"W-what do you mean, floor eighty-nine…"
Kael's voice came out thinner than he wanted. The words had weight, the kind that didn't belong in a cramped forge full of soot and rust. Floor eighty-nine didn't sound like a number; it sounded like a place you weren't meant to reach.
His nose still stung from the earlier pressure, dried blood crusting somewhere inside, and his muscles carried a deep tremor like they hadn't agreed yet that the danger had passed.
Andre sat heavily on the edge of his bed, bottle in hand, like it was the only stable thing in the room. He didn't look surprised by Kael's disbelief. If anything, he looked tired of explaining reality to people who still thought the tower played fair.
"Ye heard right, lad. That man's strong… no, strong ain't near enough. Every guild and clan wants him. He wants none o' them."
