The earth closed around him the moment Eligon's head slipped beneath the surface. A shower of dirt tumbled down on his head as the opening closed, and then there was nothing but silence and the endless expanse of darkness.

Dropping on his hands and knees, he felt around cautiously for the exit. He was in a small, cramped fissure, crumbling walls of earth and mud that barely extended higher than he stood, but after some fumbling he found a slope leading downward, down to Égidim.

He hesitated. Not exactly the welcome I was envisioning. Then again, maybe I should have. In truth, Eligon had been nervous about his reception.

Every emperor of House Nūrilī, even those whose names had been blotted from all records after the Desolyton, had made the sojourn to Égidim at least once. It was a time-honored pilgrimage to the Halls of the Victorious Dead, an affirmation of their sacred claim to the throne.

But House of Gonya had no such claim. Not since his fathers had seized the empire had any descended into the depths of Ummaddamah. As a child, he had often fantasized about undertaking the pilgrimage - meeting the greatest of their kind, the heroes ripped straight from all his favorite tales, the demigods at whose feet the very earth had trembled. As an adult, he knew better. How many lords of House Nūrilī commanded the forces of the maryannu? How many of their faithful servants swelled the ranks of the Victorious Dead? No, a lord from House Gonya could not count on a warm reception in the Sanctuary of the Dead.

Suffocating a sigh, he began to crawl down the slopes, down toward the unseen world below. He thought wistfully of the lights in his bag, the enchanted orbs that would allow him to stroll down the incline safe and secure, rather than crawl in the darkness, potentially inches away from a deadly drop-off, but he didn’t dare use them. His knowledge of what to expect in the realm of the Maryannu was not complete, but he knew the utter darkness was not normal. They want to humiliate me.

And thus, he crawled, one hand after another deeper and deeper into the depths of the earth. He had no doubt his father would have objected angrily, that he would have struck a light, or demanded release from their grip, but Eligon was not his father. If the Maryannu wished to humiliate them, he would let them - as long as they gave him what he needed.

The incline of the slope steepened, to the point that even on his hands and knees Eligon struggled to maintain his balance. The earth and mud gave way to rocks that were so sharp that, despite the battle-earned toughness of his skin, they slipped their way past his defense, covering in him minor gashes. They're really stooping that low? The maryannu's petty tricks bolstered him, urging him forward more eagerly than ever. If they thought they could discourage him by something so minor, he would prove them wrong.

In the sheer darkness, the passage of time flowed strangely. Eligon couldn’t say how long he was crawling. There was no way to track the moments that passed by, nothing but the painful crunch of one step forward at a time.

When the first glimmers of light appeared, Eligon felt like a man lost at sea, spotting the first birds overhead that told of land at hand. Finally able to see where he was going, he lurched to his feet, struggling to keep his balance as he jogged down the remainder of the trail.

The light grew steadily as the halls of Égidim finally revealed their secrets. A vast city stretched out before him, cradled in a plain surrounded by cliffs. Silent as a tomb, street upon street of palaces and temples stretched as far as the eye could see. The city walls were grey and dull, lit by dim blue orbs that flickered in the abandoned streets. But what the city lacked in color, it made up for in the dazzling, chaotic array of strange buildings. Mismatched architecture, homes from every age and culture - elves and dwarves, Fey and Corsyth, and dozens more he could not recognize crammed every nook and cranny of the great plain. Égidim.

Above it all, situated on a rocky plateau that jutted out from the ground like the fist of an angry god, stood an acropolis. A great statue, its base starting below the acropolis, towered above it. With a domineering sneer, its stony gaze transfixed the city.

Eligon recognized the figure at once. Yaḫkar, the Crusher. The first and greatest of the Victorious Dead, the lord whose furious onslaught had put an end to the War of the Dragons and allowed the battered survivors of the fallen Mwyranni empire to start anew in the sheltered waters that would become the city of Corsythia.

Yaḫkar had been but a man, gifted more with the shapeshifting talents of the strythani than the feats of magic his ancestors would come to wield, but of the human he had once been, there was little trace. Four colossal feathered wings rose above his head, with the feathers spread wide, revealing dim traces of faded paint that still clung fast to the chiseled rock. His face was gone, replaced by a vicious beak and narrowed eyes whose unblinking stare had an almost physical presence, while in his clawed hands, he wielded the monstrous mace that gave him his name. With talons for feet, and skin as scaly as a dragon’s, Yahkar’s transformation into a maryannu was complete.

Despite being irritated by his treatment, Eligon could feel the giddy schoolboy rising up in him. Would he get to see Yaḫkar in person? He wasn’t certain, nor was he certain if he wanted. One of the hero’s descendants was the founder of House Nūrilī, after all.

Hidden in the statue’s shadow, high upon the crown of the acropolis lay the true namesake of Égidim, the great temple of the dead. A thousand pillars supported its crystal dome and there, hidden from sight, he knew his destination lay.

Half-running, half-jogging, Eligon set out through the streets. They were empty; no traffic flowed through the narrow, twisty corridors that separated the maddening cavalcade of temples and manors, but he was not alone. He could sense the weight of their eyes on his back, following him with every step he took, and the relentless gaze of Yaḫkar. No, he thought with a shudder, I am definitely not alone.

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Eligon may not have wielded the magic for which House Nūrilī was so famed, but he was a warrior tried and true, tested in the anvil of conflict more times than almost any other. The streets fled behind him as he begin the steep ascent up to the acropolis. A thin trail wound its way to the top, circling thrice around the jagged cliffs. He sped up it, his breathing even and steady.

