Chapter Four: The Kingdom of Strangers

The first thing Matilda noticed about the New Regalia Empire was that its soldiers looked hungry. The second was that they looked proud.

They stood beneath the settlement's enormous gate wearing mismatched pieces of armor, some bearing the insignia of mainland Regalian regiments, others decorated with emblems Matilda did not recognize. Their uniforms had been repaired so many times that scarcely two men wore the same shade of blue. Above them hung a freshly sewn banner. Its fabric was clean.

Its colors were bright. Someone had taken considerable trouble to make it look important. A soldier stepped forward as the travelers approached.

"Halt."

Éloïse stopped. The soldier looked at her uniform. His expression hardened.

"Dramurian."

"Observant," Éloïse retorted.

"State your business."

"Seeking shelter."

"Armed?"

"Obviously."

The soldier's hand moved toward his sword. Éloïse did not move. Behind her, Mauro shifted Florentine's weight in his arms. The druid's injured foot hung awkwardly above the ground. She had insisted upon walking several times during the journey, only to discover that the puncture wound beneath her toes made every step excruciating. Now she looked exhausted.

Florentine felt the guard’s attention settle on her skin. She had endured stares before, but there was something especially ugly about being assessed while injured and dependent on strangers for passage. Her long red-and-green hair clung to her shoulders, and the cool morning air had raised goosebumps across her naked body. The guard noticed her.

His eyes widened.

"What in the Absolute's name-"

Florentine sighed. Her shoulders sagged beneath the weight of yet another explanation. Her faith had always required endurance, but she had not expected every ordinary conversation to become a trial of it.

The guards' attention moved from Florentine's uncovered body to her face and back again. She held herself upright under their scrutiny, although the hard paving was beginning to ache beneath her feet.

"I'm a druid."

The soldier stared.

"A what?"

"A Dallist."

He looked toward his companion. The other guard leaned forward and laughed.

"She's fuckin’ naked." the man laughed again.

"Yes," Florentine said. "I am."

"Why?"

"Religious reasons."

The first guard looked genuinely bewildered.

"You're telling me your religion makes you walk around like that?"

"It requires me to remain unclothed."

"All the time?"

"All the time."

The second guard grinned.

"Sounds like a fine religion."

Florentine's expression hardened.

"It isn't for your entertainment."

Éloïse stepped between them before speaking.

"Are you letting us through?"

The first guard returned his attention to her.

"Not until you surrender your weapons."

"No."

"Then you don't enter."

Éloïse folded her arms before answering.

"We're not surrendering our weapons in a place surrounded by slimes."

"General Caroline's orders."

"General Caroline can come explain them herself."

The guard's face reddened. Matilda felt a familiar dread. She had seen this kind of confrontation before. Men with authority. Men who believed their authority had been challenged.

Men whose pride mattered more to them than the people standing in front of them. She looked toward Mauro. He was struggling to keep Florentine supported.

"Please," Matilda said.

The guard turned. She tried to keep her voice steady.

"We have an injured woman. We only need somewhere safe to rest."

The soldier looked at Florentine again. His gaze lingered. Then he sighed.

"Fine. Weapons peace-bound. Blades tied into their sheaths. No drawing them inside the walls without permission."

Éloïse considered the demand. Then nodded.

"Acceptable."

The guard looked disappointed. He had apparently hoped for an argument. The settlement smelled of wet timber, cooking smoke, unwashed bodies, and the iron tang of armed men living too close together. It was the scent of civilization being assembled before anyone had agreed what it should become. Éloïse

General Caroline had built an empire in less than a year. Éloïse found that impressive. She also found it ridiculous.

The settlement beyond the gate was crowded with refugees, merchants, soldiers, laborers, and adventurers. Wooden buildings leaned against ancient stone walls. Makeshift watchtowers rose above the streets, and freshly dug trenches surrounded several defensive positions. Everything looked temporary. Everything looked unfinished.

Yet everywhere Éloïse turned, she saw proclamations bearing the seal of the New Regalia Empire. Taxes. Curfews. Military obligations. Property registrations.

