Doom Forge: Viridian Gate Online (Chapter 17 - 18)

SEVENTEEN: 

As Above, So Below

Inside the palace was shockingly familiar. Polished marble hallways—black stone instead of creamy white—with arched ceilings and walls scones. These, though, were gleaming silver and the magical orbs they held shed watery light like trapped moon beams. There were nooks, crannies, and alcoves here as well, but instead of fanciful artwork the items seemed far more esoteric. Maps, framed fragments of parchment, clay tablets with obscure pictographs or script in languages I didn’t understand. 

We even found the occasional rack of weapons or free-standing suit of armor. Those we lingered at a bit longer, inspecting each item for traps or malicious sigils, before stripping them down and throwing them into our inventories. Good stuff. All of it well made, though without an enchantment in sight. Everything was starter gear, but even starter gear could serve the Alliance. 

More interesting, however, were the rooms which branched up from the main corridor. 

The mansion above had clearly been a residence. A beautiful, sprawling, intimidating residence that could house a hundred people, easy, but a home nonetheless. True to theme, this place was just about the opposite. It was dedicated to form and function. There were no lounges. No soft sofas or leather club chairs. No grand dining halls with enormous hard wood tables and high-backed seats. Instead, there were archery ranges, agility courses, training pits, alchemy labs, and armories. This looked like the secret fortress of a general-king.

As we wound our way through the maze of rooms and hallways, exploring its many floors, I couldn’t help but wonder whether we could lay claim to this keep. We had Darkshard, yes, and we’d even set up a training academy of sorts down in the Darkshard mines nearby. Since time worked differently in the Shadowverse—trickling by far more slowly than it did in the Material Realm—we could squeeze untold amounts of training and crafting into a relatively limited timeframe. Still, working in the mines was an unbelievable challenge since the Void Terrors were everywhere, and respawned every eight hours like clockwork. 

It made for some serious logistical and personnel issues. 

But just like the mansion above, this place was devoid of mobs—so far, at least—giving credence to the idea that the runes by the door were indeed containment wards. So, if we could capture this place like some of the other keeps scattered about Eldgard, it could offer us a variety of strategic advantages. Training. Security. Plus, a base in the north that no one else knew about. Definitely something to look into once I’d sorted everything out with the Doom Forge. 

We explored each of the rooms we passed, taking our time to ensure there was nothing we overlooked, but found no sign of the book we’d come in search for. We did, however, find more strange verses painstakingly etched into various areas. Clues of some kind, I had no doubt, though I wasn’t sure what exactly they corresponded to. 

In shadow and in light, we found carved into the stone mantle above a fireplace, the letters so small and so fine, we’d almost missed it. Only Cutter’s sharp eye saved the day there. In an enormous war-room we found the line, A cruel tormentor along the path; neatly penned at the bottom of a giant parchment map with all of Eldgard splashed across it. A bane to all unworthy thieves adorned a wobbly stone set into the floor of a decked-out alchemy lab. Amara stumbled on the line, Weakness revealed in darkest night, painstakingly scrawled onto one of the wall sconces. 

After we’d searched every other inch of the place, we headed toward the back end—where the kitchen and forge had been located in the upper portion of the keep. The entrance to the Shadowverse had been located in the forge. Since this shadow version of the keep so closely mirrored the version above, I suspected we’d probably find whatever we were looking for there. The last few hallways were bare and before long we wound up in the kitchen. Except down here, it wasn’t a kitchen, but a library. And scrawled above the archway, almost like a bookend to the arch at the front entryway, was a section of verse. 

A magic touch shall not prevail;

Although I’d never graduated from college, I remembered enough from my English Lit class to recognize a poem. And Abby, who had graduated, was smart enough to put it together in the right order, though she insisted it was something called a Sicilian Octave, and that it was missing a final line. 

The guardian of shadow and wrath,
slumbers among the fallen leaves.
A cruel tormentor along the path;
A bane to all unworthy thieves.
In shadow and in light,
weakness revealed in darkest night.

