The great hall of the citadel was vast enough to house an entire airfield. Pillars of petrified basalt supported a ceiling lost in perpetual darkness, while along the aisles stood hundreds of armored statues, their rusted halberds held at rigid attention.

Sunny moved silently, his boots wrapped in torn furs to muffle his footsteps. At the far end of the sanctuary, raised upon nine tiers of frosted marble, sat a colossal throne forged from black iron. Seated upon it was a corpse draped in rotting royal velvet, its skull crowned with jagged obsidian horns.

“Don’t touch anything,” Sunny muttered under his breath. “Rule number one of dungeons: never touch the guy on the throne.”

Right on cue, the corpse’s hollow eye sockets flared with cold cerulean flame. The rusted halberds of three hundred stone soldiers chimed in unison as they turned their blank visages toward Sunny.

A voice like grinding tectonic plates echoed through the hall: “Who dares disturb the vigil of the Ashen King?”

Sunny stared at the army, then at the glowing titan on the dais. Slowly, he offered a charming, exhausted smile. “Just an orphan looking for the exit, Your Majesty. You wouldn't happen to have a map, would you?”