Eirik stood at the bottom of the Grand Stairway, stretching his neck back to look at the Highfrost Keep.

  The Grand Stairway alone was amazing. Three hundred steps of solid white marble, as wide as twenty men walking side by side. It swept up through a series of fancy gates. At each gate stood a statue of a warrior in ancient armor.

  "Breathe," Isolde whispered beside him. "You look like a peasant."

  "I feel like one."

  "Then stop. You are Lord Eirik Stormcrow. Lord Commander of Abercrombie. Holder of the Icefang Pass. Today, you are one of the Duke's personally invited guests. Act like it."

  Eirik straightened his spine and began the ascent.

  Other nobles climbed alongside them, some in fancy palanquins carried by servants, others on foot with followers trailing behind. Eirik recognized none of them, though Isolde sometimes whispered who they were.

  "The woman in blue is Earl Meridia. She's been trying to marry her daughter to Lord Caelum for six years."

  Lord Caelum. The Duke's son.

  It had taken almost thirty minutes to reach the top. The final gate was a giant archway decorated with images of ancient wars. Some of the older nobles were breathing hard and holding onto their servants' hands for support.

  Beyond the archway, Highfrost Keep opened up into a courtyard.

  The open space was huge. Maybe three hundred paces in any direction, floored with white stones so polished they reflected the sky. Rising levels of seating were set up on three sides, filling up with audience. The fourth was dominated by a raised platform—the viewing box for the Duke, Eirik guessed.

  But the real wonder was the ceiling. Or rather, the lack of one—the courtyard was open to the sky, yet no snow fell within its boundaries.

  "The Frostward," Isolde said. "It keeps perfect conditions no matter the weather. Some say it's been active for three hundred years without stopping."

  Three hundred years. The magical energy needed...

  Attendants in white livery directed the arriving nobles to their assigned spots. The ranking was immediately obvious. Closer to the Duke's gallery meant higher status. The front rows held the great houses—Earls with their elaborate entourages, powerful and wealthy Barons, and representatives from the southern kingdoms.

  Eirik and Isolde were shown to the very back.

  Last row. Corner section. Partly blocked by a decorative pillar.

  "At least it’s not the standing section," Isolde whispered as they took their seats.

  Eirik glanced back. Behind the seated areas, hundreds more people crowded against rope barriers—lesser nobles, wealthy merchants, and various workers considered important enough to attend but not important enough to sit.

  Yet despite all this, something felt very out of place.

  The silence.

  Hundreds of nobles packed into close quarters, and the courtyard was eerily quiet. It was as if the entire assembly was holding its breath.

  "Is it always like this?" Eirik asked, keeping his own voice low.

  "At Highfrost? Yes."

  "The Duke isn't even here yet."

  "Exactly."

  A few glances came his way, and quickly looked away. Word had clearly spread about the tenant-lord who'd been invited directly by the Duke. But no one came over nor said anything.

  Time passed.

  More nobles arrived, filling the remaining seats. The standing section grew more crowded. Servants walked around with refreshments—wine, water, small fancy foods on silver trays—but Eirik noticed that no one actually ate or drank.

  A commotion near the courtyard's center drew his attention.

  The contestants.

  They entered through a separate gate on the courtyard's far side, coming out into a roped-off area directly before the Duke's gallery.

  Eirik found himself leaning forward.

  Some he could dismiss immediately. Young knights, probably second or third sons, sent to make a showing without any real expectation of victory.

  Others needed closer attention.

  A huge man in Ironhelm colors—one of Borin's champions—stood alone near the rope barrier. Near him, a group of three wore matching white robes trimmed with blue—Order trainees, if Eirik wasn't mistaken.

  But one figure drew more attention than all the others combined.

  He stood at the center of the contestants' area, surrounded by an unmistakable bubble of space.

  He was handsome.

  There was no other word for it. Golden hair worn back. High cheekbones. A strong jaw. The color of his eyes was so blue they could be seen from where Eirik was standing. He had a lean body. More like a dancer than a fighter.

  His clothing was simple. White shirt, black pants, boots. Still, he looked like royalty compared to any of the nobles seated in the viewing boxes.

  "Lord Caelum Frostgrip," Isolde confirmed. "The Duke's only son and heir."

  "He doesn't look like a mage."

  "He doesn't need to look like anything. His cultivation is supposedly at the peak of Glacier realm. Some whisper he's approached the edge of the next level."

  Beyond Glacier? Eirik did the calculation. That would make Lord Caelum one of the most powerful cultivators in the entire kingdom. And he couldn't be older than his mid-twenties.

  To Lord Caelum Frostgrip, Eirik Stormcrow wasn't a rival. He probably wasn't even a curiosity.

  More time passed.

  The contestants' area filled completely. Eirik counted maybe sixty warriors in total, each representing one of the realm's great houses or groups.

  And Lord Caelum stood among them like a god among regular people.

  The sun climbed higher.

