Cold air hit them like a tide, sharp enough to make the lungs sting. It was the kind of cold that didn't just bite at the skin—it slipped deeper, settling in bone and thought. Yet it wasn't hostile. It was clean, pure, laced with the faint resin scent of pine carried from valleys far below.
The world beyond the arch was a painting made real. Mountains rose like the spines of sleeping gods, each peak jagged and crowned with ice that burned white in the sunlight. The sky above was the palest blue, so clear it felt as if one could fall upward into it.
And clinging to the slope of one of those mountains was the city.
Araveth.
It didn't sprawl like cities in the lowlands—it climbed. Tier upon tier, the city rose with the mountain's own bones, every level stacked atop the last until the highest towers seemed to scrape the edge of the clouds. Black stone walls veined with pale white lines held the terraces together, their surfaces smooth despite the centuries.
Bridges leapt between spires like strands of frozen lightning. Roofs of slate and red tile were dusted with snow, the frost catching in corners like sugar left too long on glass. From above, the streets were threads of shadow winding between the buildings, their curves dictated not by design, but by the stubborn shape of the mountain.
It was alive. Not in the way all cities were alive, with noise and movement—but in the way a deep forest is alive, or the sea: old, patient, watchful.
Most of the figures moving below were human, their winter cloaks thick and fur-lined, boots crunching through thin layers of snow. But here and there, something else walked among them. A merchant with skin faintly dusted in frost, whose breath came in tiny snow flurries. A child skipping along, translucent veins glowing faintly under her skin like frozen rivers. Above, a feathered courier in silver armor glided silently from balcony to balcony, wings slicing the air.
Ryne's breath caught, and she leaned forward slightly as if afraid the scene might dissolve if she blinked."Tell me you see this," she whispered.
Nameless's eyes moved slowly over the city, the mountains, the pale veins running through the stone. He saw it, yes—but not like she did. "I see it."
"That's all you've got?"
"It's a city," he said simply.
Her jaw dropped. "It's not just a city. It's like—like someone built a dream into a mountain."
He didn't answer.
The Grandmaster began walking without another word, his boots finding the stone path as if every step had been taken a thousand times before. Nameless and Ryne followed, the cold biting at their cheeks, the crunch of frost beneath their boots strangely loud in the stillness.
They crossed a wide bridge with low stone railings. The drop to the river valley below was steep enough to turn a fall into a story no one would finish telling. On the far side, a flight of steps carved directly into the mountain descended toward the lower tiers.
Ryne slowed her pace until she was beside the Grandmaster, her eyes still darting between the distant peaks and the city nestled among them."This… this is the Underworld?" she asked. "How in all the realms does a place like this exist here? Mountains that touch the clouds, rivers that burn in reverse, forests that should be dead but aren't… nothing about this makes sense."
"You think you understand the boundaries of a realm simply because you have walked in it, child?" the Grandmaster replied without looking at her.
"I've seen the outside world. I've read almost every detail of many places that are great. I've fought through tunnels where the air barely moved." She gestured at the glowing peaks. "This is not that."
He gave a low hum, neither agreeing nor denying. "You ask the right questions, though you are not the first to ask them."
"That doesn't answer anything."
"No," he said. "It was the work of those who came before. The Ancestors—and the Scholar-Mages who bound themselves to the bones of this realm. They shaped the impossible, not with mortal hands, but with knowledge stolen from the roots of creation itself."
Ryne frowned. "And now?"
"And now," he murmured, his gaze fixed on the city gates ahead, "we walk in their shadow… and try not to wake what sleeps beneath it."
They descended further, the walls here carved with deep sigils—beasts crouched low, their lines flowing into the pale veins that ran through the city's stone. The veins pulsed faintly, almost in rhythm with the beating of a heart.
"These marks," Ryne said quietly, "they're everywhere."
The Grandmaster's voice was calm, but the weight in it was undeniable. "The city is held together by more than stone. These wards keep it breathing."
They met people on the stairs—merchants hauling goods, a pair of robed scholars deep in argument, a woman carrying a crate of glowing glass bottles. Each nodded briefly to the Grandmaster, stepping aside without hesitation.
Somewhere above, a voice rang out, not loud, but so perfectly carried by the mountain air that every syllable was clear.
"…Registrations for the upcoming event close at second bell. Spectators may claim seats the night before. The contest begins at dawn."