Trade restrictions. A government had been constructed almost as quickly as its buildings. She wondered whether General Caroline had begun with the laws or the army. Probably the army. A soldier escorted them toward a customs office.

"General Caroline doesn't tolerate disorder," he explained.

"Does she tolerate Dramurians?" Éloïse asked.

The soldier glanced at her.

"Depends."

"On what?"

"Whether they're causing trouble."

"How convenient."

He ignored her. They passed a courtyard where several armed men were arguing beneath opposing banners. Éloïse recognized one immediately. The red, black, and silver of Dramur. Her stomach tightened.

The uniforms were different enough to distinguish at a glance: the Dramurians held themselves with rigid, practiced discipline, while the New Regalians clustered around their own officers. The courtyard felt too small for the pride of both sides. Dramurian soldiers stood on one side of the courtyard. New Regalian troops stood opposite them.

Both groups had their hands near their weapons. An officer wearing a dark blue coat was shouting.

"You have no authority to conduct patrols inside our jurisdiction!"

The Dramurian captain replied coldly.

"We are recovering imperial property."

"You are trespassing."

"We are acting under orders."

"Your orders mean nothing here!"

Éloïse stopped. The Dramurian captain noticed her. His eyes narrowed. He looked at her uniform. Then at the group accompanying her.

"Soldier!"

Éloïse closed her eyes briefly. Of course. She turned.

"Captain."

"Identify yourself."

"Éloïse Varenne."

"Unit?"

"Reconnaissance."

"Under whose command?"

She hesitated. The captain noticed.

"Answer."

"My expedition was separated."

"Where?"

The answer hung between them. Around the table, people who had traveled toward the same promise found themselves confronted with the same absence of knowledge.

"Inside the Tower."

"Where inside the Tower?"

"I don't know."

The captain studied her.

"Deserter?"

Éloïse felt heat rise in her face.

"No, Captain."

"Then report to the imperial compound."

"I'm not currently under your command."

The words came out sharper than she intended. The captain stepped forward.

"Every Dramurian soldier is subject to imperial authority."

The New Regalian officer laughed bitterly.

"Not inside my jurisdiction."

The captain turned toward him.

"Stay out of this."

"You're standing in my courtyard."

Éloïse looked from one officer to the other. Two governments. Two sets of laws. Two armed forces. All inside a structure that had appeared scarcely a year earlier.

She wondered whether the Tower had brought out humanity's ingenuity or merely its stupidity.

"Captain," she said carefully, "I have injured civilians to escort."

The Dramurian officer glanced toward Florentine. His expression changed.

"A Dallist?"

Florentine lifted her head.

"Yes."

The captain looked disgusted.

"Of course."

Éloïse felt her patience thinning.

"She requires medical attention."

"Then take her to a physician."

"That's what I'm doing."

The captain stared at her. Then waved her away.

"Report to the compound before leaving this district."

Éloïse saluted. She had no intention of doing so. Torsten The settlement possessed three taverns, two public wells, a barracks, a chapel, a customs office, a market, and a brothel. Torsten learned this within the first hour.

The brothel occupied a two-story building near the western gate. Its windows were decorated with red cloth. Several women stood beneath the entrance, calling to passing soldiers. A painted sign advertised rooms, companionship, and private arrangements. Torsten stopped.

He had expected prostitution to exist inside the Tower. Human beings had brought it everywhere else. Torsten found himself thinking less about the impossible architecture than about the people living beneath it. Nobody knew what the Tower was, yet they had already invented procedures for owning pieces of its shadow.

But the speed with which it had become an organized trade disturbed him. The Tower had existed for less than a year.

That brief span was the only dependable fact Torsten could offer about its history. The ruins within it might look centuries old, but no scholar had witnessed their construction, and no book written before the anomaly's appearance could explain them.

Already people had established governments, collected taxes, raised armies, and begun selling access to other people's bodies. He wondered whether any civilization could be considered complete without finding someone vulnerable enough to exploit. A woman approached him. She was perhaps thirty, with tired eyes and a dress that had once been expensive.

