The morning began like the one before—grueling.
Maren led them through circuits of sprints, push-ups, resistance drills, and timed dashes across shifting stone paths. Sweat clung to Kael's back like a second skin. Elowen kept pace easily, hair bound in a tight braid that barely swayed with each motion. Rorek grunted and muttered curses under his breath but refused to slow. Soren matched Kael's speed with quiet focus, and Caelindra, though winded, showed surprising grit.
The group dynamic had shifted subtly overnight. With the admission of Sigils—or lack thereof—walls had begun to lower. There was still guardedness, especially from Rorek and Soren, but now they worked together more instinctively. It was clear: they were becoming a unit.
By the time the group collapsed onto the stone benches ringing the training arena, the fake sunlight was beginning to dip toward a softer hue.
Maren, barely winded, stood before them, arms folded. "Good. You're not dying. We'll take that as progress."
A few dry chuckles rippled through the group.
"But now," she continued, her tone shifting, "we begin the part of your training that matters more than muscle."
She walked over to the circular center platform of the training field, stepping onto it. At her gesture, a section of the wall behind her shifted with a groaning hum, revealing a mural carved into pale stone—faint figures etched in motion, each bearing strange glowing marks across their bodies: on foreheads, palms, backs, chests, eyes.
"This," Maren said, "is what you came to the Tower for. Not just strength or escape or power. This," she tapped the mural, "is about who you are."
She let the words linger, then continued.
"Every climber carries the potential for a Sigil. It is a mark—sometimes a brand, sometimes a living tattoo—that forms the core of your bond with the Tower. Your Rite of Passage begins the path, but not all awaken there."
Maren turned, eyes scanning them. "A Sigil isn't granted. It's drawn out—from inside you. It manifests based on your self, your struggles, your deepest truths. No two are alike."
Kael leaned forward, breathing steady now. Allen, beside him, seemed even more focused than usual, eyes narrowed. Elowen sat tall, attentive.
"And for those who don't awaken in their Rite?" Caelindra asked, voice soft but clear.
Maren nodded. "Some people awaken later. Others seek out the Sigil Fields."
That name sent a shiver through the group.
"They're wild regions at the edge of Floor I, near the Pale Verge. Energetic zones where the Tower's essence leaks out in raw form. They can draw out your Sigil—force it to bloom under pressure. But they are dangerous, unpredictable. Creatures are drawn to them. Illusions bleed into reality. You may face a reflection of your future self—or your worst fear."
Rorek scoffed. "Sounds like a death trap."
"Many never return," Maren replied calmly. "And many of those who do… change. But for some, it's the only path forward."
Allen finally spoke. "If it gives the same Sigil we would've earned in the Rite… is it still ours?"
Maren paused, eyes on him. "It's always yours. The Rite simply brings it forward naturally. The Field rips it from you—raw and uncompromising."
The group fell silent. The mural seemed to glow faintly, as if reacting to the conversation.
Maren let the moment stretch, then said, "When your Sigil comes, it won't just give you power. It will give you clarity—sometimes painful, sometimes freeing. Train your body. Sharpen your mind. But prepare your soul, too."
She stepped down from the platform. "Tomorrow, we begin learning how to work with your Sigils. Whether awakened or not, the Tower will demand it of you soon enough."
Kael let the echo of Maren's steps fade before he spoke, voice low. "So… the Tower really is in us, not just around us." He reached out and ran a fingertip along the coils of his whip‑sword. The metal felt warm under his skin—an intimate reminder of the freedom he craved. In that moment, he vowed to see his Sigil through every twist and turn of the climb.
Allen pressed a hand to his chest, where the faint scar of his seed still whispered beneath his shirt. The idea of the Sigil Fields made his pulse quicken—an offered shortcut, yes, but also a gauntlet of nightmares. He imagined the raw power forced from his soul and wondered whether he'd recognize the man who emerged.
Elowen closed her eyes, fingertips brushing the spot beneath her ear where Lacrima Vitae glowed soft and blue. A ripple of warmth spread through her—reassurance, responsibility. She exhaled, gathering courage. I'm meant to help, she told herself. And I will. The weight of that promise settled in her bones like a second heartbeat.