A magic touch shall not prevail;

Beyond the arch was the single biggest library I’d ever seen, though admittedly, I hadn’t had a chance to stop by the Grand Archives in Alaunhylles. According to Abby there were miles of books, tomes, and records there. Still, this place was impressively big. A maze of twisting aisleways, and heavy-laden bookshelves loaded down with tomes and books in all shapes and sizes. Must’ve been twenty-thousand books here. Maybe more. It would take months to search through every title, and years to read them all. 

Even inside the Shadowverse, where time crawled along at eight-speed, we’d never have enough time to look through every text—not before the Quest expired, killing me in the process. 

“Well shit,” Forge said, drawing out the word shit as he rubbed thoughtfully at his blocky chin. “I might be outta my depth y’all. Killing monsters. Fighting gods. Blowing up taverns. I’m all about it, but ain’t no one said I was gonna have to do a bunch of book reports.” 

“He has a point,” Cutter piped in. “Where in the bloody hells do we even start? This is like searching for a needle in a giant pile of needles.” He turned and glowered at Carl. “This is supposed to be your area of expertise, friend. So what are we supposed to be looking for, eh?” 

“Well.” The cleric shifted awkwardly. “It’s a leather-bound book about yay big.” He held his hands apart, giving us a rough measurement. Unfortunately, his terribly description fit over half the books lining the shelves. “Says The Biographical History of Eitri Spark-Sprayer in fancy gold lettering across the front.” He shrugged apologetically. “There’s a golden handprint on the front too, if that helps any.” 

“Damnit all, Carl,” Cutter said. “Gods, but you really are the worst priest I’ve ever met. It’s no bloody wonder they tossed you out on your ear like the utter sod you are.”

“Hey man, I never wanted to be caught up in this quest,” he shot back defensively. “My only goal was to keep my head down, make a decent living, and drink beer in my off hours. I’m not supposed to be the freakin’ chosen one, okay?”   

“Just calm down,” Abby said before things could escalate further. “There’s got to be a better way than just looking through every book. I mean stop and really look at this library. Really look at it. The isles are crazy, a maze. But everything here’s neat. Meticulous. A place for everything and everything in its place. This collection is clearly sorted and organized, which means that whoever owned it probably had some way to search for specific volumes—a way to find the right one. It would be stupid not to have some method, right?”

“Which means there’s probably a card catalog or maybe an index volume around here somewhere,” I said, rushing forward to envelope her in a huge bear hug. “You’re a genius, Abby. Seriously, what would we do without you?”

“Never find the book,” she grumbled good naturedly as I set her down. She smoothed her dress, but offered me a genuine smile.

“There is one other possibility,” Amara said. “This book. It is a quest item, yes?”

Carl bobbed his head.

“Then, perhaps, it will not be on these many shelves at all. If it is a sacred tome, as your priests teach, then would it not make sense to have such a title segregated from the more common volumes?”

“Yeah,” Abby said. “That’s a good point. Could be it’s sitting on a pedestal somewhere—or maybe hidden behind a false wall. Something like that.” 

“Then let’s split up,” I said. “Abby, Forge, why don’t you two start looking for the catalog or the index book. Amara and Cutter, start searching for traps, hidden doors, any kind of secret mechanism. Ari, you and Carl are on the lookout for illusions. Maybe our pal Eitri used the same tricks as he did topside. In the meantime, I’ll start pawing through some of the regular books. See if anything jumps out at me. But word of warning—be careful. I know we haven’t run across anything in here that wants to eat our faces yet, but I wouldn’t get complacent. The last time I was in a library like this, I ran into Devil.” 

Everyone set off in different directions. 

I made my way into the stacks trailing my fingers along the book spines, gazes drifting over each volume, not lingering on any title for too long. Most of them seemed pretty tame and boring. Lots of books on Eldgard history, documenting different eras which ranged from the rise of Rowanheath to the Merchant Council coup. I found one book that offered insight into the first invasion of the Imperials onto the continent. I plucked that one from the shelf and added it to my inventory, hoping to find some time later on to glance through the pages.

