Quincy Jones paced in his room in the Association inn. Around him, his gear set on tables, dressers and the floor. They were in fine condition—He wouldn’t have them any other way, but the prior night had left him in a fit of anger, dare he say rage.

It had left him in such a poor mood that he just flung his equipment off, uncaring of if it was properly stored. That idiot of a team sergeant, Frankly Weste, was without a doubt going to get himself and his team killed. And worse still, leaving wasn't in the cards for the young adventurer.

He was bound to the Red Cross Guild just as much as anyone.

And yet, Frankly was acting as if he were the king of the world, care-free and invincible. Or, perhaps, he was simply acting like a child to a royal degree. If the stories of the young future leaders of the nation were to be believed, then Quincy might actually be fooled that he was some lost, or more likely, disowned relative of some important family.

That night, Quincy, Frankly, and the third member of the team, Charli, came back from an incredibly lucrative expedition in the tower. They had made it all the way up to the 10nth floor before deciding, or in truth, being forced to return.

Frankly had almost instantly suggested indulging in a night of comfort—which Qunicy didn’t find issue with, initially. But one must understand something fundamental with the team Sergeant; he didn’t understand restraint. Or maybe it was more accurate to say that he didn’t know it existed.

Whether he was of a higher class or not, the man had obviously never been told off, had never been given a bruised cheek. He believed that he was truly entitled to everything around him, and he cared little for what others thought. That is to say until others tried to disrupt his activities.

Such a thing had happened that night.

Quincy knew he should have seen it coming. He certainly knew that Charli wouldn't have stopped him. The man was more a loyal dog than a competent teammate. He always fed into the Sergeants indulgent behavior.

That included his drinking. That was the worst of Frankly’s habits. It had gotten him into trouble more than once, but never quite to the extent that it had that night.

It started out normally. THey downed drinks at the pace most adventurers did. A trade habit. But with enough drink in his stomach to make a cow faint, Frankly had, quite inevitably, offended the wrong man.

Though, offended might not be the correct word. Half killed is closer to the truth.

It was unfortunate then that that man had been someone of notable influence, and that more of his men had been at the Inn’s bar than the team of three could ever hope to handle.

Quincy had wisely chosen to make himself scarce, unlike Charli. The two men were beaten, disgraced, and then thrown out in quick order. Quincy would have enjoyed it if not for what he knew would come the day after. But drink had made things even worse. He had shockingly begun to make his way to the tower shining in the pale moonlight.

Quincy had tried to stop him, but even if the man would never admit it, Frankly Weste was strong, stronger than Quincy even in his drunken stupor. They had scuffled, Quincy’s words falling upon deaf ears, or rather deceitful ears as his reasonable pleas had simply angered the man. At the time, Quincy had let his own flaring emotions get the better of him, and he had stomped off to his room. He hoped it was due to his own clouded mind that he had done something so incredibly stupid.

Night was still lingering when Quincy rose from his bed after falling asleep instantly, his clothes in the state they were currently in. Panic soon followed as he went to his companions' rooms, only finding Charli, bruised and in much deserved pain, laying on his bed. Frankly was still gone.

A small part of him gave good riddance to the man. He had only ever made Quincy’s life more difficult, but another part of him, a more logic-based part, told him how very bad it was that he was still missing. He went out, hoping helplessly that Frankly had only wandered around the tower, and still somehow had the sense to avoid it’s entrances. Rumors and witnesses dashed those hopes.

He made his way back to his room and began to start pacing. One one hand, Frankly Weste was a strong adventurer—even if he lacked finesse. So there was a considerable chance that he would be fine. Maybe perplexed, frightened, and angry, but still alive. On the other hand, there was an uncomfortably real possibility that Frankly was either dead, or in serious danger.

That was where Quincy was at. Torn between letting Frankly die, or letting his body be found by someone, or helping him and in turn, saving his own hide. He hated the latter option, but feared the former.

Signing, he gathered his gear.

Charli would be of no help to him in her current state, and really, in any state. The man was a mouth with legs and arms, And Quincy doubted he had time to find someone willing to help.