  Then the horns sounded. Seven horns, playing in perfect unison. Everyone stood. Eirik rose with them.

  The great doors of the Duke's gallery swung open.

  Duke Thorgrim Frostgrip was not a large man. That was Eirik's first thought. Of average height, perhaps slightly below, with a stocky build that suggested strength without overwhelming physical presence. He wore crimson and white with nothing adorned his head.

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  But his eyes.

  Gods, his eyes.

  Every noble, every servant, every guard—every single person in that huge space—felt those eyes touch them. Eirik was certain of it. When the Duke's gaze passed over his corner, he felt it like something pressing against his skull.

  The silence in the courtyard became total.

  Eirik could hear his own heartbeat. If a needle had dropped anywhere in that vast space, every single person would have heard it.

  The Duke reached the center of his gallery. He did not sit in the elaborate throne that waited behind him. He simply stood, hands clasped behind his back, and surveyed his domain.

  Seconds passed. Then a minute.

  No one breathed loudly.

  Eirik found himself understanding, on a visceral level, why the nobles of Frostfall lived in terror. This wasn't rulership through law or tradition or even force.

  This was submission to a superior predator.

  Finally, the Duke spoke.

  "Be seated."

  Quietly delivered. Yet they reached every corner of the courtyard as clearly as if he'd shouted them directly into each listener's ear.

  Everyone sat.

  The Duke remained standing.

  "You have come," he continued, "to witness the Grand Tournament of Frostfall. For three hundred years, this tournament has tested the finest warriors our realm produces."

  His gaze swept the contestants' area.

  "This year, the tournament takes a different form. The traditional contests of jousting and melee have been refined. In their place, you will face three Trials. The Trial of Blood. The Trial of Wit. The Trial of Worth."

  "Sixty-three warriors have entered this tournament. Only three will complete all Trials. These three will face each other in final combat, and the victor will receive a prize beyond price."

  The Duke raised one hand.

  A servant approached, bearing a wooden case inlaid with silver. The Duke opened it and withdrew the contents.

  A sword.

  The blade was pale blue, almost white, and light seemed to bend around it.

  "This is Winterfang," the Duke said. "Forged during the First Age. The tournament champion will claim it as their own."

  Eirik heard gasps from the contestants' area. Several of the watching nobles actually shifted in their seats—the first movement he'd seen from them since the Duke appeared.

  Winterfang.

  He didn't recognize the name, but he recognized the reaction. Whatever this sword was, it was worth more than lands, more than titles, more than gold.

  The Duke returned the sword to its case, and raised his hand once more.

  "Archmage Velthan."

  Eirik saw heads turning. The man who'd spent the previous evening explaining the origins of magic itself over tea, emerged from the shadows.

  He looked different than he had the night before. Gone were the simple robes. Now he wore formal clothes of midnight blue. A staff of twisted black wood appeared in his hand.

  "Your Grace," the archmage said. "The preparations are complete."

  "Show them."

  The Archmage walked down the gallery steps. The contestants in the central area moved away from him like water before a ship's front.

  Eirik felt it first as pressure against his eardrums as Velthan raised both hands.

  A point of light appeared. Within seconds, it had grown from a tiny dot to a ball the size of a man's head.

  The sphere continued to expand. Ten feet across. Fifty. One hundred. The noble seating began to empty of its closest occupants as lords and ladies retreated.

  The portal continued to grow.

  Two hundred feet across. It now filled nearly the entire courtyard, forcing the gathered nobles to press against the walls of the viewing areas. The standing section behind the seating had turned into chaos as merchants and minor lords scrambled over each other.

  Then it stopped.

  Its edge sat maybe ten feet from the noble seating on all sides, close enough that Eirik could have reached out and touched it from his spot in the back row.

  He didn't.

  Archmage Velthan lowered his hands.

  "The portal is stable," he announced. "It will remain so for the duration of the tournament."

  The Duke stepped forward again, taking back attention with his mere presence. The whispers died instantly.

  "The Grand Tournament of Frostfall," Duke Thorgrim declared, "will take place within this portal. A world shaped specifically for the Trials you will face."

  A world.

  The power required was beyond calculation. Eirik thought of his own frost shaping abilities and felt like a child playing with pebbles beside a master sculptor.

  This was what real power looked like.

  Even the most powerful lords present—men who commanded armies, who held the lives of thousands in their hands—looked at the portal and saw how small they were reflected back at them. Whatever political plans they had brought to this tournament were being rapidly changed in light of this show.

  The Duke's gaze swept across the contestants one final time.

  "Before we proceed," he said, "there is a matter that must be addressed."

  The courtyard fell impossibly quieter.

  "This year's Trials have been designed to test the absolute limits of human capability. The challenges within that portal are not simulations. They are real."

  He let the words settle.

  "If you die within, you die permanently."

  Eirik saw several contestants flinch. One young knight in green colors actually took a step backward before catching himself.

