[ IP ] The City of Palaquin

High above the land, overlooking the city of Palanquin, slept the Forgotten Citadel. Four guardian statues carved of the earth held the Citadel aloft. The only way to the Citadel was through ancient paths in the statues. No one has made the journey successfully as far as anyone can remember. 
 
 Inside the statue Norrend, the Eastern Path, was darkness, as black and thick as ink. Callum lit his torch so he could gather his gear. After he checked his backpack, he started the second day of his climb up the winding, carved steps that spiraled up the statue. 
 
 Callum's legs still burned from the first day. He occasionally tried to massage the ache out. The week-long journey had barely begun. 
 
 He closed his eyes and thought of his family, friends, and the woman he loved. This was for them; he had to press on. He had to succeed. 
 
 As he climbed, he recounted the stories, as he had done the previous day, of what secrets the Forgotten Citadel could -- no, would -- hold. The source of the Scourge. The secret to reversing the sickness. The cure. 
 
 High above, a dim light pierced the darkness, a sliver of stone appearing to span across one side to the other. As he got closer, the wind whistled softly and the air tasted fresher. 
 
 At the pinnacle, a thin, stone bridge, about two feet wide Callum guessed, connected to an egress that led outside, revealing a dull, sapphire sky. A day and a half of walking in total darkness leaves much to be desired. The bridge, which was missing large chunks on either side, was the only way forward. 
 
 Callum's heart pounded in his chest, his breathing quickened, and sweat rolled down his face. `` Eyes straight ahead. Do n't look down.'' He stepped forward, carefully, one foot in front of the other. 
 
 He slipped on loose rubble and fell. 
 
 He landed hard on his back, hitting the corner of the bridge. The impact knocked his breath out. He began to slip off. He released his torch to push against the side of the bridge with both hands. The torch tumbled down into the dark, dwindling into a speck before disappearing. 
 
 A cracking sound made his stomach knot; he felt the bridge shudder and begin to break. He knew that he had to move if he didn ’ t want to die, but terror had gripped him. Another crack. 
 
 Callum let instinct take over. He crawled as quickly as he could on his hands and knees. A portion of the bridge fractured and fell away near the stairs. The bridge shuddered violently. Another section fell away. In one deft motion, Callum leapt to his feet and ran, the stone collapsing behind him, just underfoot, as he stayed one step ahead of the darkness that threatened to swallow him. He was almost to the other side. 
 
 The bridge fell away under his back foot, tripping him. He closed his eyes and yelled as he fell. 
 
 Callum hit something cold and hard. When he opened his eyes, he was looking at the sky again. Behind him, the majority of the bridge had collapsed. He sprawled out on the floor and took a minute to regain his composure. 
 
 He sifted through his backpack, hoping to find something that could later provide light. Only a half-burned candle remained. He knew it would not last the rest of the journey, yet it was all he had; he would have to improvise. There was no turning back. 
 
 Callum stepped outside. Above, he could see the statue's backside and the other leg to his right. To his left, steps jutted out from the side of the statue. Whereas the steps inside had been connected, the steps outside were short, individual blocks. Empty space was visible between each step. There were no railings or grips. If he fell… 
 
 Luckily, the wind was merely a light breeze and the sun shined bright. 
 
 `` Do n't look down, do n't look down, do n't look— ” 
 
 Callum peered out over the edge. The city below was tiny, as if he could pluck the entire city with one hand. It was a long drop. His stomach plummeted for him. He fell back and hugged the wall. Once his breathing steadied, he steeled himself and inched out onto the open stairs. 
 
 As Callum ascended, he pressed his body against the wall. To distract himself, he thought about what the Citadel would be like when he reached the top. It would be exquisite, he knew, the wall and ceiling made of shiny marble, the floors cut from gem or precious stone. Curtains of fine silk draped the windows and swayed gently in the breeze. And it must have a stained glass mosaic depicting some important event. 
 
 A shrill screech from below broke his reverie. He saw small shapes moving swiftly up the side of the statue. 
 
 Scourge-born. 
 
 He grabbed his dagger, the only weapon he had. He said a prayer to the gods. He reminded himself he had to make it to the top and prepared to fight.