"Looking for company?"

Torsten shook his head. The question was offered with the practiced cheer of someone trying to make an ordinary transaction out of an extraordinary place. Torsten’s refusal sounded almost apologetic. Torsten answered.

"No, thank you."

"Something to drink?"

"No."

"Someone to talk to?"

He hesitated. The woman smiled faintly.

"That one's cheaper."

Torsten looked at her before answering.

"How long have you been here?"

"In the Tower?"

"Yes."

"Six months."

"And this establishment?"

"Three."

He glanced toward the building.

"Who owns it?"

"Does it matter?"

"Perhaps."

She shrugged.

"Someone with money."

Torsten considered asking whether she was there voluntarily. But he could not think of a way to ask without making the question sound insulting. The woman noticed his hesitation.

"Don't worry, scholar. I'm not going to rob you."

"How did you know I was a scholar?"

She glanced at his satchel.

"Books."

He smiled despite himself.

"An astute observation."

"I've learned a few things."

She looked past him. Her expression changed. Torsten followed her gaze. Matilda was approaching with Mauro. The Regalian woman's face had gone pale.

She was staring at the brothel. Not with curiosity. With recognition. Torsten understood suddenly. Or thought he did.

He stepped aside.

"Come along," he said gently. "We should find the others."

Matilda nodded. She did not look at the women again.

Matilda

The brothel reminded her of the ship. Not because it looked similar.

It did not. The building was warm and brightly decorated. The women standing outside wore clean clothes. Some laughed with customers. Others leaned against the doorway, smoking. Nothing about it resembled the cramped cabins of the Merciful Dawn. But the sight of men exchanging coins for access to women made Matilda feel physically ill.

She remembered Captain Hadrien explaining the terms of their passage. She remembered Mauro sitting beside her, his face grey with horror. She remembered the captain speaking as though he were discussing cargo. A price. A service.

An agreement. Matilda had agreed. She could still remember the sea beneath the ship and the sound of Mauro breathing beside her in the dark. Hope had carried them across the water, but hope had never promised to be kind. That fact troubled her more than anything.

She had agreed because the alternative was remaining in Regalia, where their son would stay dead and the Chalice would remain beyond their reach. She had agreed because desperation had narrowed the world until only one choice seemed possible. But the captain had treated her consent as proof that nothing wrong was happening.

She wondered whether the women outside the brothel had been offered better choices. She wondered whether any of them had children. She wondered whether they had once believed themselves incapable of doing what they now did to survive. Mauro touched her arm before speaking.

"Matilda."

She flinched. He withdrew his hand.

"Sorry."

She hated that he apologized for touching her. She hated that he had learned to hesitate. Matilda watched Mauro's mouth tighten around the words he chose not to say. She could remember when silence between them had been restful; now she had to interpret every pause. She hated that something once ordinary between them had become complicated.

"I'm all right," she lied.

Mauro nodded. Neither believed her. Sabine The infirmary was overcrowded. Sabine had expected that.

What she had not expected was the number of people suffering from ordinary illnesses. Fevers. Infected wounds. Diarrhea. Respiratory infections.

Malnutrition. The Tower's monsters were terrifying, but they were not responsible for every death. People still died from dirty water. From childbirth. From injuries that would have healed with proper care.

From diseases that spread through crowded sleeping quarters. Sabine found a physician examining a man's swollen leg. She introduced herself. The physician barely looked up.

"Can you work?"

"Yes."

"Then wash your hands."

Within minutes, she was assisting him. Florentine sat on a nearby bench, watching anxiously as the physician examined her foot. He removed the bandage. The wound was swollen and red.

"Rusty nail?" he asked.

Florentine nodded before speaking.

"Yesterday."

He pressed gently around the puncture. She winced.

"Any fever?"

"No."

"Chills?"

"I'm cold all the time."

He looked at her naked body.

"Yes. I imagine you are."

Florentine folded her arms, breaking the silence.

