# Chapter 671: The Mountain's Gate
The air grew thin and sharp, tasting of iron and ancient ice as the transport hover-car settled onto the scree. The engine's whine died, leaving behind a silence so profound it rang in the ears like a struck bell. This high up the spine of the world, the grey ash of the lowlands gave way to jagged black rock and wind-sculpted snow, a desolate landscape that cared nothing for the squabbles of the Riverchain or the politics of the Sable League.
Nyra Sableki stepped out, her boots crunching on the frost-hardened gravel. The cold bit through her coat immediately, a physical weight that pressed against her bruised ribs and the dull ache of her concussion. She welcomed it. The pain was a grounding wire, keeping her tethered to reality when her mind threatened to drift into the fog of exhaustion. Behind her, the cargo hatch hissed open.
"Easy," Isolde said, her voice strained. She was lowering the hover-stretcher, her face pale against the backdrop of the darkening sky. On the stretcher, ruku bez lay still, his massive form shivering despite the thermal blankets piled high. The giant's breathing was a wet, rattling rasp, the sound of a mountain crumbling from the inside.
Nyra moved to help, taking the weight of the stretcher's front handle. The metal was freezing, searing her palms through her gloves. "How is he?"
"The fever hasn't broken," Isolde murmured, glancing at the readout on her wrist-comp. "His vitals are erratic. The Cinder Cost is eating him alive, Nyra. If we don't get him to Quill, if the Heartstone doesn't work..."
"We don't deal in 'ifs'," Nyra said, though the words tasted like ash. She adjusted her grip, signaling for Isolde to lift. "We deal in 'when'. Lift."
Together, they hauled ruku bez out of the vehicle. The giant was heavy, a dead weight of muscle and bone, but the desperation lending strength to Nyra's arms made him feel lighter than air. She looked up at the path ahead. It was a narrow, winding scar cut into the cliff face, disappearing into the mist above. The Pilgrim's Path. According to the archives, it hadn't been traversed by a League agent in three generations.
"The scanner says the entrance is two kilometers up," Isolde said, checking the device. "The atmospheric interference is getting worse. I'm losing contact with the Valerius-AI."
"Good," Nyra replied, shouldering her pack. The weight of the inert shard casing bumped against her spine, a constant reminder of Soren. "Let it be quiet. I'm tired of voices in my head."
They began to climb.
The journey was an arduous, rhythmic torture. Step, breathe, drag. Step, breathe, drag. The wind howled through the crags, a mournful soprano that seemed to call Nyra's name, though she knew it was just the air finding purchase in the stone. Her legs burned, the lactic acid building up in her calves and thighs, screaming for her to stop. But every time she looked down at ruku's ashen face, she found another reserve of will.
They moved away from the transport, leaving the last vestige of modern technology behind. The world here was primal. Black granite loomed over them like the walls of a prison yard, and the sky was a bruised purple, the sun a pale, sickly disc struggling to break through the cloud cover.
"Stop," Isolde gasped, stumbling.
Nyra halted, setting the stretcher down gently on a flat patch of rock. She spun around, her hand instinctively going to the hilt of her short sword, eyes scanning the shadows. "What is it? Are we followed?"
Isolde shook her head, bracing her hands on her knees as she fought for breath. "No. Just... my lungs. It's the altitude. I need a minute."
Nyra relaxed her guard, though her eyes remained darting, searching the treeline—or what passed for treeline here: gnarled, stunted bushes clinging to the rock like dying men. She walked over to Isolde, placing a hand on the younger woman's shoulder. "Drink. Keep the fluids moving."
Isolde nodded gratefully, uncapping her canteen. Nyra turned her attention to ruku. She knelt beside the stretcher, brushing a lock of matted hair from the giant's forehead. His skin was burning hot, a stark contrast to the freezing air.
"Hold on, ruku," she whispered. "We're almost there. Just a little further."
The giant's eyes fluttered open, cloudy and unfocused. He tried to speak, but only a dry wheeze escaped his lips.
"Don't talk," Nyra said softly. "Save your strength. You're going to need it to yell at me when we get you back on your feet."