Soren moved to the edge of the platform and knelt, head bowed before the mural. In the faint glow, he could almost trace the pattern of his own latent mark—the swirling shadows of Umbra Vagus he'd only glimpsed in dreams. His usual levity fell away, replaced by a fierce curiosity: What truths lie buried in those fields? He tapped a mental note: research the geology of the Verge.
Caelindra flipped open her notebook and scribbled furiously: Sigils = self; Rite vs. Field. Her brow furrowed. History had always been stories of triumph, not this living, breathing magic. She wanted to ask more—about failures in the Fields, about unintended awakenings—but the hush around them felt sacred.
Rorek stood apart, arms crossed, silence marking each measured breath. He stared at the mural's line of marked climbers, unflinching. Fields or Rite, Sigil or no Sigil, he'd rely on steel and stance first. Yet as he returned his gaze to his comrades, he acknowledged a truth he rarely voiced: I may need help after all.
A soft wind stirred the lantern flames as they each absorbed the weight of Maren's words. Tomorrow, they would practice with power. Tonight, they carried a new kind of fire within—and each knew their path was changing forever.
As the group filtered out through the arched gates, they naturally split into pairs and trios. Elowen veered toward the artisan quarter with Soren in tow, eager to see the street musicians and glowing lantern trees. Caelindra muttered something about maps and local lore, eyes already scanning a wooden signpost. Rorek lingered a moment before heading off alone, silent as always.
Kael waited just long enough to catch Allen's eye.
"Want to walk?" he asked.
Allen gave a small nod. "Yeah."
They didn't talk at first. Just moved through the cobbled paths of the town's heart, where glowing glyph-lamps hummed softly above every archway. Towerfolk—other climbers, residents, travelers—milled about, haggling, laughing, sharing drinks on open balconies. The town buzzed with a life both ancient and strange.
Kael turned to Allen with a lopsided grin. "Remember that vending machine back home? The one that always ate our coins?"
Allen chuckled. "And you kept punching it. Said it was a test of character."
"Still say I was right. It never took my coins again after the third hit."
Allen shook his head, but he was smiling. "I still can't believe this is real. One day we're biking through dead suburbs, next we're sparring with swords and talking about mystical eye-powers and glowing seeds."
Kael's voice softened. "Yeah… and yet it already feels more real than home."
They passed a quiet alleyway where vines glowed with pale blue luminescence, curling up the stone like veins of magic. The moment stretched, full of unsaid things.
Allen finally spoke. "You think we'll find them? Your freedom… my sister?"
Kael stopped walking. Looked out over the low rooftops and the horizon beyond. "I don't know," he said honestly. "But I think this is the only place we can."
Allen nodded. "Yeah. Me too."
They stood in silence, two silhouettes against the dusk, the Tower rising endlessly behind them.
And for a while, that was enough.
The winding streets of the Verge settlement unfolded before Kael and Allen like a living tapestry. Lanterns hung from every archway, their soft glyph‑light humming in the dusky air and casting intricate shadows on the cobbles. Above them, stray vines—picked clean by passing Tower‑born—twisted around metal beams, glowing faintly with bioluminescent tendrils that pulsed in time with distant heartbeats of the Tower itself.
To their left, a row of market stalls spilled over with curiosities: driftwood carved into musical pipes, jars of glowing crystals that crackled when jostled, and exotic fruits whose skins shimmered in impossible colors. The air carried a blend of scents—sweet spice from a vendor's simmering stew, metallic tang from the blacksmith's forge across the square, and the faint perfume of night‑blooming flowers coaxed to light by hidden lantern‑roots.
Further on, rows of low stone cottages bore murals etched by unknown hands—maps of ancient climbers' routes and warnings of hidden chasms. Between the cottages, narrow alleys led to hidden courtyards where fireflies danced among tables of laughing travelers and weathered scribes. The clink of tankards and low murmurs of conversation drifted out, warm and human against the looming grandeur of the Tower spire rising overhead.
As they walked, Kael's eyes caught the subtle fractures in the pavement—thin, glowing veins of energy that snaked between stones, pulsing with life. Every so often, a stray gust of breeze would stir the glyph‑lanterns' fires, sending ripples of blue light across nearby walls, turning windows into flickering mirrors of the world beyond.