"It's religious."

"I wasn't going to ask."

The physician worked under a harsh light that exposed every bruise and scrape. Florentine’s fingers dug into the bench; the pain traveled through her arm in bright, sickening pulses. He cleaned the wound thoroughly. Florentine gripped the edge of the bench until her knuckles whitened. Sabine stood beside her before speaking.

"Almost finished."

The physician applied a fresh dressing.

"Keep it clean. Don't walk on it more than necessary. Come back if the redness spreads or you develop a fever."

Florentine nodded before speaking.

"Thank you."

He looked at her again.

"One more thing."

She sighed.

"Yes?"

"Try not to freeze to death."

Florentine gave him a tired smile.

"I'll do my best."

Pascal

Pascal found the New Regalia Empire entertaining. Its soldiers marched through the streets with exaggerated seriousness. Its officials demanded documents from people who had entered the Tower seeking miracles. Its merchants argued over taxes imposed by a government younger than some of the children playing beside the road.

And everywhere, people spoke of General Caroline. General Caroline had secured the walls. General Caroline had established order. General Caroline had negotiated with the Dramurians. General Caroline had forbidden unauthorized violence.

Pascal wondered whether she had also forbidden murder. He suspected so. Governments usually did. He passed a notice board displaying several wanted posters. Most concerned theft.

One described a man accused of killing two merchants. Another offered a reward for information about a missing child. Pascal examined the posters carefully. None depicted him. He felt a small measure of satisfaction.

The Dramurian soldiers who had thrown him into the Tower apparently believed their work finished. They had not expected him to survive. Perhaps they had not cared. Pascal kept his expression neutral as he approached the gathering. Crowds offered a peculiar protection: each witness believed someone else was responsible for understanding what had happened.

Either way, he was free. For the moment. He continued walking. Near the market, he encountered a crowd gathered around a public punishment.

The crowd had formed a loose ring, dense at the front and ragged behind. People stretched their necks for a better view, while others stood farther back with the fixed expressions of those who had come to witness something they would later claim to deplore. A thief had been tied to a wooden post. A soldier stood beside him with a cane.

The man's back was already marked with welts. Pascal watched. The soldier struck again. The thief cried out. A few spectators looked away.

Others watched with expressions of grim approval. Pascal studied the soldier's technique. Too much force in the shoulder. Not enough control in the wrist. The blows were inconsistent.

He found himself wanting to offer advice. Instead, he smiled politely and continued toward the market. Even here, among people who had seen monsters and impossible architecture, her bare body could draw the attention away from everything else. She had learned to distinguish surprise from contempt by the way a gaze lingered.

Florentine

Florentine had grown accustomed to being stared at. In Avsnø, people recognized Dallists and the druid faith. They might disapprove of their practices, but they generally understood why a druid walked naked through the streets. Here, the reactions were different. Some people laughed.

Some looked disgusted. Some appeared genuinely confused. A few treated her as though she were offering herself to anyone who wished to approach. She hated those people most. She was sitting beside a market stall when a man stopped in front of her.

He was broad-shouldered, red-faced, and smelled strongly of alcohol. He stared at her. Florentine looked away. The man grinned.

"Well, what have we here?"

She ignored him. He stepped closer.

"Lost your clothes, sweetheart?"

"No."

"Then why aren't you wearing any?"

"Religious reasons."

He laughed.

"That's a new one."

Florentine sighed. Her shoulders sagged beneath the weight of yet another explanation. Her faith had always required endurance, but she had not expected every ordinary conversation to become a trial of it.

"Please leave me alone."

Instead, he leaned forward. Before she could move away, he reached out and grabbed both her breasts. Florentine reacted instantly. She drove the heel of her hand upward into his face. There was a sharp crack.

The man staggered backward. Blood poured from his nose. Florentine rose from the bench despite the pain in her injured foot.

"Don't touch me!"

The man stared at her.

"You little—"

He lunged. Florentine stepped aside. Her injured foot nearly gave way beneath her. But she caught his arm, twisted, and drove her elbow into his jaw. He fell heavily onto the stones.

