The tower breathed.
Each inhalation pulled in light from the void outside, drawing threads of energy through the open gate Arin had crossed. Every exhalation pushed those threads through the walls, weaving patterns that pulsed like veins beneath polished steel.
It was beautiful and unnatural all at once—a living cathedral built from code and will.
Arin's boots echoed as he stepped across the circular platform. The air was colder here, heavy with static. Every few seconds the white flame of the central forge flared, and in its glow he caught glimpses of movement along the walls—shadows that didn't belong to either of them.
Tera hovered close, scanning. "Signal density: extreme. We've entered the tower's core framework. This is where her new laws are being written."
"Feels more like walking through her mind than her base," Arin murmured.
"That's not far from the truth."
The forge at the chamber's center roared suddenly, as if hearing them. White flame spiraled upward, splitting into nine strands that curved across the ceiling before fading. Each strand left a glowing rune behind, one for every level of the tower.
"The floors are separate planes," Tera said quietly. "Each one an idea. A test."
"Of what?"
"Of you. Of her. Of everything she believes creation should be."
Arin moved closer to the forge. Its light was almost too bright to look at directly, yet he couldn't turn away. The surface rippled, and for a heartbeat, he saw his reflection—not as he was, but as he might have been. Taller. Stronger. Perfect. The kind of version Seren might have approved of.
He swallowed. "So that's what she wants to build."
"Perfection," Tera said. "Without the human pieces that crack."
"Then we're walking through a nightmare she calls mercy."
He reached out, letting his fingertips brush the edge of the forge's light. The moment he made contact, the entire floor responded. The walls shifted, plates sliding and folding like clockwork. A deep tone filled the air—a chord that vibrated straight into bone.
[Architect's Trial — First Floor: The Design of Self]
[Objective: Prove the stability of your pattern.]
The ground broke apart.
Pieces of the platform rose into the air, rotating around him in a slow orbit. The forge's flame dimmed, and in its place stood a humanoid shape forming from light and dust.
It was him.
Not the Arin that stood there now—the one built from scars and stubbornness—but the pristine version he had glimpsed in the reflection. Its armor gleamed white-gold, unblemished. Its eyes burned with pure, cold resolve.
The copy smiled, though the expression didn't reach its eyes.
"I am what you were meant to be."
Arin's mouth went dry. "Seren's idea of a joke?"
Tera's tone held unease. "It's a mirror construct, using your combat patterns. Be careful—this one won't hesitate."
The copy drew its weapon, identical to his own, but the flame along its blade was white instead of blue. The moment it moved, the world blurred. Steel met steel, light clashed with light, and the first shockwave shattered half the floating debris around them.
Arin blocked the next strike and slid back across the fragmented floor. The impact felt heavier than any normal hit—the construct's precision was absolute. Every move was efficient, clean, merciless.
"Of course she built this version," he grunted. "No mistakes."
"Perfection has no rhythm," Tera said. "Use that."
He forced a breath through his teeth and steadied his stance. The construct lunged again, blade cutting through air like a scalpel. Arin didn't parry this time. Instead, he twisted off-beat, letting the attack pass and slamming his hammer into the side at an awkward angle. Sparks erupted.
For the first time, the copy stumbled.
"Found it," he said.
He pressed the attack, breaking tempo deliberately—sometimes overcommitting, sometimes holding back, never letting the rhythm stabilize. The construct's precision faltered; its code couldn't predict chaos. Each mismatch of timing introduced error into its calculations. By the fifth clash, its movements had lost symmetry. By the tenth, its strikes were sloppy.
Arin ducked under a desperate swing, pivoted, and drove his blade upward through the mirror's chest.
Light burst outward in a scream that wasn't quite human.
When the brightness faded, the perfect Arin was gone. All that remained was a cluster of runes hanging in the air, flickering uncertainly before settling into a glowing sigil that drifted down to his hand.
[Trial Complete — Pattern Stable.]
[Reward: Blueprint Fragment — "Echo of Imperfection."]
The forge reignited, gentler now, its white fire dimming to gold. Across the floor, the fractures sealed, and the platform descended slightly, locking back into place.
Arin stared at the sigil resting in his palm. It pulsed faintly, not in steady beats but uneven ones—like a heart.
Tera floated closer. "You broke her equation."
"No," he said softly. "I reminded it how to breathe."
He tucked the sigil away and looked toward the staircase forming on the far side of the chamber. It rose slowly from the floor, each step igniting as it appeared, leading upward into shadow.
Another layer of the tower awaited.
Before moving, he turned back toward the forge. The flames shifted again, and this time they spoke—not with words, but with memory. A whisper threaded through the air, quiet as thought.
"You always said flaws make things beautiful. But beauty doesn't survive long, brother. It burns, and then it's gone."
Seren's voice. Soft. Regretful. Close enough to touch.
Arin froze. "Seren?"
Tera's sensors flared. "It's not a live feed. This is an echo recorded into the tower's framework."
He clenched his fists. "She's leaving breadcrumbs."
"Or warnings."
He looked up the stairs. "Either way, I'm following."
They climbed together. The air grew thinner as they ascended, the hum of the forge fading behind them. The stairs seemed endless, yet time lost meaning inside the tower. Light and shadow blended, forming shifting corridors of code that changed shape as they passed.
Halfway up, Tera spoke again. "Arin, I've been analyzing the energy pattern. Each floor isn't isolated—it's rewriting parts of you."
He stopped. "Rewriting?"
"Not your body. Your connection to the forge. With each test, it's syncing deeper into your neural imprint."
He gave a dry laugh. "So every step makes me less human."
"Or more," she said gently. "Depends on which side of the forge you stand."
They reached the next landing. Before them stretched a vast door made of translucent glass, etched with patterns resembling veins and circuits combined. Behind it glowed a faint light, rhythmic and alive.
"The second floor," Arin murmured.
Tera scanned it. "Designation: The Design of Others."
He frowned. "First floor was about self. Now this one's about…"
"Connection," she finished.
The door pulsed once, acknowledging their presence. But before opening, it projected an image across the surface—a memory drawn from Arin's own data. It showed a workshop filled with firelight and metal dust. Seren was there, younger, laughing, hammering beside him.
For a moment, time reversed. The tower, the forge, the war between them—all of it vanished. It was just two siblings building something beautiful.
Then the memory glitched. Seren looked up, her smile breaking apart into static.
"You never finished this one," her voice said, distorted. "Maybe you didn't want to."
The memory shattered, leaving only the door.
Arin pressed a hand against the glass. "I'll finish it now."
The door opened, releasing a wave of light that swallowed them both.
Inside, faint music drifted through the air—notes of metal striking metal, gentle and rhythmic, the same way it had sounded years ago when Seren still smiled. But beneath it lay another sound, low and distant: the quiet crackle of something burning out.
Tera whispered, "She's waiting."
Arin stepped into the light. "Then let's see what my sister's perfect world looks like."
The door closed behind them, sealing the floor below.
And the tower sang again.