The elevator chains finally stopped screaming. With a jolt, the iron box steadied, and the doors dragged open. A colder draft slipped inside, carrying the faint buzz of electricity.
Drake gestured with a lazy hand. "Welcome to Floor One. Don't forget to smile. This is where the real audience starts watching."
We stepped out into light—too much of it. Rows of glowing panels lined the walls, humming softly. Crystals pulsed inside their frames, throwing faint reflections across the stone. At first, I thought they were lanterns. Then I realized they were eyes.
Cameras.
Each one tilted as we walked past, tracking movement with sharp little clicks. Drake had warned us back in the elevator: the sublevels were for the slavers, the blood pits, the betting hands. Floor One and above? Those belonged to the Tower's other audience. Rich men in private booths, brokers in their gilded seats, and who knew how many watching from the sprawl of the Lawless City.
"They see everything," Drake said, lips curving into a smirk. "Every twitch, every stumble. You fight for your life here, but you also fight for entertainment. Keep them hooked. Bored fighters don't last long."
The corridor spilled us into a new kind of arena—round, caged, cleaner than the mud pits below. Lights hung in a ring overhead, bright enough to make the sand floor glow pale. Metal screens dangled above, flickering with grainy images of us entering. My own face stared back at me from a dozen angles. Kai's too—his expression blank, eyes distant.
"Before I head up to the spectators' booth, I should warn you," Drake said, his tone annoyingly chipper. "Sometimes you'll fight slaves, sometimes seasoned warriors. No telling until the gates open. Anyway—toodles." He gave a mock bow as his bodyguard only shrugged.
The gates creaked, and we stepped out onto the sand. Matt walked like he owned the ground, and something about that steadiness made me feel steadier, too.
Our opponent stood waiting already—a lone man. No weapon in his hands, no armor, just a cloak that shimmered oddly, bending the light. It wasn't fabric. It was alive. His spirit guardian draped across his shoulders, moving faintly like smoke.
"I've no need to climb further," he said calmly, his voice carrying in the hushed arena. "This floor is enough for me." He lifted his chin, eyes sharp. "Which makes me your wall."
The bell rang.
He came at us barehanded, cloak flaring, and it was like fighting shadow itself. Every strike bent away, every blade slipped. Matt lunged, but his chain-skills barely slowed the man before the cloak twisted, hurling him back. My knife barely grazed flesh before the guardian swept around, nearly crushing my ribs.
We fought, desperate, pushing every step, but the truth was clear: he was toying with us. At one point, Matt was on his back, chest heaving, my arm numb from a block that almost shattered it.
Then the man halted, cloak settling. He looked at us, unreadable, and gave a small nod. "Good enough. You may proceed."
The crowd roared as though he'd won anyway. The gates opened behind him, and we stumbled through, shaken but alive.
---
The next chamber stunned me. White stone walls, polished floor, not a speck of blood. The air smelled faintly of lavender. Beds lined the walls, fresh linens. A pitcher of water sat on a carved table.
"Cleaners must work here," I muttered. It was too pristine to belong in this tower.
Matt and I dropped onto the beds, breathing hard, waiting. Minutes later, Drake strolled in with a grin stretching ear to ear. "Well, look at you two. Survived the Cloaked One, did you? Very good. Floor One can be brutal."
He poured himself a drink from the pitcher, as though it were his own room. "You know," he said casually, "Azura Tower has its own mail service. Black mailboxes scattered across the Zones. Drop a letter in, and it goes straight to Sublevel Four—the Mail Floor. From there, it's sorted and delivered right to your room."
Matt frowned. "Mail? Here?"
"Oh yes," Drake said, waving a hand. "Fan letters, packages, even weapons—though those need to be processed at one of the Azura Centers before they'll be allowed through. Rules, you understand."
Kai and I exchanged a look. This was nothing we'd ever heard of. The Lawless City was savage, untamed—but here they'd mastered something even the Concord couldn't. A stable, direct system.
"Think about it," Drake said, leaning against the wall with that smug ease. "Rift travel, messaging, commerce… The Tower may look like a tomb, but in truth? It's the freest city in the world."
We sat there, still catching our breath, reeling from more than just the fight.
The Tower wasn't just survival. It was a world of its own.
When the Cloaked One let us pass, I thought the worst of Floor One was over. I was wrong.
Inside the pristine chamber, Drake didn't just hand us water and food—he handed us thin black cards. They pulsed faintly with a crimson glow, like embers trapped under glass. The weight of them was strange, heavier than paper but lighter than metal.
"Congratulations," Drake said, lips curling into that ever-present grin. "You've officially been registered. Your Azura Cards. Proof that you've survived your first floor."
I turned mine over. Numbers flickered faintly across the surface, then solidified: Floor 1 / 350.
Three hundred and fifty.
I let out a slow breath, thumb running over the glowing edge. We had barely—barely—crawled through the first floor alive. That maniac had broken us in half with nothing but a spirit guardian and his hands. If he'd wanted, he could've left our corpses cooling in the sand. And that was only the beginning.
Kai studied his card in silence, his expression unreadable as always. The glow reflected in his eyes, but he didn't say a word. He didn't have to. I could feel what he was thinking, because it was the same thought gnawing at my chest: If Floor One nearly killed us, what the hell waits at Floor Fifty? Or Two Hundred? Or—Azura's grave—Two Hundred and Forty-Five?
Drake clapped his hands together, breaking the silence. "Each card tracks your progress, your odds, your reputation. Patrons love them. Collectors too. Lose the card, and you're done—no proof, no recognition, no climb."
I tucked mine into my belt, swallowing hard. The number glared at me from memory: 1 / 350.
Kai finally spoke, his voice flat. "That guy… wasn't a floor. He was a monster."
I nodded. "A maniac. And we only just passed him."
Drake laughed softly, shaking his head. "That's the Tower, boys. It always greets you with teeth."