We didn't walk away from the Iron Pass. We ran from the end of the world.

  The ground beneath our boots wasn't just crumbling; it was ceasing to exist. The jagged peaks of the mountain range behind us weren't collapsing into rubble—they were dissolving into a flat, gray wall of static silence. The sound was the worst part. It wasn't the roar of an avalanche. It was a high-pitched, electronic whine, like a scream trapped inside a glass bottle.

  "Don't look back!" I roared, grabbing Willow by the back of her tunic and hauling her over a fissure that hadn't been there a second ago. "Keep moving! If you stop, you get erased!"

  "The geometry is failing!" Elmsworth shrieked, sprinting alongside me with his robes hiked up. Nugget was flapping frantically on his shoulder, his feathers flashing a panic-induced strobe of red and white. "The deletion wave is accelerating! The map is shrinking!"

  "Less math, more running!" Liam yelled. The elf was a blur of motion, skipping over rocks that were already turning translucent.

  We scrambled up the final incline, lungs burning, legs pumping with the magical stamina the Weaver had gifted us. The gray wall of nothingness was right at our heels, eating the stones inches from my boots.

  We dove over the crest of the ridge.

  We hit the hard, cold ground of the other side and rolled.

  I scrambled to my feet, spinning around with my spear raised, ready to fight the void.

  It stopped.

  The gray wall of static halted exactly at the ridgeline. It hung there, a towering curtain of nothing, pulsating with a sick, negative energy. It didn't advance. It just waited.

  "Safe zone," Liam panted, checking his boots to make sure they still had heels. "We're in the next zone. It can't follow us here."

  "Not yet," I corrected, sheathing my spear. I turned around to see where we had landed.

  The breath left my lungs.

  We were standing on the high rim of a massive, bowl-shaped valley. And in the center of that valley, rising like a jagged needle of black iron that pierced the swirling purple clouds, was the Spire.

  It was colossal. It twisted as it rose, the architecture looking less like stone and more like a hardened infection. Pulse-waves of violet light rippled up its sides, feeding a storm that churned directly above the apex.

  But it wasn't the tower that froze my blood. It was what lay at its feet.

  The City of the Unmade.

  It wasn't a city; it was a siege camp of nightmares. Tens of thousands of tents stretched from the base of the Spire to the valley walls. The ground was choked with siege engines—trebuchets made of bone, battering rams capped with demon skulls, and towers of black iron.

  The army was a sea of movement. Regiments of Void-Thralls marched in perfect, mindless unison. Siege Ogres hauled supplies. Cultist Warlocks floated on discs of shadow.

  "Fifty thousand," I whispered, the number tasting like ash in my mouth. "At least."

  Faelar walked up beside me. He leaned on the Toothpick, his new obsidian pickaxe. He looked at the endless ocean of enemies. He took a long, slow drink from his flask.

  "Well," the dwarf rumbled. "That's a lot of targets. I might need a bigger axe."

  "We can't fight that," Willow said, her voice small. She clutched her staff, looking down at the valley. "Kaelen, there are too many. Even with... even with what we can do now. We'll drown."

  "We aren't fighting the army," I said, my eyes scanning the layout. "We're cutting the head off the snake."

  I pointed to the base of the Spire.

  Surrounding the tower was a secondary wall—a fortress within the fortress. It was black, formidable, and bristling with defenses. But there was a single point of entry.

  A massive gate.

  It wasn't made of wood or stone. It was constructed of rusted iron and sharpened bone, woven together in a way that suggested it had grown rather than been built. It stood at the end of a long, narrow causeway that cut through the center of the enemy camp.

  "The Keep," I said. "Malacor is in there. If we get through that gate, we get to the Spire."

  "Get through the gate?" Liam laughed, a sharp, incredulous sound. He gestured at the fifty thousand soldiers between us and the causeway. "Commander, I know you're feeling invincible after the dragon, but that is a literal ocean of demons. We can't sneak past that. I’m good, but I’m not invisible."

  "We don't sneak," I said.

  A sound of shifting gravel behind us made me spin.

  Captain Vane and her rangers emerged from a lower goat path. They looked ragged. They had run the same gauntlet we had, escaping the erasing pass by seconds.

  Vane climbed the ridge. She stood next to me. She looked down at the valley.

  Her face went slack. The blood drained from her cheeks.

  "It’s over," Vane whispered. Her hand went limp on her sword hilt. "We can't... we can't win this. It’s the end of the world."