A small crowd had gathered. Some laughed. Others stared. The man groaned and tried to sit up. Florentine stood over him, breathing hard.

Her breasts rose and fell with the effort, and her injured foot throbbed beneath the bandage. She was furious. Not embarrassed. Not ashamed. Furious.

"You disgusting animal," she said.

The man spat blood.

"You were walking around naked!"

Florentine stared at him.

"And?"

He looked bewildered.

"What?"

Florentine’s voice remained steady, but her shoulders had gone rigid. She did not retreat. The space between her and the man seemed to narrow until it contained nothing but his presumption and her refusal.

"And what?"

She stepped closer.

"Does my nakedness give you permission to touch me?"

Florentine did not lower her eyes. The cold air brushed the skin of her chest, and the stares around her were tiresome, but she refused to make her body an apology for her faith. The man said nothing. Florentine pointed toward his face before speaking.

"Keep your hands to yourself."

A soldier pushed through the crowd.

"What's going on?"

The man on the ground pointed at her.

"She attacked me!"

Florentine turned toward the soldier before speaking.

"He grabbed my breasts."

The soldier looked at her. Then at the man. Then back at her. For a moment, Florentine feared he might blame her. Instead, the soldier sighed.

"Did you touch her?"

The man hesitated.

"She was-"

Hadrien answered with a question, drawing out the uncertainty.

"Did you?"

"Yes, but-"

The soldier seized his arm.

"Up."

The man protested. The soldier hauled him to his feet.

"You're coming with me."

Florentine watched them go. Her hands were shaking. She sat down carefully. Her injured foot hurt badly. She looked at the small crowd still gathered around her.

"What?"

Several people turned away. One woman smiled faintly.

"Good for you."

Florentine looked down. She wanted to cry. Not because she regretted striking the man. She would do it again. But because she was tired.

Tired of pain. Tired of being cold. Tired of explaining herself. Tired of people treating her religious convictions as an invitation. She closed her eyes.

For a moment, she missed Avsnø so fiercely that it felt like another wound.

Torsten

Settlement I was not impressive. That, Torsten thought, was precisely what made it important.

The settlement consisted of a cluster of buildings surrounding an old stone courtyard. Its walls were low, its streets narrow, and its inhabitants mostly concerned with ordinary matters. Food. Water. Shelter. Trade.

But it had been the first. New boards had been hammered over old stone. Smoke rose from chimneys built in haste, and the streets bore the deep, muddy scars of wagons bringing supplies to a place that had not existed on any map a year earlier. The first permanent settlement established on Floor One after the Tower appeared. Before the New Regalia Empire.

Before the Dramurian compounds. Before the larger towns and military outposts. People had gathered here because they needed somewhere to survive. Torsten walked through the courtyard with considerable interest. A weathered sign stood near the entrance.

SETTLEMENT I. He examined it. The lettering was crude. The wood had been repaired several times. Someone had carved a small symbol beneath the name.

Torsten did not recognize it. He wondered whether the settlement's founders had intended the name to be permanent. Perhaps they had expected to establish Settlement II. Settlement III. Perhaps they had imagined a whole chain of settlements extending deeper into the Tower.

Or perhaps they had simply lacked the imagination to choose something more poetic. He smiled. Human history was full of such accidents. A temporary name became permanent. A military camp became a city.

A refugee shelter became a kingdom. The Tower had existed for less than a year. That brief span was the only dependable fact Torsten could offer about its history. The ruins within it might look centuries old, but no scholar had witnessed their construction, and no book written before the anomaly's appearance could explain them.

Already its inhabitants were creating history. Torsten wondered how much of it would survive. Éloïse From the higher ground, Éloïse could see roofs assembled from mismatched timber and canvas, their edges crowded against the Tower's stone. It was a city trying to become permanent before anyone knew whether its foundations belonged to the world at all.

