The Humble Petitioner’s line was interminable. Without his expensive writ, Harald had been forced to get in line with every greenhorn, has-been, and desperate raider who hoped against every odd to strike it rich in the first level of the dungeon.

The sun punished him. His leather armor was starting to feel water-logged from all his sweating. Everything chafed, and he couldn’t remember the last time he’d spent so much time just standing around like this for so long. His feet ached, his new boots stiff and uncomfortable. Worse, his hangover was in full force. The more he sweated the more parched he became, and he’d already drained his waterskin.

Grimacing, he leaned out to sight along the length of the line. It wound all the way around the Dungeon Plaza, cordoned off by roped pilons, only to snake its way to the Petitioner’s Gate on the far side.

Worse, the Humble Petitioner’s line only moved when there was nobody with a fancier writ trying to gain entrance. Which was often. The dungeon was as busy as it had ever been, even if it was no longer coughing up the wealth that had fueled Flutic’s rise to world dominance.

The only figures who seemed to move less were the large guardian scale-golems, some of the few left active in all of Flutic, who kept watch on the Dungeon Portal at all times from the plaza’s perimeter.

But they were so still that even pigeons roosted on them without concern.

Sullen, furious, Harald watched as elite raiding teams strode up to the different gates where their paperwork was quickly checked before they were waved through. Once only the citizens of Flutic had been allowed to raid, but desperate times called for desperate measures. Now the dungeon was open to foreign teams, all of them granted access on the condition that they paid exorbitant taxes upon exiting.

And people came from all over the known world to try their hand at salvaging scales from the dangerous depths.

Piratical corsairs from the Venissar archipelago. Heavily armored knights with their squires and support personnel from industrial Marheim to the north. Elegant parties of perfumed gentlemen from the distant Jade Empire. Rangy, feral looking men from Nihtscua to the far northeast, their faces painted, looking more like wolves than people. Even the ethereal, radiant elves from the vast Mithlorniel forest appeared on occasion, otherworldly and beautiful.

But the greatest numbers were still the Flutic teams sponsored by the noble houses. Elites invested with power, tasked with restoring the grandeur of their diminished lords.

The result was that the Humble Petitioners barely shuffled along.

Head pounding, eyes narrowed against the glare, Harald glared balefully as team after team stepped up to the hovering dungeon entrance and presented an expensive scale. The huge, floating polyhedron would then revolve, blurring and spinning, until it presented the team with a pentagonal face for one of the first twelve levels, or a much rarer triangular face for the far deeper ones.

Over and over it spun and flashed, responding to the Fallen Angel’s scales, sending team after team into the depths.

Bitter rage filled Harald. Yeoric and the others had descended hours ago. Using his writ. His gear. The temerity! The bastards. He knew he wasn’t the most lethal of raiders, a novice, sure, but…

Over and over again he replayed the scene in his mind. Lucine’s sneer. Yeoric keeping him pinned far past the moment he could have let him up. Derrick’s shit-eating smile. Even Gazurn had held back. So much for dwarvish honor.

Outrage kept him on his feet.

He’d show them.

He whiled away the baking hours with dreams of revenge. Perhaps he’d come upon them in the dungeon just before they were slaughtered. He’d leap in, perhaps off a ledge, to sink his blade into some monstrous thing, killing it with ease. Yeoric would gape. Lucine would be overcome with regret, her eyes burning with a romantic hope that he’d spurn with a caustic laugh.

Or perhaps he’d simply show them up with his own success. He’d find a Nebula Bloom scale, say, and word would get out, how he’d done even better than his father. Yeoric and the others would hunt him down to the Oak and Acorn, where he’d be regaling his friends with the tale, and, humbled and crushed, Yeoric would beg his forgiveness.

Harald sneered at his imaginary foes. Would he forgive them? What would it take for them to earn his forgiveness? No, he’d humiliate them as they’d humiliated him. He’d make them a joke. The idiots who spurned Harald Darrowdelve. What fools!

On he shuffled.

Occasionally his mind turned back to the bitter meeting he’d demanded at the Flutic Mining Consortium just before getting in line. Upon arriving at the plaza, he’d gone straight to the massive offices and up to the seventh floor to insist on an audience with his father’s old representative. Ustim Flowervault had been taken aback, and invited him in with grave courtesy. It had been Ustim who’d helped him acquire the writ that granted them expedited access to the dungeon at a greatly discounted price; it had been Ustim who’d helped draft the charter that laid out the articles that would govern their crew. The old man had listened intently, long fingers steepled, then sent for copies of the charter to be brought.

Harald’s face burned at the memory.

The copy had been cleverly edited so that his own name had been removed. Ustim had studied it with a magnifying glass and shaken his head in wonder.

“I myself wrote this charter, and yet it bears no sign of your name.” The old man had pushed the contract away. “No space even where your name might have once been written, no roughing of the fibers, nothing. It’s a faultless forgery.”

