Sevensworn

V. The Immortal City

By the time they reached the towering peak that housed Illirium, the sun, mostly hidden, was directly overhead. The storm had calmed when they left the mountains but snow still fell, and clouds had swiftly devoured any hint of the sky behind them.

Adacian winters were always like this. Dreary, gray, and dangerous. They leeched the color from the forests, cast an ever-present veil of darkness over the land, and blanketed the towns in a snow so treacherous that it was common practice to travel across the sea to Esadon to escape it.

Then spring would roll around, the snow would melt, and the rains would start. It was a vicious cycle, but Ronan had never known anything else.

Their ragtag group had fallen in with a caravan, keeping their hoods up and their heads down as they rode behind the carts and pack mules. Shivaroth had tied a scarf over his nose, hoping to hide the startling blue of his skin that would easily have him branded as something other than human, and Ronan, riding with Acaeus, did his best to keep his face hidden behind the knight's shoulder, knowing that even with his dirt-streaked cheeks and tangled hair, he was clearly recognizable as the crown prince.

It had been nearly a year since he had been forced to flee the palace, effectively abandoning his people. Over half a year since he had stepped foot out of the mountains outside of supply runs. He knew the people of Adacia needed leadership, that they were looking for answers. They had a dead king and no way of knowing if their prince had fallen beside him. As bleak as that was, Ronan knew that staying hidden—and therefore alive—was the only way he would be able to liberate his people. He could do no good for them if his corpse was forgotten beneath the frozen ground.

Part of him wondered if anyone even thought of him as their prince anymore. He shook his head to dismiss it. He didn't need a title; he would stave off the war with or without the support of a court. All he needed was to shake the prophecy from his shoulders, and then he could focus on the war.

"I'd forgotten how large Illirium is." Acaeus murmured to him, his leather-clad hands fiddling with the reins held between them.

Ronan nodded his agreement⁠—the gates alone towered high above them, easily fifty feet tall, carved from obsidian and adorned with silver. He knew that the city inside was just as grand, and just as dark.

From what he remembered, the buildings were carved from the sides of the mountain, from stone spires that rose from the ground, from anything that could be reached⁠—and once they'd run out of room, from everything else. As they passed through the gate, Ronan looked up to watch it pass. Illirium would be one of the safest cities on the island if it weren't next to impossible to escape it on short notice.

The natural light faded to be replaced with torches that glowed with a steady blue⁠—magefire, Ronan recognized. He'd seen Acaeus make it many times. Ignoring the voices of those in the caravan ahead, Ronan focused on the tunnel they rode through. It was narrow; despite being the main entrance to the city, it was hardly wide enough to fit a wagon through, though it stretched up into a cavernous ceiling. Their three horses were unable to walk side by side, so Wynne brought up the rear while Shivaroth rode next to Acaeus and Ronan's shared mount.

As the tunnel opened up to show the city, Shivaroth's eyes widened in awe beside him.

Illirium stretched out before them, at least five miles wide at the mountain's base. From where they stood, they could see the towering buildings lit up blue by the magelight, spanned by bridges and staircases that created a web-like pattern when he looked up. No space in the mountain had been left untouched⁠—even the peak was accessible, and housed the high office of the current ruling lord. An underground river cut through beneath it all, carving a clear path through the buildings.