And always, at every turn, the subtle glow of potential lay hidden: in the runed door‑knockers of the tavern, in the silent brazier of the healer's hall, in the gentle arc‑lines carved into the steps leading back up toward the Pale Verge. Each sight hinted at a reality just beyond their reach—a promise that this town, small though it seemed, was both sanctuary and threshold to the vast, living mystery of the Tower.
The narrow stretch of road had quieted. A warm breeze swept between the stone buildings, carrying the scent of roasted nuts and old parchment. Kael and Allen were deep into their walk when a familiar figure stepped from a shaded alcove ahead, almost as if he'd been waiting.
"Fancy meeting you here," came the smooth voice.
Kael's eyes brightened with recognition. "Risan?"
Risan Del Miro stood there with his usual refined poise, arms casually crossed, long coat fluttering slightly behind him. His smile was gentle, a touch amused. "Kael Faelwyn. And Allen, of course. I thought I glimpsed you two earlier."
Kael offered a grin. "Didn't know you were still around."
Risan tilted his head. "Still? I've barely begun. Floor One is endlessly interesting if you know where to look." His eyes gleamed, thoughtful. "Though I imagine it feels a little… overwhelming at first?"
Kael shrugged, trying to appear at ease. "It's a lot. But exciting."
Allen stayed silent beside him, his arms loosely crossed, his gaze quietly skeptical.
Risan's smile lingered. "I thought so. You struck me as the adventurous type. How's the training treating you? Maren still as sharp-tongued as ever?"
Kael chuckled. "She definitely doesn't hold back."
Risan laughed. "Ah, she never does. But she's one of the best. You're lucky to start under her."
Allen's voice came then—cool and even. "You're very well informed."
Risan turned slightly, eyes flicking to him. "Information is the most valuable currency in the Tower, Allen. That, and knowing where to stand." He smiled again, pleasant but unreadable. "I try to be polite. Prepared."
Allen's mouth tightened, but he said nothing more.
Kael, sensing the tension, shifted gears. "So what are you doing here, exactly? Are you part of an organization?"
"Something like that," Risan said lightly. "Though not one with such a bold name as the Aegis Consortium." He glanced between them. "Let's just say I have my own way of climbing. Less structure. More intuition."
Kael's curiosity flared. "That sounds… freeing."
"Dangerous, too," Allen muttered.
Risan smiled faintly. "Danger and freedom are two sides of the same blade, aren't they?"
There was a short pause, the street breathing around them.
Risan tapped two fingers to his temple. "I won't linger. But I meant it when I said you two have potential. I'll be watching. And not in a creepy way." He grinned, stepping back with a graceful bow. "Just… interested."
Kael gave a small nod. "Thanks. We'll see you around?"
"Oh, certainly. Floor One has many corners. I'm sure we'll cross paths again."
He turned and vanished into a side street, coat trailing like a wisp of shadow.
As the silence returned, Kael glanced at Allen. "You really don't like him, huh?"
Allen's brows furrowed. "He talks like he knows more than he should. Like he's... testing people. I don't trust him."
Kael looked ahead, thoughtful. "Maybe. But he helped me once. I don't think he's bad."
Allen didn't reply for a few steps, then finally said, "Just… be careful."
"I will," Kael said quietly.
And they walked on, the sun now dipping below the edge of the Tower's massive inner dome.
he night air in the training district held a different kind of stillness—thick with the weight of exhaustion and expectation. Lanterns flickered with soft golden halos outside each of the dorm buildings, casting long shadows against the pale stone.
Kael sat on the rooftop, knees drawn up, staring out toward the distant curvature of the Tower wall, where it stretched like a sleeping giant into the heavens. From this height, the noise of the town dulled into a low hum, only occasionally broken by laughter or footsteps below.
Allen joined him a few minutes later, settling down without a word, the two of them surrounded by silence more comfortable than most conversations.
Kael exhaled slowly. "Do you ever think about what we're really doing here?"
Allen leaned back on his palms. "All the time."
Kael smiled faintly. "It's just… everything feels big. Like we're part of something, but we don't even know what that something is yet."
Allen didn't answer right away. When he did, his voice was quiet. "I think we'll find out. Maybe too soon."
The wind rustled their hair gently, like the Tower itself was listening.
