The soft light of the morning sun reflected off the damp stones, beaded with water, of Dūr-Ṣadê’s ramparts as the elves made their way across the great moat. Not wanting to wait for the stronghold’s ice mages to reconstruct the bridge, their own mages bent their wills to the task. Their sheer numbers were more than enough to accomplish the trick - and more. Within minutes an elegant, arched bridged had risen from the waters, the sides lined with one crazy statue after another, each mage striving to outdo their rivals.

Bunch of showoffs. Eligon stood at the top of Dūr-Ṣadê’s highest donjon. A stiff, cold wind blew against his cheeks, bringing with it great black clouds whose faces promised rain. But Eligon did not budge, even when the first drops of rain begin to fall on his head, but steadfastly watched their departure until the last of their caravans disappeared into the misty hills.

Only then did he return to his manor, his guards with him. Leaving them outside the door, he slipped into his study and shrugged off the thick ermine mantle draped over his shoulders.

“Well?”

He glanced up in surprise, but the tension in his shoulder relaxed as he saw his friend. The room was dark, the curtains still drawn from the night before - not that opening them would have admitted much light in the face of the coming storm. But Vayābī sat by the crackling fire, his face almost hidden in the shadow while the light of the flickering flames danced across his legs.

“Are they gone?”

The Emperor sighed heavily as he settled into a seat opposite Vayābī’s.

“I’m here, aren’t I?”

His friend shrugged. “You didn’t have to watch them depart."

Eligon snorted. “If I didn’t see it with my own eyes, I wouldn’t have believed it. They must have taken an oath not to leave before the last shank of beef had departed from my cupboards and the last flagon of ale was drunk as dry as Stryn’s summers.” He grinned wryly. “As it is, a few of them have stuck around.”

“And whose fault is that,” Vayābī laughed. "If you'd just told them no..."

Eligon, frowned, not joining his friend’s laughter.

“They ask for too much.” Quieting down, Vayābī didn’t reply, his eyes growing watchful as he waited for the emperor to continue.

With a groan, Eligon put his face in his hands, running his fingers through his damp hair. “How can I do it, Vayābī? To give up my birthright, my father’s and grandfather’s before me claims, without a fight? What of my children? Do they not deserve a father who will fight for their futures? Or the empire? Even the elves have so little faith in the heir of Nūrilī’s competence to finish this war that they are actually willing to let me remain on the throne until victory is won. How can I entrust the empire to a man like that?”

Standing up, Vayābī walked to the sidebar while his friend ranted, and flipped a cup over. With a flourish of his wrist, he poured a steady stream of brandy into the cup before offering it to his friend.

Eligon accepted it mutely, and the two sat in silence by the fire until the last dregs of the cup were drained.

“I’m going to Égidim,” he said abruptly.

Vayābī’s head snapped up. “What? You can’t, my lord.”

Eligon stood up, and the calm certitude that gleamed in his eyes as he turned to face his friend told Vayābī everything he needed to know. The decision had been made; there was no point in arguing.

“When are you going?” He asked, more calmly.

Placing the empty cup on the buffet, Eligon snatched up his damp ermine mantel and wrung the moisture out of it before responding. “Tomorrow.”

“That soon. Am I going with you?”

The emperor shook his head. “No, you are needed here.” He placed his hand on Vayābī’s shoulders. “We need to figure out what those Zalancthians potions do, and how to stop them.”

“As you wish,” Vayābī agreed. The emperor turned to leave his study but paused at the door as he heard his friend speak one more time. “Are you sure? Even most priests avoid visiting Égidim.”

With his hand on the knob, Eligon turned back to his friend with a bitter smile. “Well, it is fortunate, then, that I’m no priest.”

----------------------------------------

The following morn was one much like the previous, but there was no fanfare when Eligon slipped out of the stronghold’s gates, accompanied by just a handful of his guards. No sooner had they turned to the south than the rains began again, turning the roads into a morass of mud that even their finest stallions struggled to push through. In a strange way, it is fitting, Eligon decided; the rains matched the turmoil in his heart, the fear that rose at the mere thought of visiting Égidim.

One day turned into a week and then into a month. The rainy season was in full force now, but they labored on, in misery and mud, until they reached their destination: the portal of Almakkār.

Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

Situated on the banks of the Dayyānu, whose wide, navigable course flowed directly to the eastern seas, Almakkār had once been a bustling port. Its Agamīnite merchants had carried on a brisk trade with the capital city and Sicya, their reach even extending as far as Yammaqom in the north and the great isle of Bērs̆adî to the east. But like so many of the empire's cities, it had been destroyed in the Fey Wars. Almakkār's entire population had been killed or enslaved, save for the few merchants who escaped on the fleets, never to return. All that remained now of the once great city was its portal.

A marvel of magical architecture, built in the early days of the empire, the mighty edifice was barely touched by the ravages of time. Not even a brick was out of place on the three enormous towers that rose above the landscape, joined together into a single structure by black walls that curved steeply inwards.