The words passed over them like a shadow—there and gone. A second later, the sound of a wagon rumbling across cobblestone swallowed them whole.
Ryne glanced up. "What was that?"
"Nothing worth slowing for," the Grandmaster replied, and kept walking.
They descended into the city proper, the streets narrowing into veins of movement and noise. Here the walls were covered in layered reliefs—battlefields frozen in stone, faces of kings and queens weathered by centuries, great beasts curling in and out of the carved shadows.
Lanterns floated at every corner, their pale green flames steady despite the wind. The flames didn't flicker—they breathed, expanding and contracting in slow rhythm.
They stepped into a square alive with sound and color.
A market spread across the space, stalls covered in heavy canvas to keep out the snow. The air was thick with smells—sharp herbs, smoked meats, hot bread steaming in the cold. Merchants called out prices, their voices competing with the clang of a blacksmith's hammer at one corner. Children darted between legs, laughing, sometimes chased, sometimes not.
Ryne turned in a slow circle, her eyes drinking it all in. "I don't know what to look at first."
"Forward," Nameless said.
She shot him a look. "You're impossible."
"Accurate," he replied.
They crossed the market. At one stall, a man with eyes entirely black from edge to edge was selling knives with blades so thin they seemed ready to vanish. At another, a woman with silver-thread hair plucked a harp that made the air around her shimmer.
A second announcement rolled through the square, quieter this time, almost drowned out by the crowd.
"…Final call for—" the words blurred in the noise, then—"…contest begins soon, the schedule will be released by dawn."
Ryne frowned. "Contest?"
"Don't mind all that for now." said the Grandmaster.
They left the market behind, the streets beginning to climb again. The path narrowed, flanked by stone balustrades that overlooked the city below. From here, the view was staggering—tier upon tier of rooftops, bridges like ribbons strung between towers, the frozen river gleaming faintly under the fading light.
Ahead, the University rose from the ridge like a fortress. Massive black spires rose high enough to pierce the low clouds, linked by bridges that looked delicate from a distance but were built of solid stone. Veins of pale light traced patterns over its walls, pulsing faintly like the wards below.
"This is the University of Araveth," the Grandmaster said as they approached the gates. "Knowledge, power, and discipline. It shapes warriors, mages, and those who walk the line between. Some come to learn. Some to prove themselves in the Trials."
"Trials?" Ryne asked.
"Another day," he replied, and the matter was closed, Ryne gave a frustrated look because the grandmaster wouldn't talk much .
The gates were tall enough for a giant to pass beneath without stooping. Inside, warmth replaced the mountain chill. The air smelled faintly of parchment, burning candles, and something metallic that Nameless couldn't quite place.
The first hall was vast. Constellations painted on the high ceilings shifted slowly, stars drifting as if the sky itself had been caught and trapped there. Glass spheres floated near the rafters, their light soft and shadowless. Shelves climbed the walls, heavy with books bound in leather, steel, and things less easily named. Students passed in small groups—some in plain robes, others in armor.
Nameless's gaze snagged on something near the far wall.
A pedestal. Upon it, a spiral of ivory or bone, its shape twisting deeper than it should. As they passed, the pale veins within it flared faintly—once, like a heartbeat—then went still. No one else reacted.
The Grandmaster didn't pause, leading them down a side corridor lined with arched windows. From here, the whole city was visible under the first touch of twilight, lights blooming one by one like stars.
"This wing holds the lodges," the Grandmaster said, stopping before a tall door of dark wood inlaid with silver runes. The lines pulsed faintly at his touch before fading away.
The room beyond was large enough to be a home. A hearth crackled at one end, filling the air with warmth. Two sleeping alcoves were set apart by folding screens embroidered with silver-thread waves. Thick rugs softened the stone floor. But it was the far wall that drew the eye—glass from floor to ceiling, opening onto a view of the mountains and the city spread below like a living map.
Ryne stepped inside slowly, her voice low. "If I vanish, you'll find me here, staring out that window."
Nameless exhaled—almost a sigh. "Try not to get attached to this place too much."
She turned, smiling faintly. "Too late."
The Grandmaster's mouth curved slightly—a warming smile. "Rest. Tomorrow, you will see more of Araveth… and perhaps, what lies beneath it."
He left them there, the door closing with the sound of stone settling.