The history of Eldgard was murky at best, and though I knew the Imperials had invaded from the east, landing on Eldgard and establishing New Viridia before making their push against the rest of the natives, there was little talk of the where the Imperials had come from originally. Was it possible there was a whole other continent out there somewhere, filled with some forgotten Empire that no Traveler had ever visited? If so, were there Murk Elves there? Accipiters? Dwarves? Or were there different races entirely. I didn’t know, but it might be worth exploring one day. 

I moved on into another section, this one stocked mostly with texts on Magic and Spellcraft. The Metaphysical Paradox of Divination. Spinners Handbook of Mystical Merchant-craft. Compendium of Tanglewood Beasts. A Conjurer’s Primer. Some of those books sent little jolts of power thrumming into my outstretched fingertips. Beckoning me. Enticing me. A tome titled Umbra Runic Transcription seemed custom tailored for me, so I added it, along with a few of the more interesting titles, to my bag. Mostly, though, I kept moving. As much as I wanted to plop down and spend the next few weeks exploring every book that piqued my curiosity, we had places to be and things to do. 

The next ten minutes passed by much the same as I wandered aimlessly, selecting rows at random, hoping raw instinct would guide me where I needed to go.

I was halfway down another unremarkable aisleways when a purple glimmer, radiating from the spine of a book, caught my eye. The mark wasn’t big, just an odd circle with too many loops, swirls and lines jutting off. Upon closer inspection I realized it wasn’t a proper rune at all, but rather, an ancient Dokkalfar symbol I’d seen a handful of times before. The symbol of the Dark Templar. The mark of the Maa-Tál. Chief Kolle had a mark like that on an amulet he always wore and so did the other Murk Elf Chieftains who made up the Dark Conclave. 

It instantly set my gamer sense to tingling. Bingo. 

I inched over to the shelf and hooked the top edge of the book with one finger, giving it a gentle pulled. The tome resisted my attempts to remove it from the shelf. I pulled harder, but still nothing. Next, I ran the pad of my thumb over the glimmering rune. A faint jolt of power sprinted up my arm; the handprint on my forearm suddenly burning with arctic power, cold and raw and biting. Something that only happened in the presence of potent Umbra Magic. Usually potent ritual magic. Working on intuition, I pressed my thumb against the odd rune and fed in a trickle of Spirit. 

The sigil flared, a pulse of light so bright I had to shield my eyes against it, and a second later, there was a click and a groan as a section of bookcase in front of me lurched inward. A false wall, though this one was clearly meant to be accessed only by someone with the power of shadow. That was incredibly suspicious. Sophia had said that Overmind interference was strictly limited given the nature of the quest, but what were the chances that we would stumble on a place like this? A keep that would require the skill set of both a cleric and a Dark Templar? 

Impossibly unlikely. Unless … 

Unless, Sophia and the other Overminds had been manipulating me from the very beginning. 

When I’d first meet Sophia—just after earning my place among the Ak-Hani as a Shadowmancer—she’d told me I’d be her pawn. What if she’d been true to her word? Moving me, step by step, this whole time. Offering me the illusion of choice, while subtly forcing me to follow the path she’d been laying out for me. She’d made me her Champion. She’d put Vlad into my path ensuring we’d take Rowanheath, which in turn had led me to the Quest of the Jade Lord. She’d called me into the Realm of Order and pitted me against the Lich Priest, Vox-Malum, who just so happened to have the first Doom-Forged relic. 

And now, here I was. At her insistence. After she’d pointed me toward Carl like a hunting dog set on the trail of a deer. Carl, the only person who could’ve guided me here.  

The section of bookcase came to a stop, revealing a shallow alcove with a high ceiling. The far wall was plaster, not stone, and on it was a breathtaking fresco. A portrait of Eitri—in this one he was in a dark forest, his leather armor black as wet tar, a heavy warhammer not so terribly different from my own, resting against one shoulder. A bit of light reflected from his right hand. A ring, embedded into the plaster, wrapped around his finger. In the center of the nook was a marble pedestal and etched along its edge was the final line of the poem: the beginner’s blade can tip the scale.

