Huan Ho passed through the gates, which lay open for fear the riders would tear them down to enter the city, and took the long, winding road that led past the rice fields into the hills above Fei Weng. The air was crisp and cold, and stung his exposed skin. He walked on.

The door through which the riders came stood a little way from a fork in the road. Its wood was old and weathered, and the lacquer had cracked in many places. Faded pictures of phoenixes and dragons adorned its huge panels.
Everyone in Fei Weng knew where it was. For most of the year it was nothing but an oddity: standing in the shadows of the hills, a door with no building, a door which would never yield no matter how hard one pushed on the panels.

But now it was open, revealing only darkness within its frame.

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