The entrance to the Sleeping Underground Palace was a colossal stone gate at the bottom of a rift valley.
A gaping maw had been torn into the gray bedrock, like a scar left by a celestial god's giant axe.
As Ian followed the group and drew closer, the first thing he felt was the cold.
A chill seeped up from the depths of the Rift Valley—a damp cold that smelled of ancient dust and rusted metal.
They stopped at the bottom of the Rift Valley.
Before them stood a stone gate of absurd proportions.
The gate was carved from a single block of obsidian, its surface covered in long-lost runes.
Parts of it had flaked away, revealing the dark, somber stone beneath.
The gate was shut tight, like the closed mouth of a slumbering behemoth.
The three major factions each claimed their own territory, while the ten people from smaller powers found random spots to settle in.
