The kid had marched for three days.
Three days of blistering sun, of chains that bit deeper with every step, of silence so thick it choked him. His feet were raw, his lips cracked, his tongue swollen with thirst. But none of that mattered now.
Because now, there was the Gate.
It rose before them like a mountain carved from nightmare, black metal gleaming dully under the sickly light of a sun that seemed too afraid to shine directly upon it. Strange runes pulsed along its frame, their glow weak but constant, like the last breaths of a dying animal. The kid's neck ached as he tilted his head back, further, further until his vision swam and his stomach lurched.
'Fuck.'
The word echoed in his skull, sharp and desperate. This isn't real. Can't be real. But the weight of the chains around his wrists was real. The stench of sweat and rust and fear was real.
And the Gate was real.
"Forty-ninth floor."
Ingward's voice scraped against his ears. The man stood beside him, arms crossed, his hollowed out frame casting a skeletal shadow. "Congratulations. You've survived long enough to see where most die."
The kid swallowed. His throat clicked, dry as bone.
'Shut up. Shut up. Don't let them see.'
But his hands trembled, and he hated himself for it.
"What is this place?" he demanded, voice cracking. "Really?"
Ingward exhaled, slow and tired. "Towers don't explain themselves. They just are."
'Liar.'
The kid's fingers twitched.
'Everyone knows more than me. Even the fucking chains know more than me.'
"Fifty floors of suffering. At the top?" His lips twisted. "They say there's power. All I've ever seen is corpses."
The kid's gaze dragged upward again.
'Not me. Not like this.'
Something hot and jagged coiled in his chest.
'Let the guards die first. Let Ingward die. I'll...'
"And we're..."
"Two floors from salvation?" the kid said.
Ingward's laugh was a dry, broken thing. "Two floors from death."
The kid's fists clenched. His nails bit into his palms, the pain sharp, grounding.
'No. No. No.'
"Why?" The word burst out of him, raw and too loud.
Ingward turned. His eyes, reflecting the Gate's dull glow, were empty. "Because every floor needs blood to open." A pause. "Fresh meat dies first. That's you."
The kid's breath hitched. 'No. I'm not ready. Not like this. Not...'
Silence. The wind howled through the Gate's grooves, a sound like laughter.
"You ready?" Ingward asked.
The kid bared his teeth. 'Fuck you. Fuck this. Fuck everything.'
"Gate's waking up," Ingward murmured, nodding toward the pulsing runes. "However you plan to die, make it count for something."
The kid's fingers curled tighter.
'I will.'
The thought was a spark in the dark.
'I fucking will.'
The Gate loomed behind them, its presence like a weight pressing against their backs. The slavers had finally called a halt, allowing the exhausted chain of slaves to collapse near a cluster of ragged tents. The kid barely registered the hard ground beneath him, his body was too numb, too broken to care.
A guard tossed him a strip of dried meat and a crust of bread. The kid stared at it for a moment, as if unsure what to do with it. Then his stomach growled, and he tore into it like an animal.
"Tastes like shit."
But he didn't stop chewing.
Across the camp, movement caught his eye.
Knights.
Not like the slavers in their scavenged leather and rusted blades. These were clad in polished steel, their armor gleaming even in the dim light. Their cloaks, deep crimson like dried blood, swayed as they moved with an eerie, synchronized precision.
The kid swallowed hard, his throat tight. "Who... who are they?"
Ingward didn't look up from his meal. "The cleaners."
"Cleaners?"
"The ones who come after." Ingward's voice was flat. "When a floor's cleared, they move in. Take what's left. The bodies. The loot. The ones who didn't make it." He took a slow bite. "They're the ones above us in the food chain."
The kid's grip on his bread tightened. Above us. The words settled in his gut like a stone.
Then.
A girl.
She moved through the camp like she didn't belong there, her steps light, effortless. Her clothes were clean, too clean, fitted dark leather, a silver lined cloak. Beside her, a hulking figure in armor kept pace, his gaze scanning the slaves like they were little more than stray dogs.
But the kid barely noticed the guard.
Her face was sharp, beautiful in a way that didn't make sense here. Her hair dark, was tied back in a braid that glinted under the torchlight. And her eyes...
Her eyes.
They weren't empty. Not like the slaves'. Not like his.
They burned.
"Who... who's that?" The kid's voice came out hoarse.
Ingward followed his gaze. For the first time, something flickered in his expression, something like wariness. "Awakened."
"What?"
"You don't know what an Awakened is?" Ingward's voice was sharp, disbelieving.
The kid shook his head.
Ingward stared at him for a long moment, then let out a slow breath. "One in a thousand," he muttered. "Maybe less. People who've touched something beyond the Tower's shit. They come out different. Stronger."
The kid's pulse thudded in his ears. Stronger.
"What kind of powers?"
Ingward's jaw tightened. "Depends. Some move faster than sight. Some bend steel with their hands. Some..." He glanced back at the girl. "Some do worse."
The kid didn't look away from her. She was speaking to one of the knights now, her gloved fingers tapping idly against the hilt of a dagger at her hip.
She doesn't even see us.
The thought should have made him angry. Instead, it just made him feel small.
"Rest," Ingward grunted, standing. "Gate opens soon."
The kid didn't move.
His bread lay forgotten in his hands.
All he could see were her eyes, bright, fearless, alive.
And for the first time since he'd woken in chains, he felt something other than fear.
Something like hunger.