Chapter 11: The Only Path Left
The new law held, but it was a fragile peace, stretched taut over a foundation of resentment and fear. The "workers" scoured the ruins, returning with pathetic handfuls of pale, edible fungus and armfuls of brittle wood. The fighters patrolled with a new, grim vigilance, their eyes as often on the sullen non-combatants as on the shadowy alleys for monsters.
The hunger was a ghost that walked among them all now, a constant, grinding ache in their bellies. The water sustained their lives, but it only highlighted the emptiness. The initial shock of their imprisonment had worn off, replaced by the dull, terrifying reality of a slow, wasting death.
It was Kaelen, the Forsaken, who finally forced the issue. He appeared at the edge of the plaza one evening, not slinking from the shadows, but walking into the center of their camp with a contemptuous disregard for their sentries.
"Enjoying your retirement?" he rasped, his voice like grinding stone. His eyes swept over their meager stockpiles of fungus and the hollow faces of the survivors.
Borin stepped forward, his hand on his sword. "What do you want?"
"The same thing you should want," Kaelen shot back. "To see if this batch has any teeth. You're rotting here. The city is a sieve. The Tides will keep coming, and each one will be worse than the last. You're huddling in the foyer of a tomb, arguing over the dust."
He pointed a gaunt, scarred finger toward the Spire, its peak now perpetually wreathed in angry, rust-colored clouds. "Your salvation isn't here. It's there. Every day you wait, you get weaker. Every day you wait, the Architect's welcome gift wears off, and the world remembers you're here. The Corrupted will learn your patterns. They will find new ways in."
A young man from the workers' group shouted, his voice cracking with fear and anger. "It's suicide! We have no food, our gear is broken! We can't just walk in there!"
Kaelen's laugh was a short, ugly bark. "You think the Spire cares? It is a test. It does not adjust its difficulty for the unprepared. You are all unprepared. The only choice is to die slowly here, picked apart by Tides and your own kind," his gaze swept over the tense faces of the fighters and the cowering workers, "or to die quickly in the Spire, trying. Some of you might even live."
He looked directly at Ryley. "The smart ones understand. The longer you wait, the heavier your chains become."
With that, he turned and walked away, leaving a silence more profound than any riot.
His words had the effect of a cold blade, cutting through the delusion they had all been clinging to. There was no future in the Sanctum. It was not a base; it was a waiting room.
That night, a council was formed by necessity. Borin, Elara, Gregor (now nursing a deep-seated hatred for the outer ring), and, by unspoken demand, Ryley.
"We can't stay," Borin stated, the words final. It was no longer a debate.
"We're not strong enough," Gregor argued, though his voice lacked its usual bluster. "We need to find a food source, proper weapons..."
"And how long will that take?" Elara interjected, her voice thin but firm. "Another week? We'll be too weak from hunger to walk, let alone fight. Kaelen is right. We are waiting to die."
All eyes turned to Ryley. He had become the strategist, the cold voice of reason.
"He's right," Ryley said, his tone flat. "The city is a resource sink. It gives us water, but it takes everything else. The Spire is the only resource that matters. It's the objective. Every floor we clear is a new territory, a new chance for loot, for a chest with food, for a Relic that might change the game." He used the old term unconsciously. "Staying here is a guaranteed loss. Climbing is a gamble. I'll take the gamble."
The decision was made. They would enter the Spire at first light.
A grim energy settled over the camp. There was no more infighting. The shared, terrifying purpose united them in a way safety never could. Weapons were sharpened on stones. The last of the clean water was distributed. The workers, now with a desperate purpose, fashioned crude packs and bindings for their pathetic supplies.
As the false dawn tinged the sky, the survivors—now an expedition of just over sixty souls—stood before the base of the Spire. It was even more massive up close, a wall of black, seamless stone that seemed to absorb the light. There were no visible seams, no doors. Just a vast, smooth surface.
Then, as if sensing their resolve, the stone shimmered. A section of the wall dissolved inwards, revealing a dark, yawning archway. From within, a cold, dry wind blew, carrying the faint, metallic scent of old blood and ozone.
The entrance to the first Trial Floor was open.
Borin hefted his shield, his face set in stone. Elara whispered a quiet prayer. Gregor clenched his axe, his knuckles white.
Ryley felt the cold weight of the silver ring in his pocket. This was it. The end of the prologue.
"Stay sharp," Borin growled to the group, his voice echoing in the unnatural silence. "Watch your flanks."
He took the first step across the threshold. Ryley was right behind him, his own sword held ready. He didn't look back at the dying city. There was nothing for him there anymore.
The climb for the Sovereign of Rust had begun.