“Then declare it null!” Harald had cried, beside himself.

“The seal is official,” Ustim had demurred. “I only know it to be a forgery because I remember writing it differently. We can open an investigation, but it will be a lengthy and expensive process.”

Harald had sat back. “How expensive? How lengthy?”

“The more you pay, the shorter the wait.” Ustim had considered. “Say a month if you can put down an Aurora Veil? Less if you can pay more.”

Harald had simply gazed at his father’s representative, hope dying in his chest.

“Too expensive?” Ustim’s expression had turned sympathetic. “Then we can file it in the general claimant’s division for, say, a single Radiant Dawn.”

“And that will resolve… when?”

Ustim spread his hands. “Who can say? The system is terribly backed up. We’re understaffed. If I append a note of urgency, perhaps… six months?”

Harald had passed a shaking hand over his face.

“Come,” Ustim had leaned forward. “Perhaps this is a sign. I had my doubts about the wisdom of your venture. Perhaps it’s best you think it over. Return home, Harald. I’ll do some more investigating, and send word when I have an update.”

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The wind had been taken right out of his sails. For Ustim to be so certain, so final…

“Thank you,” he’d managed. No sense in speaking of his desperate financial straits. How he’d liquidated everything to fund this venture. How he had virtually nothing to return to but Sam and debt after towering debt.

Ustim already knew. After all, the old man had already loaned him copious amounts to keep his estate afloat.

Beaten and furious, he slipped out of the impressive office, studiously not making eye contact with anyone.

Almost he’d gone home.

But instead he’d marched to the back of the Humble Petitioner’s line, and not quite knowing what he was doing, settled in to wait.

Angry, he’d summoned his hated window.

Name: Harald Darrowdelve

Soul Nature: Hero’s Son

Soul Rank: Common

Soul Ability: Moment of Resolve

Class: None

Class Actives: None

Class Passives: None

Endowments: None

Strength: 6

Dexterity: 6

Constitution: 5

Ego: 3

Presence: 3

Thrones: 0/7

Scales: 1,024/10,000

Artifacts: None

Servitors: None

He glared balefully at the information hovering before him. He hated his stats. His father had invested a single Aurora Veil to Awaken his Cosmos, the scale worth a thousand Copper Crescents, but after the novelty had worn off Harald had ceased to summon it.

Yet there they were now, floating like an indictment. Nothing about it indicated his potential. Even his Soul Nature, his truest essence, described him relative to someone else. It had taken him three solid months of grueling work to raise his Strength and Constitution, and already they’d fallen back to a pathetic 6 and 5.

But he had a window, damnit. He had Awoken his Cosmos, even if he had yet to Ascend to his first Throne. He had potential.

And he’d show them all when he emerged victorious from the dungeon how wrong they’d been about him.

The bells rang the hours. The sun sank toward the western rooftops. Vendors plied the line, selling everything from spiced pies to good luck charms. So dejected did Harald look that they passed him by.

The shadows lengthened.

He’d circled to the far side of the huge plaza when something caused him to look up.

The dungeon had revolved, its faces glowing the dull gold of an emerging party. A pentagon flashed, and then four figures appeared on the Copper Gate arrival platform.

Harald’s breath locked up.

Yeoric, Lucine, Derrick, and Gazurn.

They were in good spirits. Derrick seemed to be telling a tale or a joke of some kind, for even from this distance Harald heard Lucine’s tinkling laugh.

He couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.

The crew stepped off the platform and presented their backpack to the customs officer, who quickly set to counting out their scales.

Harald would have killed to know what they’d returned with.

Not that much, apparently; a handful that were quickly sorted, taxed, and the remainder handed back.

But the crew’s good humor said it all.

They’d had a successful first venture.

Other than a bloody bandage around Gazurn’s arm, nobody seemed hurt.

The crew projected their windows for the accountants’ records, then departed. Just like that, they were gone.

Tears scalded Harald’s eyes.

It wasn’t fair.

It wasn’t fair.

They should have suffered, the gods, the Fallen Angel herself should have punished them for their crimes.

Now they were probably headed to the Burnished Goose for dinner and drinks. To celebrate.

To plan their next raid.

“Hey,” said the hulking man behind Harald. “Move.”

The line had shuffled on. A good three or four yards had opened before him. Not even responding, Harald stepped forward.

He felt numb. Ridiculous. The line was starting to shorten, droves of people taking tickets from attendants who were making their way along the Petitioner’s line.

“Sir?” A bespectacled attendant stopped beside him. “Do you plan to night raid, or would you like a placement ticket?”

A placement ticket would give him priority come dawn, allowing him to rejoin the back of the line ahead of newcomers. A good two-thirds of the line was taking them.

Night raids were much more dangerous.

Why, Dad? He could still remember asking his father over dinner one night. Aren’t the dungeons underground? What do they care if the sun’s up or down?

