I’d been to Atrine many times, but since I’d always arrived by Gatestone, I’d never seen it from this vantage. I’d never seen the Great Steppe curve into the distance as Lake Jorat spilled over its side to form a giant waterfall, miles across.

Atrine, the flower of Jorat, sat on that waterfall’s summit, in the center of the dam holding back Lake Jorat’s waters. The city soared upward, a mountain of white quartz and blue granite, its palace and temples a series of high spires scratching a storm cloud sky. The city spread out in an enormous circle, protected by thick white stone walls looking delicate and dainty as porcelain from this distance.

Two bridges connected Atrine to the outside world, graceful lanes of stone lacework stretching from city to shore. In reality, the bridges spanned hundreds of feet wide and miles long, large enough to ride an army of horses across. From this distance, the scale distorted. Everything looked tiny and fragile: eggshell thin.

I frowned as I studied the scene. Something about the bridge looked wrong.

“What’s that smudge on the bridge?”

Sir Baramon blinked. “Smudge, Count?”

Dorna scrunched up her nose. “Ah, my sight ain’t what it used to be.” She shielded her eyes with a hand and squinted hard. “Are those…” She paused. “Are those buildings out on the causeway?”

“Who would build on the bridge?” I asked. “That’s bizarre.”

To my surprise, Brother Qown responded with indignation. “Cities are like rivers, Count. They overflow their banks, spread outside their borders. It happens everywhere.”

“Other cities,” I said with a dismissive snort. “The Capital, I’ve heard, overflows on a regular basis with human detritus, but there’s nowhere for anyone to go beyond the walls of Atrine. The city is an island.”

“That’s true, foal,” said Dorna, “but you’re forgetting how wide those bridges are. And anyway, the city’s empty most of the year. Plenty of room.”

Brother Qown said, “I don’t understand. Why would a city this size be empty?”

“Because it’s a trap,” I said.