High above the blazing Wall of Fire that burns above the Tsolenka Pass, Ratrick smolders, wisps of smoke curling from his singed fur. The acrid stench of burning hair fills his nostrils as he clings to the back of the scorched, dying vrock. The demon struggles weakly against the impaling spikes, its movements growing feebler with each labored breath.
Far below, Nike looses another arrow upward despite the roiling curtain of flame obscuring their view. The shaft disappears into the inferno—but then comes a sharp crack. The upper limb of their shortbow snaps cleanly above the grip. Nike snarls a curse and hurls the broken weapon aside. It clatters against stone.
Ratrick slides his Dagger of Venom free, the blade whispering against leather. He slides it between the creature’s ribs. The vrock shudders once, twice, then grows still beneath him. The rogue peers over the thick stone wall, his heart hammering, and scrambles down the other side. His claws scrape against rough stone as he seizes the windlass and drags it downward with all his weight, metal groaning in protest. The portcullis rises jerkily, just high enough for his companions to slip beneath.
Zilk goes first, the bugbear’s massive frame barely fitting as he slides beneath the latticed grill. The moment he crosses the threshold, the stones lining the walls and vaulted roof ignite in an eerie green glow that casts everything in sickly, wavering light. The others hurry through, their shadows dancing weirdly across the ancient stonework as they emerge in the tower’s shadow. The light that had been glowing in the upper window is now quenched, leaving only darkness above.
Zilk’s massive paw finds the latch to the tower. The door swings open with a low creak as he ducks through the low doorway, the frame barely accommodating his considerable height.
The fireplace roars to life with a sudden whoompf, startling Zilk. Flames leaping high and bathe the small, octagonal room in flickering light. On either side of the hearth, windows overlook the misty valley below. Ice taps insistently against the glass—tap-tap-tap—like skeletal fingers seeking entrance. A narrow flight of stone stairs spirals upward into darkness.
The second floor mirrors the first, save for an iron ladder rising to a wooden trapdoor set in the ceiling. Beyond it lies the roof—and whatever awaits them there.
As the group hauls themselves through the hatch one by one, bitter wind slams into them like a blow. Ratrick’s eyes water instantly. Between two of the eight stone knights ringing the ramparts, blue light flashes and crackles. A transparent wraith materializes before them, her flowing white robe rippling in the gale. Her pale face is drawn and deeply lined, corrupted by age and darkness. She unhinges her jaw impossibly wide and snarls:
“The choice is yours, and yours alone! Face combat that challenges you to your very core—or prove your cleverness and solve the riddle set before you may cross the bridge to the Amber Temple!” Her voice cuts through the wind like shattered glass. “But know this…” Her lips curl into something that might be a smile, if smiles could freeze blood. “Choose poorly, hesitate too long, and the mountain claims you. Your bones will join the others beneath the ice—forgotten, silent, eternal.”
She tilts her head at an unnatural angle, waiting. “What say you, children of summer? Steel or wit? Battle or riddle? Each must choose. And each must face their trial alone.”
Crystal swallows hard, uncertainty flickering across her scaled features. Riddles have never been her strength. “Combat,” she says, her voice steadier than she feels. “I choose combat.”
In a flash of blue light, she finds herself standing alone before a stone bridge stretching across a yawning chasm. Before her looms an enormously tall knight, easily nine feet of gleaming armor and cold purpose. He bows with grave formality to the dragonborn sorcerer, then draws his blade with a metallic hiss. The greatsword catches the what little light is available as he assumes a ready stance.
Crystal forces her fear back down into her chest. She studies the knight, searching for any telltale shimmer of protective enchantments. Finding none, she extends her clawed hands and summons her magic.
The Fireball erupts from her palms, streaking forward to engulf the knight in a roaring sphere of flame. The heat washes back over her face—but immediately transforms into searing agony as the knight’s Hellish Rebuke rips through her defenses. She gasps, stumbling, as magical fire scorches her from within. When the inferno dies back, the knight stands wreathed in smoke but very much alive. He advances with terrible purpose and strikes twice with his massive greatsword. Both blows connect with bone-jarring force. Crystal staggers backward, breathing hard, one hand pressed against her ribs. She knows she is desperately wounded.