His father had been chewing heartily on a turkey leg, dressed in his new finery, and in a good mood for once. I don’t know. It’s not like the Fallen Angel’s ever bothered to explain it to anybody. My guess? And he’d leaned forward, his expression turning hard. My guess is that dark calls to dark. They can sense the absence of light in the world, down there, and come swarming up, like maggots.

Harald had leaned back, horrified.

“Sir?” The attendant looked exhausted. “Ticket?”

“No,” he heard himself croak. “Thank you.”

The wiry man glanced up and down Harald’s length, as if surprised, then shrugged and moved to the next in line.

The pace picked up as people left, tickets in hand. Half the tickets would be sold on the black market to folks who wanted to skip the line. But enough people stayed that it took another hour for Harald to reach the Petitioner’s Gate.

Night had fallen. The torches that burned on either side of the free-standing portal caused the sculpted iron to flicker and glow. It showed men and women venturing down, ever down, toward masses of fiends and monsters that surged up to meet them.

“Next,” called a bored guard. She was heavyset and her leather armor broken in, giving her a competent, callous air.

Harald blinked, came to life, and stepped forward.

There was nobody else ahead of him. Through the Petitioner’s Gate he could see the lower half of the restless, ever-shifting dungeon portal.

“Welcome to the Petitioner’s Gate,” drawled the woman. “All who venture through do so at their own risk and relinquish any right to charge the city of Flutic, the Mining Consortium, or any other governing body with responsibility for what transpires below. The city exacts a sixty percent tax on all scales recovered. Do you agree to these terms?”

“Yes,” said Harald, staring past the woman at the revolving polyhedron. He was here. It was actually happening.

“Then in the name of the Grandees of Flutic, go forth brave adventurer and wrest glory and honor from the remains of the Fallen Angel.” The guard couldn’t have sounded more bored. “Next!”

Harald passed through the Petitioner’s Gate and moved to the taxation counter. Raiders had to declare their scales going in. A plump accountant was finishing up a plate of noodles slathered in orange sauce, which he set aside in annoyance. “Anything to declare?”

“One Copper Crescent,” said Harald, tearing his gaze away from the hovering dungeon and pulling the scale free. “Another in my lantern, I think.”

“Very well.” The accountant scribbled something on his pad, signed it, stamped it, then tore the page out and handed it over. Unlike the main gates, barely any details were kept track of here. “Happy raiding. If you lose this invoice you’ll have to pay the tax on all your scales coming out, not just your new ones, so keep it close.”

“Thank you.” Harald placed the invoice in a pouch with his Crescent, and then moved to the base of the five broad steps that led up to the Petitioner’s platform, a humble deck with a crude railing. A second guard gestured for him to ascend.

“Stop there,” said the man when Harald stepped onto the platform proper. “All Humble Petitioners automatically enter the first level of the dungeon. When the portal opens, move forward and pass through it without stopping. Just walk forward, the Gate will take care of the rest. Hesitation can result in a partial teleportation, which can be fatal, so keep moving once you start. Are you ready?”

“Ready,” whispered Harald.

But he wasn’t.

He knew he wasn’t.

“Then hold up your Copper Crescent to key to the first level.”

The huge shape of the dungeon was shifting above him, vast and alien, throbbing, glowing, alive. Its small triangular faces and large pentagons shifted, spun, blurred. Around and around, marvelous and utterly terrifying.

He’d thought himself a jaded Flutic. Had seen the dungeon’s thirty-two faced shape everywhere for as long as he could remember. Had come to the Dungeon Plaza as a child and gazed in awe at the distant polyhedron, amazed that his father was entering it, time and again.

But never from so close.

The air tasted metallic. He felt numb as he raised the delicate scale. Strangely inconsequential, as if everything that had happened to him today was meaningless in the face of this alien construct.

The gate abruptly froze. The Iron Pentagon with one gold notch was facing him from six yards above, and its broad face suddenly hollowed out as if dissolving from within to become a depthless void of hungry black.

It wanted to consume him.

“Light your bloody lantern!” barked the guard. “Oh, it’s too late, just move!”

Harald placed his hand on the pommel of his sword and lurched forward. The Gate filled the world, loomed massive above him.

He took three steps on the platform, and then the fourth was onto the air itself, as if an invisible ramp had appeared beneath him.

He tilted back, ascending toward the swarming blackness of the pentagon. All sounds fell away, to be replaced with a rushing, droning hum, akin to a swarm of bees magnified a thousandfold.

His heart was pounding, and terror gripped him by the throat.

This was wrong, this was a mistake, he should back away, run to the Oak and Acorn, get a drink, laugh and curse and cry at the world, but not this, not this madness -

His feet betrayed him. Even as his mind screamed in panic, he strode forward, up into the air, up into the Iron Pentagon, and was devoured.