I only had eyes for the thing resting on the pedestal, though. A book. A book with an odd golden lock, protecting its secrets from unwanted eyes, and a golden handprint splayed across the front. 

A handprint that instantly reminded me of the one on my arm.

After thinking about Sophia, and the way I’d likely been manipulated, I was half-tempted to turn around and leave the book be. Just to spite her. But the tome called to me. In some way, it felt like destiny as I stepped into the hidden chamber. Like my whole time in VGO had set me on the path to this place. To put the clues together. To assemble a weapon, created before the game had even gone live, which could save the world. 

In the end, however, it was my sheer curiosity as a gamer that pulled me across the threshold.  

I reached out a trembling hand, pressing it against the palm print on the cover, briefly thinking of Yggdrasil, the tree of life, with its mirrored branches and roots. As above, so below.

My hand burned. 

Not with fire but with impossible cold, which traveled up my arm and into my chest, surrounding my heart, reaching icy fingers into my lungs. The lock, securing the book, sprang open, umbral light spilling from between the pages. I lifted my hand and the book burst open, the pages fluttering madly like the rustling of fall leaves, bleeding preternatural light into the air. I heard an audible click and the grinding of shifting stone, but the sound was distant and unimportant. So, so far away. 

And, in short order, all of that faded as I fell forward, swallowed into the pages of the book.
 

EIGHTEEN: 

Through the Looking Glass

I swayed and lurched, woozy and a little nauseous from my trip down the rabbit hole. I glanced left and right, trying to figure out where in the heck I was, because one thing was certain, I wasn’t in the underground Library anymore.  An enormous cavern, the walls were deep, red-brown stone, natural, uncut, and studded with raw gemstones. Fist-sized rubies, emeralds, diamonds, topaz, and sapphires. Interspersed among the gems were great veins of raw ore: iron here, silver there, gold in a third spot, a jagged skein of jade. 

The legion of precious stones and the huge veins of metal ore glimmered in the burning orange light of a colossal forge, bathing the mosaic floor in a warm, welcoming glow. The mosaic underfoot depicted a Murk Elf woman with raven-black hair and blazing emerald eyes, a sad half-smile on her lips. 

The forge itself was like nothing I’d ever seen. Protruding from the far wall was a statue, sculpted directly into the cavern face. A phoenix the size of a battleship with wings spread wide, its beaked-maw lifted up in defiant triumph. Resting at the mythic bird’s clawed feet was a sea of burbling red-gold magma, wisps of steam and heat drifting up like a cloud. Nearby was a flawless obsidian anvil, larger than a dinner table. Curiously, however, there were no tools. No hammers, swags, awls, or even quenching barrels. Nothing to work metal with.  

A bear of a man loomed above the magma pool, though man probably wasn’t strictly the right word to use. He was fifteen feet tall if he was an inch, so heavily muscled he was nearly deformed, and made from gold. His whole body. Just pure gold, glimmering in the dancing forge light. His hair, woven from a sheet of silvery metal, was long and pulled back into a braid; a massive beard of literal fire trailed down his chest. I watched in unsettled awe as he dipped one hand into the magma and pulled out a dollop of lava the size of my head. 

If that wasn’t Khalkeús the forge godling, I’d eat my boot. Which meant this was my first look at the vaulted Doom Forge of legend. 

Begrudgingly, I had to admit it did indeed look legendary. The Devs—or more likely, the Overminds—had gone all out, and that was saying something considering everything else I’d seen in Eldgard.

Khalkeús tromped over to the obsidian anvil and slammed the hunk of liquid death onto the surface with a splat. He sat down on a natural chunk of rock jutting up from the ground, dug his fingers into the burning metal, not concerned in the least by the heat, and began to knead it. Working his fingers and palms in. Pushing. Pulling. Stretching. Rolling. The metal as pliant as a clump of bread dough. 

