Velthan had worn worse things in his life than the what was currently wrapped around his head. He kept his breathing steady regardless of the smell, as the guards guided him.

  He had expected this.

  The guards who had pulled them from the pool had been efficient. They had bound his wrists with soft rope, fitted the rough cloth over his head, and marched him through corridors.

  The temporal displacement had been... inevitable.

  Velthan had known, of course. The blood pool was never meant to be a simple gateway to some dusty vault or sealed chamber. It was a temporal fissure, tearing them backward to the moment when everything had begun.

  To the General's era.

  To the choice.

  The boy could have made this simpler. If Eirik had given his blood freely in that dreamscape, Velthan could have came with the power of a god on his side.

  No matter.

  The destination remained the same.

  Velthan had spent forty years studying history. The General had stood at a crossroads between power and humanity, and what he chose would echo through a thousand years.

  That choice was the key to everything: to the artifact; to the future; to returning home.

  And Velthan knew exactly how to force that choice to fruition.

  Let the boy have his truth, then.

  "Stop."

  The command came from somewhere ahead. Hands gripped Velthan's elbows, guiding him to a halt.

  The hood was removed.

  He stood in a small antechamber. Beside him, Caelum swayed on his feet, his own hood being pulled away by a guard.

  The Duke's son looked terrible.

  Sweat plastered his hair to his forehead despite the chill in the air. His hands, still bound before him, shook visibly.

  The withdrawal was accelerating.

  Velthan had known this would happen. The compound he had been supplying to Caelum for years—a carefully calibrated mixture designed to enhance cultivation potential while creating dependency—required regular doses to maintain stability. Without it, the body began to rebel.

  They had perhaps twelve hours before the symptoms became debilitating.

  A door opened at the far end of the chamber.

  A man in a wheelchair entered, flanked by two guards in dragon-masked helmets.

  Velthan studied him immediately.

  Middle-aged. Crippled—the legs hung uselessly, supported by leather straps attached to the chair's frame. But this was not a man diminished by his disability.

  "I am Marcus Aurelius Corvinus," the crippled man said. "I speak with the General's voice in matters such as these."

  Velthan inclined his head slightly. "A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Lord Corvinus."

  "I know who you claim to be." Corvinus's voice was flat. "A 'Lord Stormcrow' arrived before you. He spoke of an Archmage and a Duke's son who would follow."

  So Eirik had survived.

  More than survived—he had arrived first and apparently established some form of contact with the authorities. The boy was more resourceful than Velthan had credited.

  "Lord Stormcrow and I were companions on the same expedition," Velthan said smoothly. "Though I fear our parting was somewhat acrimonious."

  "He claims you attempted to murder him."

  "A misunderstanding I can clarify if allowed."

  "Where do you come from?"

  The question was sharp, cutting through Velthan's deflection.

  "That is a complex matter, Lord Corvinus."

  "Answer the question."

  Beside him, Caelum made a sound—half-groan, half-whimper. His body had begun to tremble more violently.

  Corvinus's eyes flickered to the Duke's son.

  "Your companion appears unwell."

  "He requires medical attention." Velthan kept his voice calm. "Immediate arrangements will be appreciated."

  "Answer my questions first."

  Velthan recognized the tactic. Let the young lord deteriorate until Velthan became desperate enough to cooperate fully.

  It was what Velthan himself would have done.

  "We come from a thousand years hence," Velthan said. "As Lord Stormcrow no doubt informed you. The Sunless City, in our time, lies in ruins. We arrived here through a blood ritual performed at the sacred pool."

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  "Why?"

  "To seek the General's legacy. And power."

  Corvinus's expression didn't change. "And what do you intend to do with this power, should you find it?"

  "Serve the interests of the Northern Kingdom."

  "Which interests, specifically?"

  "That depends on who controls the kingdom when we return."

  Corvinus studied him despite his sufferings.

  "You speak in circles, Archmage. Every answer you give opens three new questions."

  "I speak with appropriate caution."

  "What I understand is that you've given me nothing useful." Corvinus began to turn his wheelchair. "We're finished here. Guards, return them to—"

  "How is the General's health?"

  The words stopped Corvinus mid-turn.

  Velthan watched the crippled man's shoulders stiffen.

  "Specifically," Velthan continued, "how has he been since the night terrors began? The dreams where he sees her face, hears her voice, feels her blood on his hands even when he wakes?"

  Corvinus had gone very still.

  "How do you—"

  "And Lyanna." Velthan let the name hang in the air. "How is she doing?"

  The effect was immediate.

  Corvinus's face went pale, then flushed with something between fury and fear.

  "That name," he whispered. "How do you know that name?"

  "I know many things, Lord Corvinus. Things that no one from a thousand years hence should possibly know." Velthan rose slowly from the bench where he'd been sitting. "I know what the General did to gain his power. I know what it cost him. And I know that the sacrifice was never completed."

  "You cannot possibly—"

  "The General faces a dilemma." Velthan's voice had dropped to barely above a whisper. "His most trusted advisors are divided. Some wish to save her—to spare what remains of his humanity. Others recognize that his power will never be complete until the sacrifice is finished. Until she dies."

  Corvinus said nothing.

  "The infighting has paralyzed your command structure for months, hasn't it? Every decision filtered through the question no one dares to ask aloud: What do we do about Lyanna?"

  "Stop."

  "I am here to solve that dilemma."

  Corvinus's eyes had narrowed to slits.

  "How?"

  "I bring the General a perfect substitutionary offering."

  The crippled man's expression shifted—suspicion warring with something that might have been hope.

  "Whom? This one?" He gestured toward Caelum, who had slumped against the wall, barely conscious. "He looks half-dead already."

