They were flying.

  They rode in a long, slender transport. It had no sails, no wheels, and no visible means of propulsion. It resembled a closed-in gondola, elongated to accommodate one hundred men and some, with transparent walls of enchanted glass that offered a panoramic view of the northern wastes blurring past.

  It was also silent.

  Eirik pressed his hand against the console near his seat, feeling the vibration of the mana crystals embedded deep within the hull.

  A shard the size of his fingernail was probably capable of upgrading his settlement's entire north walls.

  They had departed Frostfall perhaps two hours ago. Already, the familiar silhouette of Ironhelm Keep was sliding past beneath them—Borin's territory. A journey that would have taken his men three days on foot with good horses and better weather.

  At this rate, they would reach Fort Abercrombie and the Icefang Pass by nightfall.

  Eirik leaned back, the luxury of the enchanted seat cradling him, and let his mind drift.

  Archmage Velthan.

  The old man was still playing him, Eirik was certain of it. Velthan had laid out some truths, but that was the danger of it. Velthan was an illusionist by trade and nature: his weapon was misdirection.

  The truth he offered illuminated exactly what he wanted Eirik to see—the artifact, the seal, the connection to Eirik—while casting deep shadows over everything else.

  Did Velthan truly believe Eirik was the key?

  Even so, Eirik suspected it’d go much beyond that.

  But strangely, he found himself relaxing. The fact that Velthan had shared his "truth" meant a tentative truce existed. As long as the Archmage believed Eirik was the only one who could open the final door, Eirik was safe. He wouldn't be murdered in his sleep tonight, nor thrown overboard to lighten the load.

  He was valuable inventory.

  And crucially, Velthan now knew exactly what Eirik wanted. He had made his play for the artifact explicit. In the twisted logic of the noble court, that actually made him more trustworthy.

  He looked at his men scattered through the transport. Nine Talons. They looked magnificent in their new gear, but Eirik knew the reality. They were ten men—himself included—dropping into a meat grinder alongside a hundred elite guards and a monster like Lord Caelum.

  If he fought fair, they would die.

  His mind drifted to the old tactics he’d read about in history books from his previous world—guerrilla warfare. The wisdom of fighting when you have the advantage and vanishing when you don't.

  The Duke’s elites were the hammer. Caelum was the anvil. Eirik’s men?

  They were the sand in the gears.

  He would not throw his Talons into head-on charges. They wouldn't hold the line against a legion of demons or monsters. They would strike targets of opportunity when the big players were distracted. They would let the Duke’s soldiers take the main damage, absorb the aggro, and break the enemy formations, while his men picked off the stragglers and secured the rear.

  It wasn't honorable, but it was how men had survived wars they weren't supposed to win.

  A gentle elbow dug into his ribs.

  Eirik flinched, turning his head. Kael sat next to him, staring intently at the front of the cabin.

  "What?" Eirik kept his voice low.

  "Watch him," Kael nodded toward the forward section where Lord Caelum sat.

  The Duke’s son was seated in a reclining chair that looked more like a throne, staring out at the snowy void with an expression of bored perfection.

  "I don't see anything," Eirik said.

  "Wait for it."

  They sat in silence for ten seconds. Then, Caelum’s left eye twitched. It was a spasm, tiny and violent. His hand then uncorked a plain, unadorned waterskin from his belt and raising it to his lips. He drank deeply, three long gulps, before corking it and setting it back down.

  The twitch vanished.

  "Okay," Eirik said. "He's thirsty. It's dry air."

  "I've been watching him since we boarded," Kael murmured. "Every time the twitch hits, he drinks. Every time."

  Eirik frowned. "You think he's injured for real?"

  "No. It’s too rhythmic." Kael’s eyes glinted. "Alchemical, probably. Or magical suppressants. Either way, he needs that skin more than he needs that fancy sword on his hip."

  Eirik looked at the waterskin again. It looked cheap, almost pathetic next to the expensive finery of the Duke's heir.

  He felt a cold prickle of interest.

  If Caelum was holding himself together with chemical crutches, that was going to be a massive leverage point.

  "And?" Eirik prompted. "You have an idea?"

  Kael leaned in close. "I want that skin."

  "My thoughts exactly," Eirik whispered back. "But we can't pull it off now. The transport is too open."

