Brenn was leaning against the pillar.

  Nine would be drawing, excluding Brenn. And one would not see tomorrow.

  "We draw lots," said Eirik.

  There was no preamble. What was there to say?

  "Commander—" Jory started.

  "I'm including myself."

  That silenced them.

  Olaf stepped forward. "The Archmage exempted you. You don't have to—"

  "I know what I don't have to do." Eirik's voice was flat.

  The Talons exchanged glances.

  Kael drew a small leather bag from his belt. "I have dice. We could—"

  "No dice," Eirik replied. "We use stones."

  He knelt and collected nine pebbles from the rubble around them. Eight of them were pale gray and weathered from centuries of neglect. The ninth was a chip of obsidian, black as the altar itself.

  "Black stone dies," Eirik said flatly. He dropped all nine into Olaf's huge hand. "Mix them. Don't look."

  Olaf made a fist with the stones inside and shook it so they clicked against each other.

  "We draw in order," Eirik continued. "I go first. Then Olaf, Kael, and the rest. Brenn is excluded, as the Archmage has agreed that the dying don't count."

  From his position against the pillar, Brenn's eyes flickered.

  Eirik turned back to face his men.

  "Before we begin." His voice hardened. "Whatever happens, no one fights the outcome. We face this like soldiers. Understood?"

  Nods. Reluctant, but nods nonetheless.

  "Then let's get this over with."

  Olaf held out his fist with the knuckles facing up.

  Eirik reached in. His fingers closed around a pebble. He drew it out, opened his palm.

  Gray.

  Eirik stepped back. "Olaf. Your turn."

  The big man's face was impassive as he reached into his own fist with his free hand—an awkward maneuver that would have been comical under any other circumstances. He pulled out a stone.

  Gray.

  "Kael."

  The assassin moved forward with his usual grace, though Eirik saw the faintest tremble of fingers as the killer reached into Olaf's palm. Seven stones remained.

  Kael drew.

  Gray.

  He stepped back into line without a word.

  "Jory."

  Jory was shaking uncontrollably as he approached. Even in the chilly weather, perspiration was dripping off his forehead. The young recruit struggled to remove the stone from Olaf's fist, almost dropping it in his haste.

  Gray.

  Jory let out a half-sob. "I thought—I was sure—"

  "Back in line," said Eirik.

  "Silas."

  The quiet man approached and drew.

  Gray.

  Four stones remained.

  "Sigurd."

  "Been a good run either way, Commander," Sigurd said as he drew.

  Gray.

  The veteran blinked and stepped back.

  Three stones.

  "Talon Seven—Marsh."

  A stocky man with a scar bisecting his left eyebrow. He'd been with Eirik since the earliest days of the Talon reformation. Good with a crossbow. Better with his fists.

  Marsh drew.

  Gray.

  Two stones.

  The odds were becoming ugly indeed. Eirik saw the remaining men: Talon Nine, named Gedrick, and Talon Twelve, a bandit named Torvin before he joined the Talons.

  "Gedrick."

  The man with the bad leg—the one Eirik had told to take insulated under-armor—limped forward.

  "Commander, I—" His voice cracked. "My wife. She's expecting our first. I just got the letter before we left Frostfall."

  "Draw, Gedrick."

  The man's hand was shaking violently. For a long time, he was unable to make his fingers clasp a stone.

  "Draw," Eirik repeated. This time softer.

  Gedrick drew.

  Gray.

  A wail escaped him. He staggered back, clutching the gray pebble to his chest like a holy relic.

  One stone remained.

  Torvin.

  He looked at Olaf's closed fist, then at the gray stones clutched in the hands of every man who'd already drawn.

  "No. No. No, that's not—" Torvin dropped to his knees in the rubble.

  "Torvin. You need to draw."

  "I don't need to draw!" Torvin's words were full of hysteria. "Only one is left. It must be black. Don't you see? It must be—"

  Torvin pressed his forehead against the chilly ground. "I'm dead. I'm already dead."

  The other Talons looked away.

  Eirik gazed down at the crumpled form of Torvin, but something was bothering him, something not quite—

  "Olaf. Open your hand."

  Olaf's brow furrowed, but he uncurled his massive fist.

  One stone lay in his palm.

  Gray.

  "That's not possible," Silas said slowly. "Nine stones. One was black. We all saw—"

  "Somebody changed it," Eirik stated straightforwardly.

  Silence.

  Then—

  "Kael." Eirik's voice was too quiet. "Show me your stone."

  For a moment, nothing happened.

  Then, slowly, Kael uncurled his fingers.

  The stone in his hand was the same gray, but it wasn’t a pebble.