  The rangers behind her lowered their bows. The hope that had been kindled by the victory at the fort was snuffed out in an instant by the sheer scale of the enemy.

  I looked at Vane. I looked at my team.

  They were waiting for me. Not for a plan, but for a reason to keep standing.

  "It's not over," I said. "Vane, listen to me."

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

  She looked at me, her eyes hollow. "Look at them, Kaelen. It’s a tide."

  "And tides can be turned," I said. "But we need a distraction. A big one."

  I pointed to the ridge line we were standing on. It was high, silhouetted against the bright, glitching sky behind us.

  "We need them to look here," I said. "We need them to think an army has arrived. The Royal Army. The Celestial Guard. Anything."

  Vane frowned. "I have twelve rangers and a few signal horns. We aren't an army."

  "You don't need to be an army," I said. "You just need to sound like one. Light fires. Blow the horns. Use every illusion scroll you have. Make dust. Make noise. Make them believe that the cavalry has arrived on the ridge."

  "And while they are looking at us?" Vane asked. "While fifty thousand monsters turn their attention to twelve people?"

  I pointed at the causeway.

  "We walk in," I said.

  Vane stared at me. "You walk? Down the middle? They'll kill you in seconds."

  "They'll hesitate," I corrected. "They're arrogant. They're lead by Warlocks and Demons who think they've already won. If five people walk down that causeway, they won't fire immediately. They'll want to know who is stupid enough to do it. They'll think we're envoys. Or prisoners."

  "It's a gamble," Liam noted, checking his daggers. "A stupid, reckless, suicidal gamble."

  "It's the only play we have," I said.

  Vane looked at the army. She looked at her rangers. She took a deep breath, and the steel returned to her spine.

  "Alright," she said. "We'll give you your noise. We'll make them think the gods themselves have come to claim the ridge."

  She turned to her rangers. "You heard the Commander! Gather wood! Spread out! I want fires every fifty yards! Get the horns ready! On my mark, we unleash hell!"

  I turned back to the Misfits.

  "Ready?" I asked.

  Faelar cracked his knuckles. "I was born ready. And thirsty."

  Liam adjusted his quiver. "If we survive this, I’m doubling my rates."

  Willow took a deep breath, her hands glowing faintly. "I’ll keep us walking."

  Elmsworth was cleaning his glasses. "Statistically, the probability of survival is less than zero. However, given our recent performance metrics regarding dragons and physics, I calculate a solid... 'Maybe'."

  "Good enough," I said.

  We began the descent.

  The slope leading down to the valley floor was steep and rocky. We moved quickly, sliding down the scree, staying low until we hit the valley floor.

  We reached the start of the causeway.

  It was a wide, paved road of black stone, elevated ten feet above the surrounding camp. It ran straight as an arrow through the heart of the enemy lines, leading directly to the Gate of Rusted Iron and Bone.

  "Time for the show," I whispered.

  High above, on the ridge, a horn blew.

  HOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO-ROOOOOOOOOOOM!

  It was deep. Mournful. Loud.

  Then another. And another. Smoke began to billow from the ridge line—thick, black columns rising into the sky. Vane’s rangers started banging swords against shields, a rhythmic clamor that echoed off the canyon walls.

  The City of the Unmade stopped.

  Fifty thousand heads turned. Siege Ogres paused in their work. Cultists looked up from their rituals. The roar of the camp died down, replaced by a ripple of confusion.

  "Now," I said.

  We stepped onto the causeway.

  We didn't run. We didn't sneak. We walked.

  I took the lead, my white spear resting easily on my shoulder, my cloak billowing in the wind. Faelar walked to my left, his axe resting on his armor, clanking rhythmically. Liam was on my right, his hands loose at his sides. Willow and Elmsworth brought up the rear, heads held high.

  We walked right into the teeth of the enemy.

  A gasp went through the nearest ranks of the Void-Thralls. They pointed. They hissed.

  "Hold fire!" a Cultist Commander shouted from a nearby tower. "Hold! What is this?"

  They didn't shoot. Just as I predicted. The sheer audacity of it froze them. They couldn't process it. Why were five people walking into a city of monsters? Were we surrendering? Were we powerful? Were we mad?

  We kept walking.

  The silence of the army was heavier than the noise had been. Thousands of eyes watched us. I could feel the malice, the hunger, the confusion washing over us like a physical wave.

  "Don't look at them," I murmured. "Look at the Gate. Keep the pace. Left, right, left, right."