Standing at the tower's glowing entrance, Quincy considered his options once more. His heart raced; too many things were happening to him at once, and the thin line that allowed him to continue his life as an adventurer was growing harder to see against the ominous darkness by the minute. He absently wondered how common a feeling that was amongst those of his profession.

Shaking his head clear of doubt, or rather, putting them to the side, he stepped through and into the tower's elevator.

Quincy’s magic was a stealth specialized version of wind. Of his three spells, two were focused on quitting his presence. His first allowed him to form quick pockets of air around under his hands and feet, letting him travers even the most treacherous land without as much as the thump of a boot upon grass.

His second was less focused specifically on stealth, and rather was one that Quincy had learned to utilize for the task. In short, he used the spell to subtly influence the air around him and deaden the sounds he made. A sneeze would sound like a muffled sniffle, and the unsheathing of a sword would be like a knife through butter; impossible to hear.

He used both of these spells in full to make his way up the tower, avoiding monsters as much as possible. A ringlet around his neck guided his steps, hinting at the location of his teammate. Most teams had such an item. It basically binded a person's magic to it, allowing any who had other items attuned to the same magic to track them. It might be dangerous if they got into the hands of possible enemies, but the risk was worth the reward.

It was only on the fifth floor that Quincy’s rapid advance suddenly stopped. There were two reasons, and he suspected one was the result of the other.

Adventurers were all able to feel magic. Some were more naturally attuned to it, and others had spells and catered to it, usually in the form of detection types. When it came to adventurers sensing each other, there were nuances to be navigated. One could learn to alter what others could feel about them from their type of magic, to their mood. But magic formed and controlled through nature wasn't able to conceal itself.

Because of this, when drastic changes happened throughout the world, it hammered the sense of adventurers like a hammer to an egg. That very thing was happening to Quincy, and it was why, currently, he couldn’t move.

The other thing that had stopped him was his ringlet around his neck. It was telling him that Frankly was close.

Struggling against the feeling of dread surging from the walls of the tower, moved forward. Quincy was acutely aware of everything going on around him, and he had to summon every ounce of courage to stop himself from running away.

Surge’s, unlike waves, were normally tower-only event’s. They were terrifying for any one were inside the bulbous structure, but it was unlikely that, even with the huge increase in monsters, any of them would threaten those on the outside. But Quincy was inside the tower…he had never experienced a surge, and he greatly wished that he didn’t need to.

The ringlet began to grow faintly warm around his neck, pulling ever-so-slightly in the direction of the Sergeant. Quincy quickly noticed that the monsters were growing agitated. They lashed out at each other, killing and maiming their fellows. But new ones replaced them at unnatural speeds.

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Eventually, he found Frankly. He was leaning against a large boulder in an open room of the tower's winding tunnels. Blood seeped through his clothes into his eyes. He was still awake, and apparently dreadfully sober as he looked at Quincy. He wore an uncharacteristic expression. It wasn’t exactly fear, for he had seen that many times on Frankly’s face. It was…acceptance?

Quincy kneeled beside the man, a hand on the ravished wound. Frankly didn’t say anything, but grunts and groans of pain freely came from the man as Quincy lofted him up, putting Frankly’s arm over his shoulder. Quincy tried to coxs the man to walk at something other than a carefree slog, but it was no use. Frankly was too injured, and the surge was coming on too fast. He needed to find somewhere safe; a hard thing inside a tower.

Quincy laid his leader down on a patch of rather uncomfortable looking vines. The man protested, but nonetheless accepted the rough tangle of plant matter. It was better than the stone. Quincy’s nerves threatened to break with every sound from outside of the small crevice he had found. The tower was practically vibrating with activity now, and more than once he felt incredible magic spells being used.

He played with the thought of trying to find help inside the tower, but he couldn’t bring himself to take such a risk. Not with an injured man—he made sure to keep any thoughts of leaving Frankly behind in the far reaches of his mind. He wasn’t cold-hearted.

