Even as the son of the richest man in Boston, I had rarely seen the inside of the Tower. On this occasion, I could only wish it were under better circumstances.

The foyer was a gigantic room, several stories high. The structure was smooth and seamless. Every part of it—from ceilings and walls to stairs, doors, and integrated furniture—appeared as one continuous mass. The material changed, but the joints didn’t seem to exist. Some sections appeared to be metal, other surfaces something like plastic. Everywhere there were lights and the humming of electric equipment. Beads of embedded lights traced the contours of the arches in the massive vaulted ceiling. Soft glowing panels served as the risers of the stairs.

And over it all were the marks of our culture. Paintings and tapestries lined the walls, showing scenes from the great days of our past. Scenes of Griidlords of old standing firm against the endless forces of Thrax Bonesaw, the greatest Warchief the Pittsburgh Hill Clans had ever known. A noble bust of Barrick Swordswong, the first Sword and founder of the city, the legend who had summoned the Tower long centuries ago. And more—hangings and framed paintings of legends I only knew from my books.

Opulence was the rule here.

An enormous chandelier hung from the ceiling, its crystal facets catching and refracting the light. Servants moved everywhere, bearing platters of food and drinks. They weaved between dozens of clusters of figures—lords, nobles, foreign merchants, ambassadors. These were the men and women who used the Tower. It could have housed a hospital; the Tower never exhausted its internal Order, allowing all tech, even of the greatest levels, to function here at all times. But instead, the space was used to impress, to pamper, to soothe.

Business was being conducted in every corner.

I followed Baltazar, my head hanging low. Dread weighed on me. It was eased none by the fact that Baltazar himself seemed to exude a strain. He was worried. It was nearly impossible to detect, but those steely eyes were troubled if you looked closely.

I felt scolded and afraid. There was a dread of his rebuke as much as what the priests could do to me. He had defended me, yes. But our destinies were bound together. He had to defend me. I feared what his wrath might be like when he had a chance to express it—the harm I had done with my urge to take first place.

The feeling of dread, of awaiting judgment, stirred something in me. I had never felt like this with Father. When I disappointed him, I simply ceased to exist in his eyes—my punishment for failures and unwanted behavior had been the withdrawal of anything resembling a father’s love.

But older memories surfaced too, memories that felt more like this sensation of dread. Waiting in our kitchen, that small cluttered little space, never entirely clean. My head leaning against the rough-hewn, rickety kitchen table. Why was I there? What was I dreading?

I had stolen something from a neighbor on the other side of the village. Yes, I had taken apples from the old woman’s tree. And it had disgraced Mother.

The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

That was the same feeling as this one—the dread, the expectation of an unknown wrath. It was Mother who could visit such fear on me...

Such memories came and went for me. Ever since I had been sick, it had been hard to hold on to memories of Mother, good or bad...

I followed Balthazar up a flight of stairs and along a wide hallway. Doors hissed open as he approached, and he swept in with the kind of forceful energy that characterized him. The two descriptors might seem at odds—stoic, stern, impassive—but he was undeniably a being of constant, forceful motion.

I trailed behind him into the council room, another space of utter splendor. Art lined the walls, statues and busts filled every available space. The room itself was filled with aisles of tiered seats rising up and away from something not far from a throne—the seat of the Lord Supreme. It was from here that the city was ruled, wars launched, and treaties made.

Balthazar spoke suddenly, his voice low, simmering with barely contained anger. "Wait here. I’ll settle this matter. There’s no session today; you won’t be disturbed."

I opened my mouth to respond, but he was already gone, his footsteps pounding the floor as he swept through the hissing doors, his robes billowing behind him. I was left alone with nothing but my thoughts and the fading echo of his footsteps.

Victory had felt so sweet in the moment. Surging forward with Footfield, not for any grand reason but simply to establish my dominance, to win for the sake of winning—that’s what I had craved. But now, standing alone in this grand hall, it didn’t feel worth it.

What if I had thrown away my chance for nothing more than a fleeting moment of glory? The thought of Lauren and Katya seeing me as a failure gnawed at me. Worse still was the thought of Lance's smug satisfaction or my father’s disappointed face. It churned in my gut, making me feel sick.

As I stood there, staring blankly at the wall of tapestries, something truly unsettling happened. It sent me back to a place where I questioned my own sanity. The voice. As clear as a rooster's cry, yet low and conspiratorial, it filled my ears: "Did you do it? Did you demand the Oracle be consulted?"

I didn’t respond. I spun around, searching for the source of the voice. This wasn’t possible. The voice was part of the suit—it only spoke to me when I was in it. But I wasn’t in the suit now. It was just my flesh-and-blood ears, or maybe my flesh-and-blood mind, conjuring this.

The voice came again, more urgent this time: "Now’s not the time for silliness, Tiberius. Answer me. Have you discussed consulting the Oracle yet?"

I stammered out loud, but quietly, "No, I... I don’t know what that means..."

The voice grew annoyed. "They can’t refuse you—not when the decision will be so hotly contested, not when it has the power to set precedent."

"What are you talking about? How am I hearing you?" I gasped, feeling increasingly panicked, as though I were talking to an imaginary friend.

The voice ignored my question. "Ejecting a contestant without violating the explicit rules has essentially never happened, barring some gray areas. That will be Balthazar's argument. But if they don’t move—if he can’t get them to budge—a stalemate is the most likely outcome. And if they don’t suggest it, you have to."

"Suggest what?" I asked, now genuinely freaking out.

"Suggest the Oracle be consulted. They’re so slow to do it, to trouble that most splendid of entities," the voice mocked, "but they won’t be able to refuse. Not when they may be violating something as sacred as the Choosing."

Just then, the doors opened, and an attendant walked in. Startled and panicked, I spun around, feeling embarrassed and guilty. The attendant gave no indication that he had heard me talking to an invisible presence, and I realized the voice was gone again.