I pulled my eyes away from the spectacle as the click-clack of approaching footsteps drifted through the cavern. A moment later a young man, maybe late twenties, stepped into view. Though nowhere near as tall as the figure hunched over the anvil, the newcomer stood head and shoulders above me. I recognized him at once as the man from the portrait. Eitri Spark-Sprayer. He glanced in my direction, but his eyes slid over me without so much as a pause. He threaded his way over to the anvil and leaned against the nearby wall, arms folded, black cloak trailing down his back. 

He said nothing.

“So that’s it then, eh, lad?” Khalkeús said, his voice deep and unnaturally gruff. Like boulders grinding together. “Ya think ya’re ready tae go out into the wild world.” Not a question but a statement of resigned fact. As he spoke he worked the slab of metal. Fingers digging in, dimpling the slag as he drew it out into a long thin bar. With a pinch, a twist, and a daft pull he formed a handle. 

“Well past time,” Eitri said, his voice lacking the Scottish bur of his father. “I’ve been cooped up too long, Father. It’s high past time I went out and met my people. My other people.” He paused and glanced at the floor, eyes skipping over the picture of the woman in the mosaic. “It’s what she would’ve wanted you know.” He lifted his one arm, and pulled back a cuff, revealing a handprint identical to my own. “This was her final gift for a reason. This is what she wanted for me.” 

“Aye. Ah know it,” Khalkeús replied, voice surprisingly soft and tender. He shaped the other end of the glowing metal, sculpting it like clay into a boxy hammer head. “Always knew this day would come, lad. Just seems so soon. Too soon.” He scooped out a gob of metal, formed a ridge with one thumb, then squeezed and eased a spit of metal into a wicked spike on the back before doing the same on the top. 

The metal—if it was actually metal—still glowed with impossible heat, but now the shape was clear. A warhammer. The golden god leaned forward and blew gently onto the metal, the motion surprisingly tender. It hardened in a flash, intricate red-fire runes glowing along the handle and swirling over the hammer’s blunt face. “Ya will be needing this, Ah reckon.” He stood and hefted the flawless weapon. A miraculous vision.  

“The world, it’s moved on since yer mother passed, lad. Different days.” He trundled over, his footsteps heavy and ponderous. “If my acolytes speak true, there be war brewing in the land. Between your mother’s kin folk and the Imperials to the east.” He paused, brow furrowing, his mouth disappearing into his bearded face as he grimaced. “Just be careful out there, eh lad? It’s a dangerous world fer a child of the betwixt. Might be they’ll try to suck you into their machinations. If you let ’em. Hear me, lad—dinnae let ’em because ya are nae invincible. Dinnae think it.” He held the dazzling weapon out for Eitri, pride and fierce love burning in the forge god’s face.

I had to admit, Khalkeús was nothing like what I’d expected. I mean, on the surface he was exactly like what I was expecting. But the affection for his son? The obvious care and even gentleness? It was odd to think that this was the same being who’d crafted a weapon capable of murdering the gods. 

The world shivered, dissolving around me as the floor trembled like mad. Living in San Diego, I’d experienced more than my fair share of earthquakes, and this was by far worse than anything I’d experienced IRL. 

Everything exploded in a shower of light and swirling chaotic motion before resolving once more into a jungle. One I recognized at once from my long hours spent in the Storme Marshes. A thick tangle of trees and waterways stretched off in every direction. Towering cypress, droopy-leafed willows, unbending elms, and creeping mangrove. Fat, twisted roots jutted up from sludgy water, and the leafy canopy overhead blocked out the sunlight, casting everything in perpetual gloom and deep shadow. 

The thunderous crack of a tree bough startled me and I twirled, just in time to see Eitri spring off of a mangrove branch overhead. Twisting in the air, he fired an Umbra Bolt from his left hand at someone or something just out of view. He landed in a crouch, light as a cat and just as gracefully, left hand held at the ready, right hand wielding the immaculate warhammer his father had made for him what seemed like only moment before. 