  "The Trials have always carried risk," the Duke continued. "But this year, the stakes are elevated. You enter as warriors. You emerge as victors or you do not emerge at all."

  Silence.

  Lord Caelum Frostgrip stood motionless. If the announcement affected him, he showed no sign.

  Others were less composed.

  "In light of this," the Duke said, "I offer those who wish to withdraw the opportunity to do so now."

  The silence stretched.

  One young man—barely more than a boy, really—shifted his weight as if to step forward. Then he caught the eye of an older knight standing nearby. He stepped back into line.

  No one withdrew.

  The Duke nodded once, as if he'd expected nothing else.

  "Very well. The Tournament begins."

  He turned and descended from the gallery.

  The Duke walked directly toward the portal, and stepped through. As casually as he might enter a dining hall. The portal's surface rippled around him and he was gone.

  Archmage Velthan followed and vanished. Lord Caelum was next.

  The contestants began to move.

  They entered in rough order of precedence. The great houses first—champions of ancient lineages. Then the lesser houses. Then the institutions—the Order initiates, the mercenary companies, the independent fighters who had somehow earned the right to compete.

  Each one vanished into the light.

  The nobles followed.

  "We should go," Isolde murmured.

  Eirik nodded and rose from his seat. Around them, the viewing areas were emptying as lords and ladies streamed toward the portal.

  They joined the flow. The portal loomed larger with each step. Cold radiated from it.

  Eirik stepped through.

  ———

  Snow. Everywhere, snow. It drove into his face like needles, blinding him, filling his mouth and nose.

  "ISOLDE!"

  His voice was swallowed by the storm. He couldn't see more than three feet in any direction. White. Nothing but white. And cold—cold beyond anything he'd experienced.

  Something grabbed his arm.

  He spun, ice forming on his hands—

  Isolde. She was shouting something, but the wind tore the words away.

  Eirik pulled her closer.

  "—can't see anything!" Isolde's voice finally reached him. "Where are we?"

  "The Trial grounds. But this—"

  Screaming. Somewhere to their left, someone was screaming.

  More figures emerged from the chaos. Contestants, he realized—some struggling to stay upright, others already fallen and half-buried. The organized groups that had entered the portal had been scattered by the storm, thrown in random directions.

  A pulse of energy rippled through the storm. Eirik felt it as a momentary cessation of the wind's fury.

  The ground beneath them trembled.

  "What—" Isolde began.

  The snow erupted.

  Ahead—perhaps a hundred paces away. A column of ice shot upward, carrying a platform high into the air. Another column rose beside it. Then another. And another.

  Within seconds, a network of ice platforms had formed above the storm, maybe fifty feet above the churning white chaos below.

  The wind around the platforms was calmer. Eirik could see figures already gathering on the nearest one—nobles who had found the columns and climbed.

  "There!" He pointed.

  They ran.

  The nearest column was twenty paces away. Its surface was rough enough to climb, but only barely. Eirik went first, carving handholds with his power as he ascended. Isolde followed.

  They reached the platform.

  The relief was immediate.

  The storm still raged below them, but up here, some magical barrier kept the worst of it at bay. Other nobles were arriving, hauling themselves onto the platform with the slightest care for dignity.

  The storm was even more terrifying from above. A sea of white. The contestants were down there somewhere.

  "Lord Stormcrow."

  Eirik turned.

  An attendant in white livery—how had his uniform remained pristine?—stood before him.

  "The viewing platform has been prepared." The attendant gestured toward the largest platform at the network's center. "His Grace requests that all observers gather there."

  They walked across the ice bridges.

  The central platform was massive—perhaps two hundred feet across. The Duke stood at its center as if he had simply stepped from his gallery into this frozen hell without any transition. Archmage Velthan was beside him.

  More nobles gathered. Those who had made it to the platforms, at least.

  Waiting.

  A voice echoed across the platforms.

  "The First Trial will commence now."

  Silence, broken only by the howl of the distant storm.

  "Below you, the contestants face their first challenge. They must prove themselves worthy of continuing through one simple metric."

  The archmage raised his staff.

  "Whoever kills the most monsters wins."

  Eirik frowned. Monsters? What monsters? He looked down at the churning white expanse. All he could see was snow and struggling figures.

  The snow exploded.

  The first creature that emerged was massive—easily forty feet long—with a body covered in overlapping plates of crystalline armor. A head that was all mandibles. Six legs, each ending in claws that could have disemboweled an elephant.

  An Ice Burrower.

  The name surfaced from some memories from childhood tales read by the former owner of his body. Except this was no story.

  The Burrower erupted into the midst of a cluster of contestants. Its mandibles closed around a knight in green armor—the one who had almost withdrawn—and sheared through plate steel like parchment. Blood sprayed across the white snow in a fan of crimson.

  Screaming. Several nobles fell to their knees. One actually vomited.

  More creatures burst from below.