  It was a chip of slate. Something Kael must have palmed and substituted in the instant of drawing.

  "Let's try this again," Eirik said. "Properly this time."

  He gathered two other stones and put it on Olaf's palm—one gray, one black—and held them out to Kael.

  "Draw."

  Kael's face was a mask of terror now.

  "Commander, please—" His voice cracked. "I can be useful. I've proven myself."

  "Draw."

  Kael's hand shook so badly he could barely control it. He reached toward Eirik's palm, fingers hovering over the two stones.

  One gray. One black.

  Fifty-fifty.

  His fingers closed around a stone. He drew it out.

  Black.

  "No." The word came out strangled. "No, no, no, no—it can't—this isn't—"

  The other Talons may have been retreating to allow Kael some space, or possibly to allow themselves some space from the reality of the situation that had just occurred.

  Eirik watched Kael.

  The assassin stared at the black stone in his hand as if he could will it to turn color with the power of his desperation.

  "Kael." Eirik approached slowly. "We should talk."

  Kael's head snapped up.

  "Talk?" A laugh. "About what? Whether I prefer my throat slit from left to right or right to left?"

  "About what happens next."

  "What happens next is I die, Commander. I die on that altar while that old bastard mumbles his incantations and your precious artifact glows or doesn't glow and none of it—none of it—will matter because I'll be dead."

  Eirik said nothing. There was nothing to say.

  "I thought maybe..." Kael's voice dropped. "After this mission, I could..."

  "For what it's worth," Eirik said quietly, "you proved yourself."

  "Did I?" Kael's laugh was bitter. "Was I valuable enough to let you pretend you didn't see anything?"

  "This is not a choice either of us gets to make."

  For an instant, Kael's sardonic half-smile reappeared.

  "I need to be alone." He pushed off the wall. "I can't—I need—"

  He bolted.

  Olaf appeared at Eirik's shoulder.

  "Commander." The big man's voice was heavy. "Do we chase him? Or..."

  Eirik stared at the spot where Kael had vanished.

  "No."

  "No?"

  "If he runs, we'll deal with it in one hour when the time comes."

  They stood in silence for a long moment.

  "Hell of a thing, Commander."

  "Yes."

  "He was good. Getting better every day."

  "Yes."

  "I was starting to like the slippery bastard."

  Eirik closed his eyes.

  "So was I."

  From his position against the pillar, Brenn raised one eyebrow—the barest flicker of movement that anyone watching from a distance would miss entirely.

  ———

  The hour crawled past.

  Eirik sat by himself, his back to a crumbling wall. Around him, the Talons were speaking softly, or not speaking at all.

  His thoughts were elsewhere.

  Everyone's blood sample.

  The Archmage wanted a sample from every person to symbolically share in the sacrifice. Northern blood—he had said that was needed for the ritual.

  Fuck you, Velthan.

  Eirik rose to his feet.

  Olaf glanced up. "Commander?"

  "I'm going to pray. Don't disturb me."

  The big man nodded slowly. Whatever he thought of Eirik's sudden piety, he kept it to himself.

  Eirik went to a sheltered place where a section of the wall remained, which would prevent the line of sight from both his Talons and the Duke's soldiers in the square. He knelt down, bowed his head, and shut his eyes.

  His fingers closed around the ice shard.

  "Leif," he whispered into the connection. "I need something. Urgently."

  He waited.

  Silence.

  Eirik frowned. The connection was there—he could feel the familiar warmth pulsing against his chest—but no voice answered.

  "Leif? Can you hear me?"

  Nothing.

  The Sunless City, Eirik realized. Probably Something about this place is interfering with the communication.

  But the connection itself remained intact. He could sense that much. The magic was working—just not the audio component.

  Fine. We do this anyway.

  "Leif, if you can hear me but cannot respond, I need you to send something through the Ice Throne. A vial of pig blood. Fresh. Small container. Send it now."

  He kept his head bowed.

  "Frost Mother, guide me through this darkness..."

  The seconds stretched into minutes.

  Come on. Come on.

  "...for I must walk among serpents and not become one myself. Grant me cunning to match their schemes..."

  His storage ring pulsed.

  Eirik's heart leaped. He reached into the ring and felt his fingers close around a small glass vial, warm from recent filling.

  He withdrew it carefully.

  The vial was no larger than his palm. Fresh pig blood. Still warm.

  Thank you, Leif. Whatever's blocking your voice, at least the throne still works.

  "...and may your wisdom prevail in all things," Eirik finished his prayer.

  Fuck your Northern blood, Velthan. Fuck your ritual. And fuck whatever demons demands such cruelty.

  He rose from his knees and returned to his men.