“You’re fast, Eitri,” boomed a voice from overhead as another man flipped into view from the inky shadows of the canopy. “But your speed won’t save you, not this time.” Unlike Eitri, the newcomer landed like a meteor, the loamy earth cratering out around him. He stood with a wry grin on his face, a hefty sword clasped in his hands. My breath caught in my throat. He was taller than me with broad shoulders and a swath of ebony hair. He stared at Eitri with dark eyes like chips of burnt coal, which sat above a hooked nose. His black plate mail pulsed with violet runes of power that matched the blade in his hands. 

I knew him just like I knew these were the Storme Marhses. The Jade Lord, Nangkri, in the flesh. Or at least he would be the Jade Lord eventually. He looked much younger than when I’d crossed paths with him in the Twilight Realm and he didn’t yet have the crown of the Jade Lord. Which meant his battle against Arzokh the Sky Maiden probably hadn’t happened yet. Early days, then. Still, I’d never forget that face. Not in this lifetime. 

Nangkri charged, sword lashing out in a vicious arc. 

Eitri danced back, his steps light, deflecting the blow with a flick of his hammer before sending another Umbra Bolt directly into Nangkri’s gut, doubling the man over, though only for the briefest of moments. Eitri charged, the spiked-tip on his hammer thrust forward, but Nangkri had already recovered. The future Jade Lord parried the thrust, shot inside Eitri’s guard and delivered a punishing elbow to the throat that would’ve killed a lesser man. Eitri gasped and tottered—his HP didn’t dip more than a fraction of an inch—his weapon dropping low just long enough for Nangkri to make a move.

Nangkri thrust his sword out and the blade seemed to melt and stretch, forming a violet tentacle, which wrapped around Eitri’s broad shoulders like a constricting python. With a flick of his wrists, Eitri was flying through the air, tumbling head over heels on a crash course with a wide-trunked willow. Until he was simply gone. Disappeared in the span of an eyeblink. A single blink later, he had reappeared, no longer in flight, but standing directly behind Nangkri, the spike of his hammer pressed against the side of the Jade Lord’s exposed throat. 

Nangkri sighed and held up his sword. “I yield.” He smiled as the spike retreated. “You are improving every day, Eitri.” He turned and walked toward a clear path of bog as he withdrew a ribbon-bound scroll from his pouch. “It won’t be long until you can give Chao-Yao a challenge. Keep at it, and you might be the most powerful Shadowmancer in a thousand years.” He glanced over his shoulder as he broke the ribbon on the scroll, summoning a shimmering portal. “Doesn’t hurt that you’re the scion of a god, though . Where I come, we call that cheating …”

My head swam as I replayed the conversation. Eitri was a Shadowmancer? I’d known coming into this place that the demi-god had been a descendent of the Murk Elves. But knowing that he shared a class with me was a revelation. Suddenly, the Shadowverse-bound mansion made so much more sense. It also made me wonder about the silvery disks, which granted long term access to the Shadowverse. There was one in Darkshard mines outside of Yunnam and one in the forge above. They weren’t natural occurrences. No. Someone had built them and I was starting to suspect that someone may well have been Eitri. 

I wondered briefly if I might discover that secret somewhere down in this library. Being able to make these little pocket portals into the Shadowverse would be an unparalleled trump card.

But then, just as I started dwelling on the potential implications, the world shifted away once again. This time the swampy bog was gone, and before me was a campfire. Night bugs buzzed and chirped in an oppressively dark sky, held at bay only by the light of the fire. Despite the deep gloom, the folk around the blaze seemed like a happy bunch. Nangkri lounged on the far side of the fire, laying on a colorful Murk Elf blanket, propped up on one arm. He was older now, though, closer to the man I remember. Gray streaks at his temples, the hint of crow’s feet forming at his eyes. 

Eitri was there too. He hadn’t aged a day as far as I could tell. 