  "They're ugly up close," Faelar noted, nodding politely to a massive, drooling Void-Beast that was snarling at him from the edge of the causeway. "Morning! Nice teeth!"

  The beast snapped its jaws but didn't lunge. It was waiting for orders.

  "Stop chatting with the locals," Liam hissed, his eyes fixed forward. "My skin is crawling. I feel like a pin-cushion waiting to happen."

  "Just keep walking," I said.

  We passed the first line of siege engines. We passed the barracks. We passed the pits where they were breeding the badgers.

  We were halfway to the Gate.

  A shadow fell over us.

  A Void-General—a towering figure in spiked armor riding a nightmare steed—trotted onto the causeway, blocking our path. He was flanked by ten elite guards.

  He held up a hand. The column stopped.

  The General looked down at me. His helmet was a skull mask. Green fire burned in the sockets.

  "You," the General rasped. "The ants from the south. You killed Kuroth."

  "He was in our way," I said calmly. I didn't stop walking until I was five feet from the horse.

  "And now you walk into the City of the Unmade?" The General laughed, a dry, rattling sound. "Do you seek to surrender? Do you seek to beg for Malacor’s mercy?"

  I looked up at him. I let a little bit of the Indomitable Might leak into my aura. My eyes flashed.

  "We aren't here to surrender," I said. "We're here for an inspection."

  The General paused. "Inspection?"

  "Malacor’s ritual," I said, improvising. "It’s sloppy. The Weaver is displeased. We're here to... audit."

  "Audit?" The General looked confused. He looked at the smoking ridge behind us, where Vane’s "army" was making a terrifying amount of noise. He looked at my glowing white spear.

  Confusion is a weapon.

  "Move aside," I ordered. "Unless you want to explain to the Master why his ritual was delayed by a traffic stop."

  The General hesitated. He looked at the ridge again. He looked at his guards.

  He pulled his horse aside.

  "Pass," he growled. "But know this... if you are lying, I will peel the skin from your bones myself."

  "Noted," I said.

  We walked past him.

  "You have got to be kidding me," Liam whispered as we cleared the checkpoint. "You bluffed a General? With paperwork?"

  "Everyone is afraid of an audit," Elmsworth whispered back sagely. "It is the universal constant."

  We reached the end of the causeway.

  The Gate of Rusted Iron and Bone loomed over us.

  It was exactly as I remembered it from the vision. Twisted metal fused with the ribcages of leviathans. It was fifty feet high, imposing and impenetrable.

  The courtyard beyond was silent.

  We stopped.

  The enemy army was behind us now. Fifty thousand soldiers between us and the exit. There was no going back.

  I looked at the Gate.

  "This is it," I said. "The music starts here."

  "About time," Faelar grunted.

  The dwarf unhooked his flask. He took a long, gurgling pull. He wiped his beard with the back of his gauntlet.

  "Right," Faelar said. "So the plan is simple?"

  "Simple," I agreed. "We knock."

  "Plan?" Faelar laughed. "Bah! The only plan a gate like that needs is a dwarven battering ram!"

  I looked at him. I saw the tension in his shoulders. I saw the way Liam was checking his daggers. I saw Willow preparing a spell. I saw Elmsworth checking Nugget’s feathers.

  They were ready.

  "Faelar," I said. "Wait for the signal."

  But I knew he wouldn't. And for the first time, I didn't want him to.

  With a roar that was less a war cry and more a belch of defiance, Faelar charged. He wasn't running so much as he was falling forward with conviction, his short legs churning, his heavy axe bouncing against his back.

  "For the ale!" Faelar screamed.

  He hit the gate not with his axe, nor his shoulder, but with the full, unyielding force of his entire drunken being.

  CRUNCH.

  There was a percussive sound of splintering bone and a screech of tormented iron. The gate didn't so much break as it simply... gave up.

  It burst inward.

  Faelar, having met with no resistance where he expected it most, continued his forward trajectory, face-planting spectacularly into the muddy cobblestones of the castle courtyard.

  He lay there for a second, groaning.

  We stepped through the broken archway.

  Inside the courtyard, a dozen robed cultists and two hulking, vaguely goat-like demons froze mid-ritual. One cultist, holding a writhing snake, simply let it drop. A demon, its skin the color of dried blood, slowly turned its horned head to its companion.

  It made a low, guttural noise that sounded suspiciously like, "The hell was that?"

  I stepped over Faelar’s prone body. I leveled my spear.

  "Misfits," I said, grinning. "Play the music."

  Chaos erupted.