The quiet after a fight isn't the kind that lets you relax.
It's heavier. Denser. Like the whole world presses in, and every noise you don't hear only makes your skin crawl more. Your breathing sounds too loud. Your heartbeat thuds like hammers inside your ribs. Every muscle's telling you we're not done.
Liora and I didn't move for a while.
I still had the scythe in my hands, the curve of its blade catching the faint sickly light, its hum steady, like it was staying calm for me because I wasn't managing it on my own. She had her knives up, grip tight, shoulders squared, her breath an uneven rhythm I could almost sync mine to.
The shadows that had come for us were gone now—just melted back into the black. But the dark itself, the real dark? That never left. Not here. It felt alive—like the Tower itself had leaned down close to watch what I'd do next.
The floor looked like glass, pure black, and under that polished surface there were pale threads of light curling and veining like something that grew by itself. Every step we'd taken sent faint ripples through that glow, and I could swear it wasn't just light—it was tracking our movement, making sure each step was counted.
"Feels like they're watching us," Liora murmured, voice so low it didn't even echo.
"They are," I said. Didn't bother softening it.
We moved down a narrow stretch of corridor. The walls weren't solid stone anymore, more like warped mirrors. They took our shapes and twisted them—maybe just distortion, maybe something else.
That was when I noticed my own face staring back at me. But it wasn't the face I had now. It was thinner, jaw sharper, eyes carrying that distant, sunken look I remember from near the end of my first climb—when I'd already started thinking in terms of "how much longer until it's over" instead of "how do we win."
Liora's reflection… yeah, that was worse. Hers lagged just a heartbeat behind her real movements. And in its eyes? There was my shadow. The kind of detail you don't admit you recognize.
"Zane…" she said, slow, like she wasn't sure if saying my name would help or hurt right now.
"I see it," I answered. Keep it steady. No fear in the voice. Not for the Tower to hear.
Sometimes, knowing the trick doesn't mean you're safe from it. The Tower's games are meant to get in your head. That's the easiest way to win a fight—make the other side start doubting where they're standing.
Halfway down, the light beneath the floor flared brighter. The pale veins rushed forward like there was something ahead they wanted to reach badly. My chest tightened. I knew that signal. The Tower was changing something up.
"That can't be good," she muttered.
"No," I said. "It's not."
The scrape came then—louder this time. Long and slow, like something was being dragged across stone just far enough away to taunt you.
The air… you could feel it change. Still cold, but heavier, like everything was holding its breath because whatever came next was going to matter.
Then we saw it—the corridor didn't end with a wall, but with a jagged tear ripped into the floor. The edges broke like splintered glass, catching little sparks of reflected light that drifted upward, fading into nothing before they could reach us.
Something was moving below.
It came up slow, too slow to be afraid of us—like it was deciding if we were worth the effort. When it reached the surface, I saw those eyes. Like shards of glass frozen mid‑shatter. Its skin was laced with the same pale light the floor carried, like maybe it wasn't even separate from this place.
It spoke without moving its mouth—a voice in my head, colder than stone, older than bone.
"Two paths. One truth. Choose."
Liora stiffened at my side. "What the hell does that mean?"
I didn't answer her. Not because I didn't want to—but because I didn't want to give it anything more to work with.
The floor split wider. A fork. Two paths opened ahead. Both black. Both breathing. Both waiting.
I met Liora's eyes for a moment. "We choose."
She held my gaze and nodded once. "We choose right."
Right in the Tower isn't moral. It's not even safe. It's just the option you regret slower.
I moved first, stepping onto the left‑hand path. The glass gave ever so slightly under my boots, like the ribs of something alive flexing beneath me. She followed close.
The hum of the scythe changed in my grip. It wasn't warning me exactly. Just making sure I knew we were doing this together.
The new passage twisted until it spat us out into a bigger room. Same floor, same glow, but the veins weren't random anymore—they formed loops, spirals, linked patterns that itched at my memory without giving me the reason why.
The air in here… it was too still. The kind of still where you can feel eyes in your back even if you can't see them.
Breathing. Slow. Steady. Not ours.
The scythe shifted against my palm, whispering in a ragged, broken cadence only I could hear: One path leads them out. One path keeps them here.
I clenched my jaw and ignored it.
Then, from the far wall, something stepped out.
It was close to human, but wrong in ways you felt first and saw second. Arms too long. Head cocked too far to the side. A body learning human shapes and getting just enough wrong to make your spine itch. And those eyes—molten silver, staring into mine in a way that said it knew me.
"You're not the only one who came back," it said.
The voice was wrong for the mouth, but familiar in the beats between words.
My grip tightened on the scythe. "Then stop hiding."
The thing smiled—not happy, not friendly, just… knowing—and melted backward into the wall like smoke.
Gone.
What stayed wasn't relief. It was a tug in my gut. A pull toward something I already knew was trouble but would follow anyway.
Liora's hand found my shoulder. "Zane… you're drawing more eyes than just the Tower's. This is only the beginning."
She wasn't wrong. And somewhere, out there, Cassian's shadow was already moving closer. I could almost feel the shape of that old betrayal waiting for me like a knife behind my back.
We didn't speak much after that. No need. The Tower listens. In here, even silence can turn against you.
We just kept walking. Each step a choice. Each choice another line written in whatever story this place thinks it's telling.
And me?
I was just making sure it knew — this time, I'm the one writing the ending.