Bridgetown was larger than Éloïse expected. The settlement seemed to have grown in haste around the Tower's ancient-looking masonry. New timber leaned against old stone; hastily painted signs hung beside arches whose original functions nobody understood. All this activity had taken shape in the short months since the anomaly appeared. Much larger.

Its outer districts sprawled across a broad expanse of Floor One, connected by bridges, raised walkways, and fortified roads. The town had grown around several ancient stone crossings, incorporating older structures into its walls and buildings. Markets filled the central streets. Workshops crowded the riverbanks. Warehouses stood beside guarded bridges.

The population was astonishingly diverse. Regalians. Dramurians. Avsnish travelers. Kalltists.

Merchants from countries Éloïse had never visited. And goblins. Éloïse stopped. A goblin was standing behind a vegetable stall. He was small, green-skinned, with pointed ears and narrow yellow eyes. He wore a patched brown vest and was arguing with a human customer over the price of onions.

Éloïse stared. The goblin noticed.

"What?"

She did not answer. He frowned.

"Buying something?"

"No."

"Then stop staring."

Éloïse looked toward Torsten before answering.

"Do you see that?"

Torsten followed her gaze. His expression changed. The goblin’s expression suggested that being treated as a marvel was a tedious inconvenience. Éloïse, for all her discipline, found it difficult not to stare at the utterly ordinary onions arranged beside him.

"Extraordinary."

The goblin rolled his eyes.

"Here we go."

Éloïse stepped closer before speaking.

"You're living here?"

The goblin stared at her.

"Obviously."

"Among humans?"

"Unless you've mistaken everyone around me for turnips."

Torsten approached, breaking the silence.

"Forgive us. We've never encountered anything like this."

The goblin sighed.

"Nobody has."

Éloïse looked around. Another goblin was carrying crates beside a warehouse. A third sat outside a tavern, drinking from a clay cup. Farther down the street, two goblin children were playing beside human children. The sight was almost impossible to comprehend.

Goblins and humans had fought, raided, enslaved, and killed one another for generations. They had traded occasionally. Negotiated. Established temporary arrangements when circumstances demanded it. But living together?

Sharing streets? Raising children in the same town? Éloïse had never heard of such a thing. Torsten looked delighted before speaking.

"This is remarkable."

The goblin merchant folded his arms.

"Are you going to buy onions or write a book?"

Torsten smiled before speaking.

"Possibly both."

Matilda

Bridgetown felt safer than anywhere Matilda had been since leaving Regalia. Its streets were busy. Its buildings were solid. Its guards appeared organized.

Children played beneath the watchful eyes of their parents. Merchants shouted from stalls. Bakers carried fresh bread from ovens. For the first time in weeks, Matilda smelled something other than blood, sweat, and seawater. She smelled food.

Real food. Warm bread. Roasted meat. Spices. Her stomach growled.

Mauro noticed. He smiled faintly.

"Hungry?"

She nodded. The bread's crust crackled beneath Matilda's fingers. For a moment its warmth and the smell of fresh grain displaced the ship, the streets, and the constant calculation of what they could afford. They purchased two small loaves from a baker. The bread was expensive. Everything was expensive.

But Matilda did not care. Heat softened the bread against her tongue. For one fragile instant the crowded market receded, replaced by the memory of a kitchen, a familiar voice, and a world in which eating had not required courage. She tore off a piece and ate it while it was still warm. For a moment, she closed her eyes. It tasted like home.

Mauro watched her.

"Good?"

She nodded. He smiled. She wanted to smile back. And this time, she managed it. A small smile.

But genuine. They found a bench near the central bridge. Mauro sat beside her. For several minutes, neither spoke. Then Matilda noticed a group of children playing nearby.

One was human. One was a goblin. The third appeared to be Regalian. They were chasing one another around a fountain, laughing. Matilda watched them.

The goblin child tripped. The human child stopped and helped him up. Then they resumed their game. She felt something tighten in her chest. Their son would have loved this place.

He had always loved other children. He would have asked endless questions about the goblins. He would have wanted to know why their ears were pointed. Why their skin was green. Whether they liked the same games.