From the streets below, the sound of distant music drifted up—soft, almost wistful. Somewhere, people were celebrating surviving another day in a world that demanded more than most could give.
Kael watched the stars beyond the dome's faint shimmer. "I want to believe there's more than just climbing."
"There is," Allen said. "We just don't know what it looks like yet."
They sat there a while longer, the rooftop warm beneath them, the night holding its breath.
And somewhere, deep within the Tower, something old stirred awake.
Obsidian Ranges – Twilight Ember
High above the serrated cliffs of the Obsidian Ranges, a figure stood barefoot on black glass, cloak frayed by the whispering wind. Lava pulsed far below—slow veins of fire through stone.
She tilted her head, listening to the breath of the mountain, eyes glowing faintly violet in the dark.
Something had changed.
A tremor beneath the surface, but not of earth or magma. A breath. A heartbeat.
Her fingers flexed. She did not know his name. But she could feel the quiet pulse of his mind—the intellect cloaked in silence, the emotions held behind a cracked mask.
She whispered to no one.
"He's waking up."
---
Fractured Plains – Dusk Horizon
Amidst the shattered white rocks, where the horizon always shimmered like broken glass, a man walked alone. His robes trailed behind him like torn banners, footsteps never quite touching the ground.
He paused.
Then slowly turned toward the east. Toward a city he would never visit, and a person he would never meet. Not yet.
His smile was unreadable.
"So that one's still wearing masks," he murmured, voice smooth as wind slicing through salt.
He continued walking. Each step split the plains just a little more.
---
Sigil Fields – Blooming Stillness
The fields were quiet now, the ambient hum of dormant power threaded with anticipation.
Among the ancient wildflowers—each glowing faintly with unseen magic—a lone woman sat with her knees to her chest. Her skin shimmered like dew in moonlight, and her eyes were filled with the patience of root and bloom.
She didn't speak. She only felt.
Someone had touched the song of the field, not with violence, but with harmony. Not with demand, but with longing.
She pressed a hand to her heart, as if trying to catch the echo of a soul she'd never met.
A single white flower opened beside her.
---
Shifting Basin – Echoed Sand
The basin moved as it always did, its dunes crawling in unnatural patterns beneath a violet sky.
From a stone spire in the middle of that chaos, a figure crouched, hand buried in shifting grains. The desert responded to their thoughts—curling, rearranging, whispering in broken tongues.
And the figure laughed.
"Such fragile roots," they said. "Yet even now, the wind begins to carry them."
They closed their eyes.
In the distance, a gust blew the sand into spirals—soft wings traced in dust, soon erased.
---
Stormvault Ridge – Twin Silence
Two figures stood on the edge of the cliff, the clouds coiling beneath them in a silver storm. They didn't speak. They didn't need to.
They both felt it.
A pull. A thread brushing against the storm in their bones.
"South," one finally said.
The other nodded once. Then they were gone, wind scattering where they had stood.
---
Ashen Hollow – Memory's Breath
Beneath the canopy of petrified trees, smoke curled in place of leaves. A childlike figure traced their fingers along the bark, humming a tune that no one alive remembered.
They froze mid-step.
"…Hmm."
One hand pressed to their chest. Their hum resumed—changed now. Warmer.
---
Mirrored Fen – Watching Eyes
The water here reflected more than faces. Beneath its surface, things twisted into things they were not.
A woman lay with her back in the marsh, eyes wide open to the sky. Her lips did not move. But her thoughts bled into the mist.
"I'll find you," she promised someone who didn't know she existed.
---
Duskgate Slopes – Forgotten Bones
Among jagged bones of beasts long dead, a cloaked man sharpened a blade that had never dulled.
He paused mid-stroke.
Looked up.
"No," he muttered. "Not yet."
But his hand trembled slightly.
---
Whispervault Crevasse – Glinting Steps
From the shadows of the vault, laughter echoed—not cruel, not kind, just interested.
A figure danced on lightless stone, following a tune no instrument could play. She spun once and stopped, eyes narrowing.
"…You'll be fun," she said.
To whom, she didn't know.
---
The Quiet Crossing – Lanternlight
At the very edge of Floor 1, where the mist veiled a thousand bridges to nowhere, an old man sat by a flickering lantern.
He looked into the light as if it held the stars.
And whispered, "Soon."