  "Not him." Velthan smiled thinly. "Eirik Stormcrow. Whom you must have already met, given your obvious prejudices against me."

  Corvinus's face went carefully blank.

  "The boy carries the blood of Abercrombie's line," Velthan continued. "Diluted by a thousand years, yes, but present nonetheless. It is why I brought him on this expedition."

  He stepped forward, and the guards tensed but didn't move to stop him.

  "I am the only one who knows the General's true trouble. I am the only one who can save Lyanna while still completing his ascension. The boy's blood, freely given in ritual sacrifice, will satisfy the requirements that her blood was meant to fulfill."

  Velthan spread his hands.

  "Whatever Lord Stormcrow has offered you, it cannot compare to what I bring. He knows military tactics. I know the origins of power itself."

  A long silence.

  "Who are you?" Corvinus's voice had lost its earlier certainty.

  "I am Archmage Velthan. Keeper of the Seventh Seal. Bearer of the Staff of the First Tower. Chronicler of the Blood Rites. Apprentice to Magister Mímir the Undying, who served as Court Sorcerer to three successive kings of the Northern Kingdom." He paused. "And I am a scholar of the General's work. I have spent forty years studying the ritual he performed—the sacrifice that opened the door between worlds. I know its mechanisms and its flaws."

  He met Corvinus's gaze directly.

  "And I know exactly how to fix what the General broke."

  Corvinus sat motionless for what felt like an eternity.

  Then, without another word, he wheeled himself toward the door.

  "Remember," Velthan said softly. "My companion requires treatment."

  The door closed behind the crippled man.

  ———

  The silence stretched.

  Caelum had slid down the wall to sit on the floor. His breathing was punctuated by involuntary twitches that wracked his entire body.

  "He's gone?" The Duke's son's voice was slurred. "What about me? I need—I need the medicine. Velthan, you have to—"

  "Patience, Lord Caelum."

  "Patience?" Caelum's laugh was more of a sob. "Look at me! I can barely see straight. If I don't get—"

  "They'll come." Velthan's voice was calm. "And they'll come very soon. You'll be taken care of."

  "How do you know that?"

  Velthan didn't answer immediately. He walked to the chamber's single window and gazed out at the courtyard below, where soldiers drilled in precise formations.

  "And who the fuck is Lyanna?" Caelum demanded. "You never never said anything about—"

  "The General's only daughter."

  Caelum's twitching paused—just for a moment—as his drug-addled mind processed this information.

  "So? What does she have to do with anything?"

  "You remember what I told you about the General's sacrifice? The ritual that opened the door between worlds and sent the North into chaos?"

  "Aye, but get to the point." Another spasm wracked Caelum's body. "I can't—I can't think clearly. Everything is—"

  "The sacrifice required something precious beyond measure to the one performing the ritual." Velthan turned from the window. "Only through true loss and grief could the power flow."

  "You said that before. But—"

  "The General's power was never fully realized, Lord Caelum. He began the sacrifice but couldn't complete it. He stopped partway through, because, that something he chose to sacrifice was not gold, not territory, not even his own life."

  Caelum's brow furrowed, fighting through the fog of withdrawal.

  "Stopped? Why would he—"

  Understanding dawned in his eyes.

  "You mean his daughter? Lyanna?" His voice cracked. "The General sacrificed his own daughter?"

  "Attempted to sacrifice." Velthan's correction was precise. "The ritual began but was not completed."

  "She's still alive?"

  "At this point in history? Yes. I believe so. Wounded, perhaps. Changed, certainly. But alive."

  Caelum's head dropped back against the wall.

  "That's..." He laughed—a sound without humor. "That's monstrous. His own daughter. What kind of man would—"

  "A man who wanted power enough to pay a price dear to him." Velthan's voice held no judgment. "The General understood this point most people never grasp."

  He moved closer to Caelum, crouching to meet the young lord's fever-bright eyes.

  "He felt the power flowing into him—more power than any mortal had ever wielded." Velthan's voice dropped. "But then he stopped."

  "So he only got... what? Half the power?"

  "Yes." Velthan stood. "But not enough to end the siege."

  "What powers exactly?"

  "That, I do not know precisely. Though, we'll see it soon enough." Velthan's eyes grew distant. "What I do know is that the incomplete ritual left the General bearing the full weight of consequences despite him possessing only a fraction of the power."

  "What consequences?"

  Before Velthan could answer, the door opened as Corvinus wheeled himself back into the chamber.

  "The General will see you."

  Velthan bowed his head. "Excellent. But first—my companion is in great distress. He requires immediate treatment."

  He moved toward Corvinus, and the guards shifted to intercept, but the Archmage made no threatening gesture. Instead, he simply spoke—his voice taking on the cadence of a physician issuing instructions.

  "You will need to gather dried moonroot—four measures, ground to powder. Essence of arctic willow—two vials, no more. Crushed firebane seeds soaked in clear spirits for precisely one hour before administration."

  Corvinus's hand had moved to a small slate that hung from his wheelchair—something for recording notes, apparently. He began to write, almost automatically.

  Then he stopped.

  His eyes narrowed as he studied what he'd written.

  "What is this?" His voice was sharp. "Why does this look like—"

  "It looks like what your General has been using." Velthan's smile was thin. "Correct?"

  Silence.

  "The suffering my companion endures isn't much different from what the General experiences." The Archmage gestured toward Caelum's shaking form. "Different causes, perhaps. But similar treatments."

  Corvinus stared at the slate in his hand.

  "In any event," Velthan continued, "don't let an old man's nagging delay us further. See that Lord Caelum is treated. We have important business to conduct."

  He stepped toward the door without invitation.