  "I'm not stupid, Commander. But we're going to have to land eventually, right?"

  Kael patted the pouch at his belt where he kept his poisons and tools.

  "When we settle," Eirik said softly.

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

  Hours passed.

  The sun had begun its descent toward the western peaks, painting the sky in shades of bruised purple and dying gold. Eirik sat back in his seat, letting his eyes lose focus as the world blurred past the enchanted glass.

  The scenery was... magnificent.

  He had never seen the North like this before. From ground level, the frozen wastes were monotonous—white upon white. But from above, moving at speeds, the landscape revealed itself as something else entirely.

  The mountains passed beneath them, and Eirik understood at last why the old songs called them the bones of the world. Snow sat upon their peaks, and the dying sun touched it with colors he had no names for. Rose, perhaps. Amber. The hues that come only at endings.

  Eirik let out a slow breath.

  Somewhere down there, merchant caravans were struggling through snow drifts, cursing the cold and praying to reach their destinations before the Thaw Blizzard swept down from the north.

  They had no idea what was flying over their heads.

  Eirik had understood, intellectually, that Velthan was dangerous. But there was a difference between understanding something and watching it demonstrated.

  It made Eirik feel small. And that was fine.

  In fact, that was the plan.

  His fingers drummed idly on the armrest. He had spent the last hour refining his strategy. The situation called for a classic play: the strong pretending to be weak. But in his case, there was a delicious irony. He was actually weak.

  He had quite a few things to tip the balance more in his favor, but he would use none of it. Not yet.

  A weak Eirik was safe. The Archmage would tolerate him, cater to him, perhaps even woo him, because a weak man could be controlled.

  A strong Eirik, however? A man who could rival the Duke's son or challenge the Archmage's theories? That meant immediate subjugation.

  Ironically enough, by accepting his apparent inferiority, he could adopt a much more powerful attitude. If he reached above his station, Velthan would view him as a child playing at adulthood. The Archmage would give him no serious consideration, viewing his posturing as a harmless ego trip.

  And while the old man was busy patting himself on the back for managing the "ambitious little lord," Eirik would be watching for the throat.

  "Lord Stormcrow."

  The voice cut through his thoughts.

  Eirik looked up. Archmage Velthan stood in the aisle, holding a silver tray. He was followed closely by two servants who were somehow balancing crystal teacups and trays of delicate pastries despite the transport's high velocity.

  "I find," Velthan said, setting the tray down on a folding table that appeared between their seats, "that altitude dries the humors. It is essential to hydrate and restore one's balance."

  Caelum, who had been dozing in his throne-like chair, opened one eye. He looked annoyed.

  "Tea? Really?"

  "Culture, Lord Caelum," Velthan corrected gently, pouring a steaming, amber liquid into Eirik's cup. "It is what separates us from the beasts. And the Skarls."

  Eirik accepted the cup. It smelled of bergamot and something spicy—cinnamon, perhaps.

  "I didn't take you for a tea drinker, Lord Stormcrow," Caelum muttered, sitting up. He reached for the plain waterskin at his belt, took a quick swig, and then tucked it away.

  "Sit, sit," Velthan waved Caelum down. "We have perhaps another hour before we reach the drop zone. Surely we can endure civility for so long?"

  Caelum sat, looking like he was enduring a root canal.

  The tea time was, as predicted, unpleasant. The silence was thick enough to choke a horse. Velthan seemed entirely at ease, sipping his tea and staring out at the snowy void with a look of benevolent ownership. Eirik just drank his tea and waited for the inevitable interrogation.

  It didn't come.

  "A fascinating display this morning, wasn't it?" The Archmage said.

  "The Trial of Blood," Eirik replied. "If that's what you're referring to. You mentioned three trials. I assume the other two are equally lethal?"

  "Lethal?" Velthan chuckled. "Oh, my dear boy. The Trial of Blood is a test of individual martial prowess. Necessary, but hardly the apex of human endeavor."

  He took a delicate bite of a pastry.

  "The Trial of Wit," Velthan continued, "is where the true leaders emerge. The remaining contestants will be divided into three groups. Each group will be granted a castle, surrounding lands, and resources—all simulated within the portal, of course. They will be armed with one hundred soldiers."

  "A war game," Eirik said.