Matilda pressed a hand against her mouth. Mauro noticed. He followed her gaze. His expression changed. For a moment, they sat together in silence.

Then he took her hand. She let him.

Pascal

Pascal found Bridgetown fascinating. It was large enough to disappear in.

Large enough to acquire a new name. Large enough to become someone else. He watched the crowds moving through the market. Soldiers. Merchants.

Pilgrims. Refugees. Criminals. Priests. Goblins.

Human beings had constructed a functioning society inside a place that should have been uninhabitable. They had built walls against monsters. Established markets. Created laws. Even learned to tolerate creatures they had spent generations hating.

Pascal wondered whether they would tolerate him. Probably not. Not if they knew. He passed a notice board. Several new proclamations had been posted.

The notices fluttered against the wall whenever a draft passed through the street. Their warnings were written in a brisk, official hand, as though neat lettering could impose order upon the unknown. One announced restrictions on nighttime travel. Another warned of slime infestations beyond the guarded districts.

A third offered rewards for information concerning missing travelers. Pascal examined the last notice. Three people had disappeared during the previous week. Two men. One woman.

No bodies recovered. He smiled faintly. The Tower was generous. It provided explanations for disappearances before anyone even asked questions. He looked toward the others.

Matilda and Mauro sat near the bridge. Florentine was resting beside Sabine. Torsten was speaking animatedly with a goblin merchant. Éloïse stood near a guard post, studying the town's defenses.

Éloïse studied the watch rotations and the angles from which an attack might come. The guards had built their routines around dangers they could name, but the Tower offered no guarantee that tomorrow's danger would resemble yesterday's. Pascal considered them. Seven travelers. Seven strangers. Bound together by necessity rather than affection.

He wondered how long that would last. Then he looked toward the distant Tower. Beyond Bridgetown lay the wilderness of Floor One. Beyond that, somewhere, the abyss. And beyond the abyss, the Gate.

He had heard rumors of a monstrous slime guarding the passage. Fallig the Rotten. A creature so enormous that even experienced adventurers feared approaching it. Pascal found the prospect intriguing. He wondered what such a creature would look like.

He wondered how it killed. He wondered whether it suffered. Then he turned back toward the town. There would be time for monsters later. For now, he preferred people.

Éloïse

By evening, Éloïse had secured rooms in a modest inn near Bridgetown's eastern wall. The building was sturdy. Its doors could be barred. Its windows were narrow.

Its proprietor assured her that the town's guards patrolled throughout the night. For the first time since entering the Tower, she believed she might sleep without keeping one hand on her sword. The others gathered in the common room. Mauro and Matilda sat together. Torsten was already writing notes.

Sabine examined Florentine's bandage. Pascal stood beside the window, watching the street. Éloïse looked at them. They were exhausted. Hungry.

Injured. Frightened. But alive. That counted for something. She approached the table.

"We stay here until Florentine can walk."

Torsten looked up before speaking.

"How long?"

Florentine tried to straighten in her seat and immediately regretted it. The movement tugged at injuries she had been pretending not to feel, and she swallowed the sound that rose in her throat.

"However long it takes."

Florentine frowned, breaking the silence.

"I don't want to delay everyone."

"Then heal quickly."

Sabine smiled faintly. Mauro leaned back in his chair before speaking.

"And after that?"

Éloïse looked toward the Tower before answering.

"Then we find the Gate."

Matilda's expression tightened.

"And the Chalice?"

Éloïse hesitated. Nobody knew where the Chalice was. Nobody knew how many floors the Tower contained. Nobody knew whether the stories were true. She looked at the faces around the table.

Seven strangers. Seven desperate hopes. And an unknown journey ahead.

"We keep going," she said.

Pascal smiled from beside the window. Éloïse noticed. She wondered what he found amusing. Then the innkeeper arrived with dinner. For a little while, the travelers forgot about the Tower.

They ate. They drank before speaking. And outside, beyond Bridgetown's walls, the first slimes began to emerge from the darkness