Several of the other men ringing the fire I vaguely recalled from my time in the Twilight Realm as well. All hard-faced Dokkalfar. A few were big and bulky: bruisers and tanks in heavy plate mail, with brutal two-handed weapons riding their backs. One was whip-thin—built with the hard lines of a razor blade—wore dark leather armor, and had a beefy warhammer that could’ve been a twin to my own. A Shadowmancer, for sure. Others sported the flowing robes of mages, while another still was decked out in conjured armor built from yellowing bones. 

I thought they were probably Nangkri’s brothers—the long dead chieftains of the six named Dokkalfar clans.

It was the woman reclining near Eitri, though, that stood out most. She was the only female for one, and for another, one of her hands was intertwined with Eitri’s. She wore patchwork leather armor, studded with bits of bone and covered with intricate runic script. She was younger than the rest of the Chieftains, maybe in her late teens or early twenties, and bore a striking resemblance to Amara. The same lithe lines to her body. Same short-cut black hair, shaved down to the skin on one side. Same slightly-canted emerald eyes. 

Not identical, but they could’ve passed as cousins. 

“And what say you, Isra?” Nangkri asked, though what the topic of discussion was I couldn’t say. 

“I don’t know, Uncle,” she shook her head, and pursed in lips in faint disapproval. Even sounded a bit like Amara. “We need the gold for the war with the Imperials, but the presence of the dragonlings changes things. There are easier ways to fund our campaign.” She paused, stealing a sidelong glance at Eitri who looked … troubled, to say the least. “Trifling with such an ancient creature as the Sky Maiden can only spell dis—” 

Before she even finished speaking, the world shifted again, blurring around the edges as things spun topsy turvy like a carousel going at full tilt. Flashing faster and faster, little snatches of imagery flying out at me like bullets.

Eitri in a high-ceilinged temple, standing before a panel of stern-faced men and women, who didn’t look even remotely human. Horns. Hooves. Silvery skin. The slit eyes of a snake. Each was finely dressed and radiated power, just as Khalkeús had. “You push too far, Scion,” a black-haired woman with horns said, “and there are dire consequences for interfering unduly. You of all people should—”

Shift … 

They were eaten by a swirl of churning smoke, quickly replaced by a picture of Eitri busy at work at a forge, a heavy hammer in his hand slamming down against a flat ring of dull silver.

Shift …

Eitri sitting in a high-backed leather chair at the head of one of the banquet tables I’d seen in the keep above not too long ago. The other seats were occupied by Isra and Nangkri’s brothers, though the Jade Lord himself was noticeable absent. “This is all such a mess,” Isra said running a hand through her short-cropped hair. She looked so tired. Hair-fine wrinkles had taken up residence at the corners of her eyes and around her rosebud mouth. “He won’t listen to reason, Eitri. He’s half mad and no one can get through—we’ve all tried. We need you. Everyone needs you. The whole of Eldgard needs you. You’re the only one he’s liable to give an ear too at this point.” 

Eitri grimaced and dropped his gaze, regarding a silver wine goblet in his hands. “I doubt he’d want to see me. Not after—”

Shift … 

When the image resolved again, the sprawling banquet hall was gone, replaced instead by a brightly burning hearth tucked away in the heart of rustic wooden cottage, the furniture simple but well made. This time only Isra and Eitri were present. Isra was older now, in her late forties or early fifties, silver streaks had firmly worked into the strands of her raven hair, though she looked as fit and trim as she had all those years ago. She sat on a narrow hay-filled bed, covered by a drab gray bedspread. As before, Eitri was unchanged. 

In her lap was a small bundle, wrapped with fine spider silk. 

All of the youthful optimism and spring I’d seen before was gone, eradicated by time and circumstances. Now she looked hard. Beaten down, true, but harder for it—not broken. 

“I don’t know what you would’ve had me do,” Eitri said as he paced the room, his heavy boots echoing off the creaking floorboards. “The other Aspects were already hounding me about my involvement.” 

“You could’ve saved him,” she said, her voice fierce with certainty. She pulled back the folds of the bundle in her lap. Clustered within was the Jade Lord’s set—crown, amulet, belt. “If you’d intervened with the Sky Maiden things might’ve turned out differently. Better.” 