But eventually, he was forced to act when the crevice around them started to crumble. Quincy barely got Frankly out, the space almost crushing the legs of the man. Then they had been forced to run. Quincy didn’t waste time conserving energy, and instead flung the man over his shoulder. The sack of a man tried, and failed, to forcefully remove himself from his shameful perch, but Quincy quickly stopped that with a finger to one of Frankly’s less life-threatening injuries.

Perhaps not the most pleasant of methodes, but in the situation, he thought it prudent.

Quincy had thought, rather foolishly, that they had made their escape when he reached the second floor. He had thought the surge would have less of an effect down there, that he would finally be able to rest. But the wall of monsters humbled him.

He laughed when he saw it; an undulating mass of flesh. Fey of all three levels, some fighting, others simply howling in a magic induced rage. But it only took a few to see Quincy for the rest to quiet. They had all looked at him, at the man hanging from his shoulder. They sensed the dread, the magic, the death.

Quincy was forced to drop the man to the ground and pull his bow from his shoulder. He formed magic arrow after arrow as he fired into the crowd of creatures, but they kept running. Quincy roared with all he had in defiance of his end. But it never came, because the monsters never reached him.

Tay was not in the tower. At least his mind wasn’t. His mind was far outside. Farther than the city walls, farther than the great mountains. Farther than anyone in this world could go. It was a place only for him. A place where only he could be tormented; his own mind. Why his body had gone to the tower was beyond him. It would be too sad to admit that that was the only place he felt comfortable at.

His mind forced him to watch replays of what had happened. He saw it in every variation and angle. It made him consider everything. He knew Henry only had one purpose for him; his power. And he was fine with that because Henry Carval was his path to revenge, even if Tay eventually had to take matters into his own hands. But the possibility that Alexander and the rest of the Phantoms were using him was an unpleasantly realistic thought.

He believed that they were truly considering being his friends, and although now he could see how naive that was, at the time it had seemed perfectly sensible. It wasn’t possible that another group of people would betray him…right?

Wrong.

But at the same time, how was he to believe Henry? How was he to know that the Captain of the Red Cross Guild wasn’t feeding him lies about Harrow? Perhaps the man who he had thought was the cause of his life-long struggle wasn’t he he thought he was.

That made him sick, but as his mind wasn’t with his body, he didn’t evacuate his stomach.

All the time Tay was unaware of what he was doing, Orby had been trying to rouse him, but being so far away, Tay couldn’t see him. Orby was just a blob of warmth that kept Tay from drifting a little too far. His body had walked him right into the glowing entrance of the tower, and into the hell that was waiting.

He was knocked to the ground as a short creature swiped it’s close through the air where Tay had been standing. Tay rolled to the side, rubbing his chest where Orby had slammed into him. Tay Shook his head, trying to gain some semblance of awareness, but it was all so slow.

He rolled again as the Fey tried to lash at him with its claws. He managed to evade it and made the monster trip over itself, smacking its head against the stone beneath them. Tay slowly realized that he wasn’t alone.

All around him monsters fought and cried in horrible shrieks. Some went after the young adventurer, but they were quickly killed. Tay tried to keep himself out of sight, but Fey didn’t use eyes to see. He weaved and slashed through monsters that attacked him, trying to get back to the elevator. But there were too many.

What had he gotten himself into?

Then he stood still. Orby was floating in front of him, more still than he had even seen it. And he got the odd feeling that it was staring at him. Then something came through their connection. A name;

Al-Hadun.

It was loud, almost deafening inside his mind as it echoed. It came again and again, beating him to the ground. A place! He saw land like an image being burned into his mind’s eye. It hurt, and felt like someone was trying to put an octagon inside a rectangular slit. It shouldn’t have been able to happen, but the reverberating word didn’t care.

Then Orby disappeared into Tay. And pain overcame him. It was unlike anything he had ever experienced. It felt as if every limb of his body was aflame. LIke his very blood had been replaced with boiling water, and his head with molten metal. His eyes swam with impossible things that burned at them.

He struggled on the ground, his body snapping in odd ways. He tried to do something, anything that would stop the pain, but nothing helped. Nothing he could do, nothing he could cause himself could distract him. He simply suffered for what felt like days.