A ghost of a smile touched ruku's lips, then vanished as his eyes slid shut again.
Nyra stood up, stretching her back. The silence of the mountain was oppressive here. It wasn't the peaceful silence of a library; it was the heavy, waiting silence of a predator stalking its prey. She felt exposed. In the city, she was a shadow, a ghost in the machine of the League. Here, against the vast indifference of the mountain, she was just a speck of color, a fragile anomaly.
"Can you feel that?" Isolde asked, her voice barely audible over the wind.
Nyra frowned. "Feel what?"
"The pressure," Isolde said, capping her canteen and looking around. "It's like the air is... thick. Charged."
Nyra closed her eyes, extending her senses. She felt it then—a subtle vibration in the soles of her boots, a hum that wasn't sound but resonance. It was the same feeling she got near high-voltage conduits in the Ladder arenas, but cleaner, older. This wasn't electricity. It was Gift. Raw, unfiltered, and ancient.
"We're entering the perimeter," Nyra said, her voice hardening. "Quill's wards. Get up. We need to move."
They resumed the climb. The path grew steeper, the switchbacks tighter. The vegetation disappeared entirely, leaving only bare stone and swirling drifts of snow. The cold intensified, gnawing at the exposed skin of their faces. Nyra's fingers were numb inside her gloves, and she had to constantly flex them to maintain feeling.
As they rounded a blind corner, the mist ahead thinned. The path widened, opening onto a plateau that seemed to hang suspended over the void. And there, at the far end of the plateau, stood the gate.
It was not the fortress Nyra had expected. There were no battlements, no iron spikes, no drawbridges. It was a simple archway of rough-hewn sandstone, weathered by centuries of wind and snow. Moss grew in the crevices, a vibrant, impossible green that glowed faintly in the twilight. The arch stood alone, framing nothing but the sheer rock face of the mountain behind it. It looked less like a door and more like a gravestone.
But the air around it shimmered with heat distortion, despite the freezing temperature.
Nyra signaled for a halt. She approached the arch slowly, her hand resting on her sword hilt. Every instinct screamed at her to turn back, to run. The pressure here was immense, a physical weight pressing against her chest, making it hard to breathe.
"Stay with ruku," she commanded Isolde.
Isolde nodded, her eyes wide as she watched the arch.
Nyra stepped onto the stone platform before the gate. The wind died instantly. The howling gale that had battered them for the last hour simply ceased, replaced by a stillness that felt heavy and expectant. She could hear her own heartbeat, a frantic drum solo in her ears.
She looked at the sandstone arch. Carved into the keystone was a single symbol: a hand holding a flame.
"Master Quill," Nyra called out, her voice sounding small in the silence. "I am Nyra of the Sableki line. I come for the Heartstone."
Silence answered her.
Then, movement.
A figure stepped out from behind the right pillar of the arch. He had been there the entire time, motionless as the stone itself, blending perfectly with the shadows. He was an old man, his face a roadmap of deep wrinkles, his hair white as the snow. He wore simple robes, rough-spun and undyed, tied at the waist with a cord. He was unarmed. No sword, no staff, not even a knife.
But his eyes... his eyes were terrifying. They were clear, unclouded by age, and they held a depth that seemed to swallow the light. When he looked at Nyra, she felt as though he were dissecting her, peeling back the layers of her flesh to read the history written on her bones.
He stopped three paces from her. He did not speak. He simply watched.
Nyra forced herself to hold his gaze. She was a Sable League operative. She had faced Inquisitors and Guild enforcers. She would not be cowed by an old man on a mountain.
"I have traveled far," she said, her voice steady. "And I have paid a high price to stand here. My companion is dying. The man I... the man I fight for is lost. I need the Heartstone."
The old man tilted his head slightly. He looked past her, to where Isolde knelt beside ruku's stretcher. His gaze lingered there for a long moment, and for a second, the air around the stretcher shimmered. The rattling sound of ruku's breathing eased, just a fraction.