  "A war of conquest," Velthan corrected. "They must defeat their rivals. Manage resources. Navigate diplomacy. It is a test of strategy, not just swordplay."

  Eirik frowned. "Sounds... fun. But wouldn't that take quite some time? Wars aren't fought in an afternoon. Even a small campaign can last months."

  Velthan’s eyes twinkled.

  "Ah, but you are thinking of linear time, Lord Stormcrow. One of the wonders of the tournament portal is its temporal dilation. We could watch an entire campaign unfold over the course of weeks, while in the real world, perhaps only a few days pass."

  He gestured expansively. "The nobles will love it. It gives them something to occupy their minds without any of the tedious real-world consequences. They can watch empires rise and fall over their afternoon tea."

  "And the third trial? The Trial of Worth?"

  Velthan leaned forward, his expression gleaming with anticipation.

  "I won't spoil it," Velthan said. "But I will tell you this: it will be quite special. I am afraid I cannot say more, even to you."

  Eirik set his cup down. "Cryptic, Archmage."

  "Mystery adds flavor to the experience, does it not?"

  Caelum stood up abruptly, the movement sudden enough to rattle the tea service. "I need air," he muttered, stalking toward the rear of the cabin.

  The landscape was changing.

  The vast, empty wastes were giving way to signs of life. Not the scattered villages of the south, but something denser. A line of people, snaking through the snow like a dark vein.

  Pilgrims.

  Hundreds of them. They were walking north, trudging through the deep drifts, prostrating themselves before the looming walls that rose ahead of them.

  Eirik leaned forward, his breath fogging the glass.

  Fort Abercrombie.

  Walls of translucent blue crystal rose fifty feet into the air, glowing with an inner light. Buildings had sprouted up within the walls—domes, spires, barracks—all sculpted from the very frost itself.

  And in the center of the plaza, dominating everything, was a statue.

  It was colossal. A hundred feet tall, carved from a single block of glacier. A woman.

  The Frost Mother.

  Lines of pilgrims stretched from the main gates all the way to the horizon, waiting for their turn to enter the city, to offer their prayers at the feet of the statue.

  "My word," Velthan murmured, coming to stand beside Eirik. "I had heard reports, of course. Baron Varn’s letters mentioned your... renovations. But seeing it?"

  The Archmage sounded genuinely impressed.

  Seeing it from above, seeing the sheer scale of it, the thousands of people looking to his walls for salvation...

  They did not slow down.

  Eirik watched as his home shrank into the distance.

  He had expected them to set down. Instead, the transport banked hard to the left, pressing Eirik deep into the cushions.

  "Archmage," Eirik said. "I believe we missed the turn."

  "Fort Abercrombie is not our destination." Velthan replied.

  The transport surged forward, its speed increasing as it left the relatively hospitable lands of the south behind. The mountains began to rise.

  The Icefang Pass.

  Peaks of black stone pierced the cloud layer, their summits lost in the swirling mists. The wind howled against the hull, a mournful, constant shriek.

  Eirik watched the sheer cliffs rush past. He had spent staring at those mountains, knowing that on the other side lay only death and Skarls. Now, he was flying over them as casually as a man might cross a street.

  "Look," Olaf muttered from the seat across the aisle.

  Below them, the pass was visible—a narrow, treacherous winding road through the stone. Even from this height, Eirik could see the dark shapes of frost-wolves picking at something in the snowdrifts.

  "We used to walk that," Kael whispered.

  They cleared the final peak.

  The landscape fell away, dropping into a vast, flat expanse of blinding white. The Skarl Badlands.

  It was a sea of ice, stretching endlessly to the northern horizon. There were no trees, no hills, no landmarks. Just a frozen, featureless plain.

  "Here we are," Velthan said. "The deep north."

  The transport began to descend.

  It didn't land gently. The ice rushed up to meet them as the enchantments flared. The transport leveled out, hovering for a moment before its runners touched down with a crunch that vibrated through Eirik's teeth.

  They slid for a hundred yards, throwing up plumes of snow, before coming to a halt.

  "We're here," Velthan announced, standing up. "Grab your gear."

  Cold.

  It was a heavy, suffocating chill that seemed to seep through the enchanted glass walls.

  "Move!" Konrad barked.

  The Duke's hundred elite guards were already moving.

  Eirik motioned to his own men. "Talons. On me."

  They descended.