Eligon’s lips quirked in a bitter smile as he gazed at the towers; every time he saw them, he was torn between wonder and anger. Rather than shape stone native to the region, the builders had created their own stone, whose jet-black surface was resistant to all attempts to destroy it. It was a true testament to their power and yet... Our fathers gorged themselves on magic and left us to scrounge beneath the table for scraps. In the end, anger was usually the feeling that won out.

Ignoring the tower closest to them, Eligon charted course for the southernmost tower. Presiding over a bluff that bordered the great river, the tower kept a mournful watch over the crumbling homes. Twin gates barred the entrance to the tower, their faces filled from top to bottom with scores of elaborate bas-reliefs that many a scholar had dedicated their lives to studying.

But the gates would not bar his passage. The pendant of the emperor weighed heavily on his chest as he and his guards approached the foot of the tower, and Eligon could not escape the feeling that he was unworthy to bear the ancient insignia, but the towers passed no such judgment on him. With a rumble of gears, the twin doors swung open before their master, shutting behind them as soon as they were safe inside.

The portal itself lay silent, a spiraling arch of solid black rock whose threshold no longer brimmed with the magical effusion that would allow them to pass. There were no caretakers to power it these days, no guards to watch it save for the impenetrable rock itself, but for this, too, he had come prepared. Merûm wasted no time setting up the ritual circle, her hands steady and confident as she etched the runes that would channel her eldritch essence into the portal. Her confidence was well-earned; the portal flared to life almost as soon as she begin her meditation. A low rumble echoed through the dark tower, as the black portal filled with a golden liquid whose surface bubbled and steamed.

One by one, the small group passed through. The guards went first, in case there was any danger waiting for them on the other side, and he was left alone with Merûm. Eligon hesitated beside her, his eyes drawn to the internal gates of the tower, which led deeper into the fallen stronghold. “You should set up a protective barrier when I pass through,” he warned her.

The mage nodded, her eyes still closed in concentration as she focused on channeling the strange essence into the portal. “Of course, my lord,” she replied slowly. “But please, my lord, do not tarry any longer - the ritual is drawing to an end.”

“Just stay in the tower. There are rumors that dark things have taken up their abode in the fortress,” he warned her again, and then he stepped through.

The cold rains of the last month had not been sufficient to prepare him for the blast of cold that met him the instant he stepped free of the nearly scaldingly-hot golden liquid. Vāya howled across the barren mountain peaks, unshackled by the forests that tamed her wildest impulses or the sturdy walls that brought her to her knees. Damn. He pulled his cloak tighter around him, as he joined the rest of his guards.

“You have all the supplies you need to open the portal from this side?” He asked Atû. The other runic mage in the group bowed respectfully. “Indeed, my lord,” he replied softly. “I have prepared everything we need.”

“Good,” Eligon grunted. “Stay here till we return.” Not waiting for the man’s reply, he began to stumble down the snowy slopes toward their destination - the halls of Égidim.

The nine of them walked in silence, dread hanging ominously above the group like a summer stormcloud. The snow drifts were piled high, the fickle winds constantly pushing them to and fro, covering up their tracks as soon as they had passed. Fortunately, the group did not have far to go. Slowly the snow receded, despite the wind’s best attempts to cover the ground, as an entrance in the ground emerged. Not a trace of ice, not even a single drop of snow survived long on the hot, black rock, and the wide, circular set of stairs that led deep into the ground.

To Eligon’s surprise, they were not alone. A small group of priests, laden with gifts for the residents of Égidim were making their way down the steep slopes. The priests ignored them until they draw near, then darted to the side with deep bows as the Emperor passed. “My lord,” they cried, prostrating themselves. He passed them in silence, their reverence feeling like a bitter mockery given the purpose of his mission.

They continued their downward descent, deeper and deeper into the crater on the side of the mountain. The winds were left howling futilely above them; the cold too was left behind, with the black rock of the crater emitting a constant, smoldering heat. Pausing to wipe the sweat from their brows, the group bundled their cloaks into their bags of holding before continuing to the bottom.

The great circular steps led to a small temple, the destination of the priests. There, the statues of the dead watched over the barren slopes. Their monstrous forms were draped in fresh silk coats, and bowls of food laid at their clawed feet. Sword and shields were clutched in their hands, feathers sprouting from their limbs and behind them rose great feathery wings.

Prostrating himself before the greatest statue, the emperor unsheathed his sword. “All hail the Maryannu,” he muttered softly. “All hail the victorious dead.”

Sliding his hand across the sword, he did not allow himself even a whimper as he twisted the blade into his palm. The blood gushed forth, dripping freely down the blade onto the base of the statue.

Eligon remained prostrate until a low rumble in the ground told him his unspoken request had been answered.

Standing up, he wiped his blade clean before sheathing it. The wound he left unbandaged, allowing it to bleed until it stopped; such was the way of a sacrifice to the spirits. Only when he was done, did the emperor turn to see the fruits of his offering.

A small fissure had opened up behind him. A faint vapor rose from the yawning crevice, and even from a few feet away, he could feel the searing heat. The crack was small, just large enough to accommodate one person. Guess I'm going alone.

With a sigh, he plopped down by the crevice, placing his legs inside the earth’s hungry mouth. Then, he thrust himself down, surrendering himself to Égidim - surrendering himself to the Halls of the Dead.