The portal opened onto a windswept hilltop.

Territory Discovered. Added to Map.

The Southeastern Stronghold, Last Bastion of the Fallen City of Roandia

Beside Jace, two dozen other gateways flickered with vibrant energy, their surfaces swirling like molten glass waiting to cool into stories untold. He stepped forward, breath curling visibly in the frigid air, and took in the city sprawling below.

Snow lay across the landscape like a jeweled mantle, each crystal reflecting the pallid sunlight and lending the world a cool, ethereal glow. Square edifices of glass, stone, and metal rose in the distance, proud beneath winter’s tight-fisted hold. Their edges blurred slightly in the shimmering frost, making the city appear both solid and strangely elusive, as though it hovered between dream and waking.

Far below, at its heart, the city defied the season’s icy decree. Smoke drifted upward from countless hearths and chimneys, carrying with it the rich scents of roasting meats and burning wood. Vibrant life throbbed there, a warm pulse against the stark quiet of surrounding snowfields. The city center spread out like a half-remembered reverie, spires coated with glittering rime that caught the faint sunlight and turned it into scattered hints of starfire. At the core stood the Sapphire Tower, its azure glass splintering daylight into a thousand tiny rainbows that pirouetted over slick cobblestones. Above and between the buildings, floating platforms hummed softly, arcs of arcane energy ferrying cloaked figures from spire to spire. Some travelers gestured and chatted animatedly; others observed the scene below with calm detachment.

Scents drifted upward in subtle symphony: charred sweetness from caramelized nuts, the sharp kiss of exotic spices, a faint acrid tang from concoctions no doubt brewed in half-hidden workshops. Yet Jace found his gaze inexorably drawn upward. The sky itself had cracked—split down the middle. On one side, blue and silver hues danced serenely, reflecting some quiet, hopeful magic radiating from the Stronghold City. On the other side, darkness intruded—a stark, shattered void that seemed cleaved by a colossal wall rising to unimaginable heights. It dwarfed even the Sapphire Tower.

Darkness loomed on the horizon, a cruel presence that felt far too close. Jace hadn’t realized how near they were to the Dark One’s domain. The Tower, luckily rising on the light side of the divide, radiated a raw, unyielding power. As Jace’s gaze lingered on its jagged form, whispers stirred in his mind. As he stared, strange murmurs brushed the edges of his thoughts, wordless whispers that refused to share their meaning, leaving only a prickle of unease along his spine. It was as if the Tower was speaking to him in a language he couldn’t begin to comprehend.

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A low hum broke through his reverie as the surrounding portals flared to life. The hush that followed was thick, the muffled crunch of footsteps on frost sounding like distant drums. Figures emerged, shoulders cloaked in foreign furs and woven scarves that sighed as they moved. Some walked as if the cold were a trivial rumor, their eyes fixed on goals hidden over the horizon. Others stumbled, disoriented, casting backward glances at portals whose luminous edges had dimmed to silence. Jace’s pulse throbbed in his ears. He studied the arrivals, attempting to guess kingdoms and histories by their stances, by the subtle tilt of a head or the hush in their laughter. The Winter Games drew them all, but he sensed an undertow beneath the spectacle—something darker, coiling unseen and waiting.

The wind lashed the hilltop, sharp as broken glass. Snow crunched like brittle sugar beneath their boots. Without hesitation, Jace accessed his inventory, donning the warmest gear he owned. The dark robes of Hades settled around him like a shroud of shadows, their ominous sigils hinting at ancient power. Nearby, Alice tugged her lilac robes tight, the runes stitched into them glowing softly with each movement. Dex’s emerald cloak bore frost-warding runes along its trim, and Marcus moved confidently under the white and gold regalia emblazoned with Zeus’s lightning crest. Ell’s attire, a swirl of purple and rainbow hues, shimmered with a vibrant life of its own. And Molly, well, she stood apart in her simple black dress, its thin fabric fluttering indifferently against the biting wind. She never once flinched at the chill, eyes wide and unblinking as they drifted over the beautiful and mesmerizing scene. Her face, caught between awe and quiet disbelief, mirrored the uneasy questions stirring behind every watching gaze.

The portals poured forth a steady stream of arrivals, a thousand brilliant threads weaving a tapestry across the brittle air. From the northern gate, huge Norse figures trudged forward, breath steaming in clouds beneath helms adorned with twisting knots. Their cloaks, rough-hewn from bear and wolf pelts, caught the wind, flaring like captured storms. Weapons etched with pulsing runes hummed at their sides, and at their feet stalked wolves the size of small horses, heavy paws sinking into the snow with deliberate menace. Laughter rolled from their chests, a deep thunder rattling distant treetops.

From the east stepped Egyptians swathed in robes the color of desert twilight. Gold filigree glinted at their collars and wrists, the metal seeming to trap sunlight and cast it back in fluid waves. A lithe priestess strode ahead, flanked by dusky felines whose eyes burned with an ancient knowing. Behind her loomed a crocodile-headed sentinel, its skin dark and glossy as river mud, each step shaking the ground as though testing the world’s foundations.

Nearby, elves drifted through a portal framed by silver branches. They seemed to materialize rather than walk, cloaks embroidered with shifting leaves that whispered against one another in a hush of wind. Their eyes held emerald and argent reflections, catching distant fires and turning them into quiet galaxies. Their laughter was a low, rolling music that smoothed sharp edges from the chill air, filling it with a sense of calm that needed no words.

From another gateway poured Celtic warriors, faces flushed by wind, hair as red and coppery as autumn’s dying leaves. They carried axes that winked in the pale light, their edges telling stories of battles fought in endless forests. Voices rang out in bright bursts, challenging the cold and the silence. Their boots crunched through the snow with sure purpose, as if the world itself shifted to welcome their stride.