And then it stopped.

He sat up, looking at his shaking hands; They were ablaze. Fire swirled in the shape of an arm up to his elbow where skin returned. The flames were unsteady, but somehow tangible. His legs were in a similar state. Slowly, unsteadily, he stood. He looked around and saw that there were no monsters. Only piles of ash. He looked down at his hands again and slowly smiled, all thought of escaping gone.

Step after step, he gained balance with his limbs. He played with the fire of his arms, seeing that they answered his every wish. Soon he was running. He paid no heed to the cave walls around him and how they cracked from heat. He didn’t notice how black footprints were left behind him, permanently imprinting into the stone.

All Tay could think about now was this power. He was invincible. He felt as if he could kill a level 3 Fey with the simplest of movements. Perhaps even with the snap of his fingers. He giggled. It sounded odd, even to his ears. It was almost like it wasn’t his own voice. But he didn’t care as his laughter rang out through the tower. He was happy.

He eviscerated monsters as they appeared, finding it so easy. Fire would engulf them, or even crush them, and he would have only waved his hand. Some simply combusted at a glance from him. Others tried to run, but they didn’t make it far.

Of all the things he didn’t pay attention to, the feeling of dread being projected by the source of that power was foremost, and he only ever did notice because the pain was returning. He stood in the middle of a long tunnel, its ceiling high and its wall wide.

He stood, shaking, his eyes glaring at the piles of dust and charred corpses. “No…” He Said, his breath quick, the heat bruning at his lungs. “It’s not enough.” His voice was low, almost pleading. “It’s not enough!” The cave trembled.

Then he saw two figures. He raised his hand, ready to kill them when he stopped. They were human. He stepped closer, trying to see their faces. “Quincy?” He said weakly. The man looked up at him, and then at the field of dead Fey in shock. “Tay Mallor?” Tay nodded.

“What has happened to you?” He asked as he squinted. Tay shook his head, a dry smile crossing his face. “Power…” He said simply. Quincy nodded slowly, as if he were begrudgingly agreeing with him. Then his head twitched to the side, looking carefully into the now brightly illuminated tunnel.

“We need to go.” He said hurriedly. Tay looked disgusted. “I do not need to run!” He proclaimed vehemently. Quincy nodded frightfully. “Sure…but you don’t look so good.” He gestured to Tay’s hand. The young adventurer looked down and saw that the flames of his arms were almost nothing more than a sputter against the blackened state of his skin. What do you know, he's right… He thought distantly. Why didn’t he realize that?

He looked up, seeing the monster charging at him, and feeling many more coming. Then a dreadful thought overcame him; this power was only temporary! What had Orby done to give it to him?

“Tay!” Yelled Quincy. The man was staring at him expectantly. Tay looked down at him suddenly, as if he had forgotten he was there. “Right…Right!” He looked around, seeing nowhere to go. Then he got it. Forcing the flames on his left arm away, he picked up the man who suddenly gained an extra person's worth of weight. Tay glanced down as saw Frankly Weste being held by his shirt, his legs dragging on the ground as Quincy laid over Tay's shoulder.

Tay dismissed any ill feeling towards the man and started running. Quincy began to yell as they charged, headfirst, into a wall. But they never collide with it. Instead, it exploded and revealed the open, early morning sky.

They were two stories high into the air. Quincy screamed with terror, and the man he held onto with all his strength followed. He let go of the men, knowing they would be fine falling that far as adventurers, and he turned back to the hole he had created. Only then did he realize he was flying.

Beneath him, two plumes of impossibly angry fire raged beneath him, somehow keeping him in the air. He certainly didn’t question it. Seeing the monsters charging at him, and the vision of what would happen if they got out, he focused every iota of power he could spare into his right hand. With a shriek, an ember of fire formed on his hand. It vibrated madly, like it was a caged beast that wanted to kill. Tay had no desire to keep it caged.

And for a minute straight, a beam of white hot fire shot into the hole. It just missed the edge, and that allowed the tower to heal. Not a single monster escaped while Tay watched until the hole was completely sealed. Then, he fell. His power gone.