When he had circled more than three times without reaching the acropolis’ crest, he knew the Dead were toying with him again. Around and around the rim he ran, not stopping. Four times, five, seven. Only on the twelfth circuit did they finally allow him to reach the top. Irritation gripped his heart, the dreams of a dragon smoldering with rage, but he suppressed it.

So long as they gave him an audience, they could play their petty games.

He was unprepared for what awaited him in the hall. Ten rings of columns encircled the central hall, supporting the massive crystalline roof above the sanctuary or - as it really was - the throne room.

The reason for the empty streets became clear as he made his way through one ring after another. His path was lined with the maryannu. Row upon row of warriors, each in varying levels of transformation awaited him, staring at him silently.

The weight of disapproval rested on his shoulders, but not from all. Eligon noticed a few who watched him without judgment, even a few who tilted their head in a gesture of respect. I suppose that’s the best I could hope for, he admitted to himself.

But there was no welcome waiting for him in the throne room.

The great council sat on their thrones. More powerful than the other maryannu, their forms were monstrous in size - titans rather than men.

Yaḫkar reigned in their midst, slouched in a throne carved of gilded bone. His mighty mace leaned against the throne, a pool of poison seeping from its head onto the pure white marble. Eligon had no way to measure the maryannu’s height, but if he had to guess, Yah͗kar, even seated, must have towered thirty to forty feet above him.

Before him sat a long table, set with just a single chair. The table was piled high with every delicacy and treat known to man - candies and fruits, meats and pasties, flagons and casks - every inch of its wooden planks was covered with success.

“Sit, eat.” Yahkar commanded, gesturing to the table.

The emperor shook his head. “No, my lord, I am not hungry.

“Eat.” He commanded again.

“I am not here to feast.”

The maryannu twisted his wrist, and a goblet flew from the table, brimming with a frothy, golden brew. It kissed Eligon's lips, and he felt the moisture of the froth spraying against his cheeks.

“At least have a drink,” the maryannu persisted.

Eligon pushed the goblet away. He knew all too well if he touched their nourishments he would never be allowed to leave. Besides, it’s probably nothing more than mud and water. “No,” he responded curtly.

A thundercloud passed over the god’s face, but the goblet dropped to the underground, spilling its contents across the floor. It wasn't beer. “If you won't eat, then tell me, ḫammā’u, what gives you the right to enter these halls, to deny my hospitality?” Yahkar’s voice boomed across the rotunda, scorn and venom dripping from every word like the rains of a summer storm.

Eligon suppressed his anger and, steeling his strength, he raised the signet of the empire that hung around his neck. “It is my right as Emperor to seek audience with the Lord of the Dead.”

Yaḫkar scowled. “Those trinkets do not belong to you, ḫammā’u.”

Ignoring the wild racing of his heart, Eligon kept his words calm. “And yet I hold them.”

The maryannu shifted in his seat, his hand fondling the shaft of his mace. For a second, Eligon feared he would be its next victim. But eventually, the rage in his eyes simmered down. Leaning back against his throne, Yaḫkar released his grip on his weapon.

“For now.” He spoke with a measured certainty. “Why have you come?”

Eligon began to tell him of the elves’ offer, but the maryannu waved him off patiently. “I know these things already.” He scowled. “The elves’ terms are far too generous to a family of ḫammā’u.”

Finding a bit of steel in his spine, Eligon fired back. “Perhaps the fault lies in the heir of House Nūrilī. Even his own allies do not trust him to put an end to this war.”

Yaḫkar snorted. “You are bold, false one, I’ll give you that. But the elves have not taken proper measure of that man. He hides behind pretty smiles and soft words, but there is a fire in his soul, nurtured well and hidden. He is more capable than he seems. But enough of our banter - if you agree to their deal, I will listen to your request.”

“So tell me,” he thundered, “why is it you have come?”

Eligon suffocated his smile. Got you. “If we are to win this war, we must reclaim the capital. Untold treasures and priceless artifacts, enough to alter the course of the conflict still lie within its storehouses, untouched. Despite whatever miracle allowed the Zalancthians to slip past the city's defenses, they do not appear to have been able to replicate it; the wards on our treasuries are intact.”

He stepped forward, forcing himself to unflinchingly meet the maryannu’s angry glare. “Until now, the Victorious Dead have refused to answer the call of House Gonya, but if we cannot reclaim this city, there will be no victory. Answer my call, help me reclaim Corsythia and when the time comes…” he hesitated, each word piercing his soul like a barb, “when the time comes, I, or my heirs, will return House Nūrilī to the throne.”

The hall fell silent as the titan rose from his throne. Eligon had misjudged Yahkar's height - the mighty being towered nearly fifty feet above him.

The silence stretched on for an uncomfortable length, the unyielding pressure of the god’s gaze grinding down against him, but the emperor held his ground, refusing to back down before the maryannu.

“Very well.” Eligon was almost surprised when Yaḫkar spoke. “We will help you reclaim the city. And if you do not keep your end of the deal? Well,” he gnashed his beak with a cruel cackle, “then the waters of oblivion will not be the one to claim your soul.”

Eligon suppressed his shudder. “So be it,” he affirmed.

“Now get out of my realm,” the titan thundered. At the clap of his hands, the temple shuddered. Debris rained down around him as Eligon was tossed to the floor. Beneath his hands the ground changed from marble to dirt, the light snuffed out as darkness enclosed him. He was buried alive.

Gasping for air, he felt around him, realizing he was in the same small fissure as before, though this time there was no path leading down. Then a shudder shook the ground, breaking loose a shower of dirt on his head, but Eligon didn’t care, for with the dirt came the light of Shamsha's rays.

“My lord,” a voice cried as hands reached down into the earth to drag him into the sunlight.