High above on the ramparts of the tower, unaware of Crystal’s desperate struggle, Zilk and Ratrick both choose riddles when their turns come.
The ghost’s mouth stretches in a disturbing, inhuman way as she turns to Zilk. Her voice echoes strangely: “A father’s child, a mother’s child, yet no one’s son. Who am I?”
Relief floods through the bugbear, though he keeps his expression carefully neutral. “A daughter,” he answers.
The ghost dips her head in acknowledgment. With a gesture of her translucent hand, Zilk vanishes in a flash of blue light, reappearing moments later at the foot of the stone bridge. The span stretches across the valley behind him, and on the far side, the road continues its climb toward the Amber Temple. Before him, he can see Crystal and the knight, locked in mortal combat. The dragonborn’s blood is spattered on the snow around her.
Ratrick faces his own riddle next: “What always runs but never walks? It often murmurs, but never talks. It has a bed but never sleeps, and an open mouth that never eats?”
The rogue grins despite himself. “Water…no, a river! A river!”
Another flash of blue light, and he’s standing beside Zilk, breathing a sigh of relief that mists in the frigid air.
Nike receives their riddle next, but the words tangle in their mind like thorns. They fumble for an answer, but it won’t come. Biblo fares no better. In twin flashes of light, they each find themselves confronted by towering knights bearing longswords, identical to the one facing Crystal.
“No!” Nike cries out as the knight’s blade descends. Renaldi, their abyssal rabbit, races to their aid with a furious chittering. The tiny creature launches itself at the knight with impossible speed, finding a gap between pauldron and gorget. Its teeth tear at vulnerable flesh of the knight’s neck. Nike swings their mace desperately, but the weapon whistles through empty air. In return, the knight’s greatsword descends twice in brutal arcs. Both strikes land with devastating force. Nike falls back, gasping in pain.
Meanwhile, Crystal continues her own battle. She unleashes a Cone of Cold, the spell crackling through the air in a blast of crystalline fury. The knight feints at the last moment, taking only a glancing blow from the frigid assault. Frost spreads across his armor but doesn’t slow him.
High above their struggling comrades, only Shifty and Ilya remain on the tower roof. The kobold cleric considers carefully, then chooses a riddle.
“What is it that given one, you’ll have either at least two or none at all?” the ghost asks.
Shifty’s eyes glint with understanding. “A choice, of course,” he replies, and is immediately teleported to join Zilk and Ratrick at the bridge’s foot.
At the foot of the bridge, Ratrick’s keen ears catch Nike’s cry of pain. Without thinking, he races toward them.
Behind him, Zilk’s voice rises in panic: “We aren’t supposed to help the others! That’s against the rules the ghost gave us!” The bugbear turns and races across the bridge, his heavy footfalls thundering on stone. Reaching the far side, he turns to watch Ratrick.
The ratling has drawn his Dagger of Venom to bring it down in a vicious arc meant to pierce the knight’s side.
The blade squeals down the side of the breastplate, leaving a deep, ragged scratch on the steel but failing to penetrate.
The knight’s helmeted head rotates completely around with a grinding of metal. A hollow, sepulchral voice intones: “This is not your fight. You will pay for your interference!”
In the far distance, a bellowing cry echoes across the mountains—a sound so vast and terrible it seems to shake the very air. From behind the clouds emerges an enormous bird, bigger than anything the mind can easily comprehend. The wind from its vast, beating wings stirs icy dust and frigid air, sending it swirling around the companions in blinding gusts.
Panic seizes Ratrick’s chest like an iron fist. “Where’s Ilya?” he cries, his voice cracking frantically.
But he knows. The boy he calls “son” is still atop the tower, alone with the ghost, waiting to answer his own riddle. Ratrick bolts for the tower stairs, taking them three at a time, his heart pounding terror into his throat.