Then the old man looked back at Nyra. He took a step forward. The air pressure spiked, and Nyra felt a bead of cold sweat trace a line down her spine. This was no ordinary guard. This was a Guardian, perhaps even a Paladin, someone who had ascended the Ladder not for glory, but for mastery.
"You carry the scent of the city," the old man said. His voice was dry, like leaves skittering over pavement, yet it carried an echo, as if he were speaking from the bottom of a well. "Smoke and blood. Deceit and desperation."
"I carry the burden of survival," Nyra countered.
"Survival," the man repeated, as if testing the word. He took another step. He was now within striking distance. Nyra tensed, ready to draw her blade, but she knew it would be futile. The power radiating from him was a calm, endless ocean. If he struck, she would not see it coming.
"The mountain does not care for survival," the man said. "The mountain endures. It endures the storm, the cold, and the passage of ages. It does not scramble. It does not bargain."
"I am not a mountain," Nyra said. "I am a woman running out of time."
The old man's eyes narrowed. He raised a hand, palm up. A small flame danced in his cupped fingers, flickering blue and white. It was a simple display of power, a Page's trick, but the control was absolute. The flame did not waver.
"Many come here seeking power," he said. "They seek the Heartstone to forge weapons, to conquer enemies, to carve their names into history. They seek the warrior's strength."
"I seek to save a life," Nyra said, her voice rising. "Soren Vale. He carries the Shard of Betrayal. It is destroying him. The Heartstone is the only way to extract it without killing him."
The old man closed his hand, extinguishing the flame. "Soren Vale. The name is known to us. The breaker of chains. The wolf who bites his own tail."
"He is more than that," Nyra snapped, her patience fraying. "He is the only chance this world has. If he falls, the Synod wins. The Withering King wins. Is that what you want? To sit on your mountain and watch the world burn?"
The old man smiled, a sad, gentle expression that made him look infinitely weary. "The world is always burning, child. The question is not how to stop the fire, but what you are willing to burn to keep the warmth."
He stepped aside, clearing the path to the arch. But he did not lower his guard. The aura of power around him intensified, creating a barrier that felt solid as steel.
"Master Quill is expecting you," the guard said, his voice echoing slightly, bouncing off the invisible walls of the sanctuary. "He asks only one question before you may pass."
Nyra stood her ground, her heart hammering against her ribs. This was it. The test. The gatekeeper's riddle.
"Ask," she said.
The old man looked into her eyes, and for a moment, Nyra saw the reflection of her own soul—scarred, tired, but burning with a fierce, unyielding light. He saw the lies she had told, the people she had used, the compromises she had made. But he also saw the core of iron underneath it all. The part of her that refused to let go.
"Why do you seek the warrior's heart?"
The question hung in the frozen air. It wasn't a riddle. It wasn't a test of logic or strategy. It was a test of intent.
Nyra thought of Soren. She thought of his stoicism, his stubborn refusal to bend, the way he fought not for glory, but for the people he loved. She thought of the way he looked at her when he thought she wasn't watching, a mix of longing and fear.
She realized then that she wasn't just fighting for a rebel leader or a political asset. She was fighting for the man who had shown her that even in the ashes, something could grow.
"I don't seek a weapon," Nyra said, the truth finally clear in her own mind. "I don't seek a champion. I seek the part of him that the world tried to kill. I seek the heart that beats beneath the armor. Because without that, he's just another monster in the Ladder."
She took a breath, the cold air filling her lungs.
"I seek the warrior's heart," she said, her voice ringing clear, "so that the man can finally come home."
The old man held her gaze for a long, agonizing minute. The wind began to pick up again, swirling around them, kicking up snow from the ground. Then, slowly, he nodded.
"Then enter," he said, stepping fully aside. "And may you survive the finding."
He gestured to the arch. As Nyra stepped forward, the sandstone seemed to dissolve, turning into a shimmering veil of mist. She looked back at Isolde.
"Bring him," Nyra said. "We're going in."
Isolde nodded, lifting the stretcher with a renewed burst of energy. Together, they walked through the arch, leaving the cold and the wind behind, stepping into the unknown heart of the mountain.