The descent from the Howling Cleft was like stepping from a pristine cathedral into a crowded, filthy market. The air grew thicker, warmer, and carried the distant, cloying scent of too many people and too much industry. Silveridge, the capital of the Sun Throne, sprawled across the valley below. It was a city of stark contrasts: gleaming white spires tipped with gold pierced the sky, while a murky haze of smoke hung over the tangled, grey slums at its feet. A river, the Argent Flow, cut through the center, its waters dulled by the city's refuse.
From his vantage point, Kai could feel the city's oppressive energy. It was a dissonant hum of countless lives, a warmth that felt aggressive against his chilled skin. The Warding Stone pulsed against his chest, a constant, cold reminder of the need for concealment. The strain of dampening his power was a low, persistent headache.
He focused, pulling the primordial cold inward, compressing it into the core of his being until the visible mist vanished and his eyes were merely an unusual, pale blue. He was a lockbox of frozen fire, and the key was turning slowly, painfully.
He joined the stream of traffic on the main road—merchant caravans with their clattering wagons, farmers with carts of winter root vegetables, pilgrims in simple robes, and a few armored adventurers. He kept his head down, his grey cloak pulled close, just another anonymous traveler.
The city gates were a monument to the Sun Throne's power. They were massive, forged of bronze and inlaid with sun motifs, and flanked by a dozen guards in polished armor. Their captain, a man with a voice trained to carry over crowds, barked the entry requirements.
"State your business and present your identification! All magical artifacts, weapons, and alchemical reagents must be declared! The Light of the Sun protects the vigilant!"
Kai's heart thudded once, a cold, hard beat. He had no identification. The few coins he had were from a dead boy. His only "artifact" was the Warding Stone, and declaring it was not an option. He saw the guards inspecting a merchant's cart, their eyes sharp. One guard held a small, crystalline orb that occasionally pulsed with a soft yellow light—a magic detector.
He was going to be caught before he even set foot inside.
He melted back from the main queue, slipping into the shadow of a lumbering grain wagon. His mind raced, the cold power within him stirring restlessly, seeking a solution he could freeze or shatter. But violence here, at the most fortified entrance to the city, was suicide.
His eyes scanned the perimeter, the glacial clarity of his thoughts analyzing the problem. The walls were high, patrolled, and likely warded. The river... the Argent Flow. It entered the city through a large, grated archway—the runoff conduit. It was filthy, freezing, and heavily barred, but it was a blind spot. The guards' attention was on the gate, not the dirty water.
It was undignified. It was desperate.
It was his only way in.
He circled away from the gate, following the line of the wall until he reached the riverbank downstream from the main traffic. The water was shockingly cold, laden with chunks of ice and filth. To a normal person, it would be a death sentence. To Kai, it was merely uncomfortable.
Taking a deep breath, he slid down the muddy bank and into the current. The cold was a shock, but his body adjusted instantly, his internal temperature regulating to match the water. He let the flow carry him toward the grate. It was made of thick, rusted iron bars, spaced just wide enough for a slim person to squeeze through.
He grabbed the slimy bars, the freezing water tugging at his legs. He focused his will on the ancient, corroded metal where the grate met the stone archway. He didn't try to break the entire structure; that would be detectable. Instead, he concentrated an intense, localized freeze on the hinges and the lock mechanism deep within the stone.
A fine, almost invisible web of frost spread over the rust. There was a muffled crack from inside the stonework as the internal components, made brittle by the sudden, extreme cold, shattered. He pushed, and with a groan of protesting metal, one side of the grate swung inward just enough for him to slip through.
He was in.
He pulled himself onto a slimy ledge inside a dark, echoing tunnel. The stench was overwhelming—waste, rot, and the metallic tang of tanneries. This was the city's underbelly, the Gutter District. Perfect.
He climbed out of the water, his clothes dripping but already beginning to freeze stiff in the cold air of the tunnel. He willed the moisture to sublimate from the fabric, a faint plume of steam rising from him as he dried himself in seconds.
Emerging from the tunnel, he found himself in a canyon of leaning, ramshackle buildings. Washing lines crisscrossed the narrow alleys, and the air was thick with the sounds of arguing and crying children. The people here were thin, their faces pinched with hardship. They paid him no mind; another stranger in the Gutter was nothing new.
He needed a place to rest, to plan. A place where people didn't ask questions. He found it a few turns later: a tavern called The Leaky Bucket. The sign was so faded it was almost unreadable, and the smell of sour ale and stale sweat wafted from the doorway.
He pushed inside. The room was dim, lit by a single, grimy window and a sputtering fireplace. A handful of patrons hunched over their drinks, their expressions hollow. The barkeep, a burly man with a scar across his lip, looked up from wiping a tankard with a dirty rag.
"Coin up front," he grunted, his eyes assessing Kai's worn but serviceable cloak and pack.
Kai placed a silver coin on the counter. "A room. For one night."
The barkeep snatched the coin, bit it, and nodded toward a rickety staircase. "Last door on the left. Don't cause trouble."
The room was exactly what he paid for: a cot with a thin mattress, a cracked chamber pot, and a window overlooking a reeking alley. But it had a lock on the door. It was enough.
He sat on the edge of the cot, the strain of maintaining his disguise feeling like a physical weight. He allowed himself a single, controlled breath, and a wisp of frost escaped his lips, coating the floorboards at his feet. This city, with its oppressive warmth and countless eyes, was a prison. He was a wolf in a kennel, surrounded by sleeping dogs who would tear him apart if they knew what he was.
He looked out the grimy window, past the slanted roofs of the Gutter, towards the distant, gleaming spires where the sun priests and the Inquisitors dwelled. They sat in their towers of light, believing their city sealed and secure.
They were wrong.
The ice was already inside their walls.