“And if he would’ve heeded your advice all of this might’ve been avoided. Perhaps I should’ve acted. But it would’ve brought down the wrath of every Northern Aspect upon my head. Even my Father wouldn’t have been able to help me then. Believe me or not, but I was told in no uncertain terms that I was not allowed to intervene further. That the fate of your Uncle was a matter of destiny. As it stands, I already have a fair amount of explaining to do. I’m set to meet with the Aspect Tribunal in an hour’s time. To explain my involvement in your war against the Empire.”

She turned her head away. Refusing to hold his gaze. “He never would’ve abandoned you, Eitri. No matter the cost. You may not have actually been a brother, but he certainly thought of you as one. He would’ve burned the world down for you.” She paused, balling her hands into tight fists. “It is best if you go now. I need to be alone. To think.” She fell quiet, her eyes heavy as she stared at the floor. “It is all falling apart with him gone.” She shook her head and grimaced. “And I don’t know how to put it back together. I don’t know that it can be put back together.” 

Eitri cleared his throat and pulled something from his bag. A curling horn of beaten brass covered in hair-fine inscriptions that spiraled from a white-bone mouthpiece to a gently flared bell. “As I said, I need to go. But.” He faltered, running his hands tenderly along the length of the horn. “I made this for you, Isra. The Horn of the Ancients. With this, you can call him back from the grave, at least for a time. Him and all of the honored dead. It can’t make up for his loss, but perhaps it can light the path ahead. Perhaps he can give you the guidance I can’t.” 

Instead of responding, she laid down on the mattress and offered the demi-god her back. “Go now,” she said, barely more than a whisper. 

Pain and hurt cascaded across Eitri’s face in waves. Gently, almost reverently, he set the horn down on a rough wooden dresser not far from where she lay. “I’ll be back once I’ve finished with the Tribunal. We can talk more about this then. Perhaps lay it to rest.” 

Shift …

The world exploded into a thousand fragments of light like a broken mirror, and for a time everything was clattering sound and flashing light and chaotic motion. This transition was far more violent than the last had been. 

When the world resolved again, we were back in the library, Eitri towering over the pedestal. He pulled a signet ring from his finger and pressed it into the plaster of the wall. “For those who find this record,” he said, voice heavy. Stoic. Worry lines etched into his unnatural youthful face. “Let it be known that I did my best. But my Father was right.” He shook his head. “I wasn’t ready. The world of men is a cruel place. Cruel and complicated. I leave for the Aspect Tribunal, but I fear they have treachery in mind. Should anything happen to me … Well, my Father will not handle it well. He’s a good man—as good as any god can be—but my loss. It will destroy him. 

“If he reacts poorly he’ll need to be stopped. I’ve charged the Acolytes of the Shield and Hammer with containing him. There’s a ritual book buried deep in the forbidden library under the Order’s main temple in Stone Reach. This ring”—he waved at the glimmer in the wall—“will open the way. Inside you will find all that you need to locate the Doom Forge and the spells necessary to contain my Father’s wrath. Hopefully, it doesn’t come to that, but one cannot be too prepared.” He took a deep breath and nodded solemnly. He closed the pages of the book and pressed his hand against the golden palm print on the cover. 

Violet light burst out in a cloud, kicking me in the chest like a mule and throwing me back and up. It felt … not quite like flying. More like falling in reverse.

And then, just like that, I was back in the library. Eitri gone. The book closed, the glow faded. 

I shook my head, picked up the book—stowing it in my inventory—then beelined for the signet ring sunken into the wall. With a firm tug, I pulled it free, but before I had a chance to check out the stats or the flavor text, a frantic call caught my ear. 

“Jack! Where in the nine hells are you, eh?” Cutter yelled at the top of his lungs. “We’ve got ourselves a bit of a bloody problem here!” 

His words were followed in short order by an ear-splitting roar and incessant rumbling of the floors underfoot.