“That is the last of them,” Alarion said as he withdrew his greatsword from the head of the downed Steelborn, smiling thinly at the notifications in his peripheral and the feeling of euphoria that pulsed through him. “At least, as far as I can see.”
Level Up! Congratulations, Your Stubborn Swordsman Class has advanced to Level 9! STR +6. AGI +12. VIT +12. INT +6. PER +12. WIL +6.
Skill level increased. Imperial Greatsword Mastery is now Level 10 (MAX). STR +4.
“If there were more, I think we would know by now,” Sierra responded, sheathing her dagger. “They are about as subtle as fiends. Probably for the best, given the circumstances.”
The dimly lit center of the spire was more hollow than they had expected. An enormous atrium filled the core of the structure, with floor after floor ascending upwards on the building’s interior walls. Walkways criss-crossed above them at seemingly random intervals and angles, giving the impression that the center of the spire was some grand spiderweb when viewed from below.
As a tactical position, the lobby left something to be desired, especially when their enemy fought entirely at range. Fortunately none of the Soulless milling on higher floors seemed interested in the slaughter that had gone on below. Only the menial workers appeared to care as the machines maneuvered around Alarion and Sierra to clean up the wreckage of their fellows.
The ground floor was reminiscent of the throne room the revenant had trapped them in, all polished marble and intricately inlaid detail work. But it held a more functional aesthetic. There were leather couches along the walls, beneath large tanks filled with swimming fish. A triangular, roofed kiosk filled the center of the lobby, a large sign just behind it in violet and gold, covered in text they could not read. Banners hung from overhead by impossibly thin cable, the same royal purple, trimmed in what might have been actual gold.
Two broad staircases with delicate glass railings led up to a second level filled with yet more seating. Couches, chairs, desks and long countertops looking down over the people below. A waiting area, if Alarion had to guess, but he could not imagine what for. Staircases at the corners led further up, and from his new vantage Alarion caught his first real glimpse at the upper floors. They were more uniform, simplistic. Dark hallways as far as the eye could see.
“Please tell me we don’t have to climb all the way up,” Alarion said, an edge of hopelessness in his voice.
“I do not make promises that I can not keep,” Sierra said glumly. The spire was larger than any building either of them could have imagined, let alone one that they’d ever occupied. With no idea what it was that they were even looking for, the task before them was insurmountable. “I am going to go look at the front desk.”
“I’ll keep looking around up here,” Alarion replied.
The spire felt out of place in the midst of the city, Alarion decided as he moved idly between plush chairs and granite table-tops. The city was nothing if not utilitarian, its rectangular structures designed in every way for function over form, then given the breath of life by their departed occupants. The spire felt like the inverse. Everything here was bespoke, every surface rendered in loving care by talented artisans. Yet it was lifeless. There was no graffiti, no scratches or nicks or imperfections.
Down below, Soulless drones worked to repair the damage wrought by Alarion’s encounter with the sentries. In time, there would be no sign of the life or death struggle. Just a room as empty of life as those who’d repaired it.
It did not help that the spire felt profoundly alien in a way that the city had not. For every object Alarion recognized, there was another that made no sense. Tables and chairs gave way to upright panes of glass set into the floor for no discernable purpose. Potted plants and elegant indoor trees made perfect sense to him, but the alcoves cut into the wall to hold vibrant red cylinders were an aesthetic choice entirely beyond him.
“I think I found something?” Sierra said over his earpiece.
“Should I come down?”
“Do you read any of this better than I do?”
“… no.”
“Then you will not be of-”
Whatever Sierra intended to say was cut off by a sharp crack and a blinding light.
Alarion rushed for the stairs as best he was able, but as his vision cleared, he realized that it was not an attack. It was an awakening.
The building had sprung to life around and above him. Thousands of lights had turned on in unison, turning the grim lobby into a glittering wonderland. Stranger still were the images, moving pictures shimmering along each black mirror set into the spire’s walls, each freestanding pane of glass. A quiet music played around them, so quiet you might almost forget it was there, but for the deafening silence that had filled the space only moments earlier.
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Images continued to play on the screens, reflecting off the marble floor below him, but Alarion could make no sense of them. An emblem. Humans laughing side by side. A militant phalanx of Steelborn. A spinning ball of blues and whites and greens.
“I am not sure if this is better or worse,” Sierra said quietly, her voice filled with wonder.
Alarion let out breath he hadn’t even realized he was holding as he replied. “Better, I think. The lights are on.”
“At least we will be able to find our way around,” She agreed. “And the soulless do not seem upset.”
“Small blessings. Are you coming back u-”
This time it was Alarion who was interrupted, and not by anything as rudimentary as the lights turning on.
One moment he had been pacing by the edge of the balcony railing, watching Sierra down below. The next, the floor beneath him had lurched and begun to move. It separated away from the rest of the balcony, then started to raise. Slowly at first. Then faster.
“What did you do?” Alarion asked in alarm.
“What are you talking about?”
Rather than wait for a more useful response, Alarion threw himself back toward the balcony, a mighty leap with a short running start.
That slammed him directly into an invisible barrier.
Something in his shoulder had cracked, and there was blood running down his nose. The air shimmered a blue-white where he still leaned against the now opaque obstruction, and more of it glowed into being as he ran his hand along it, looking in vain for an opening.
“Please tell me you are not on that?”
“I do not make promises-”
“Alarion!” Sierra’s frustration was loud enough to be heard from down below, the Simu deadening her tone to save his hearing. “What did you do?”
“Nothing. I don’t think.” In truth, he had his suspicions. If she hadn’t been pushing buttons, then somewhere he walked? Some automatic response?
The platform picked up speed as it floated further and further into the air, moving in a slow circle to avoid overhead bridges, supported by nothing. It was the closest Alarion had ever come to flight, and despite his well founded concern at the situation, there was a small smile on his lips as he watched the ground recede below him. The view was incredible, and not for the first time since their arrival in the city, the young man basked in the sheer spectacle of it all.
“Wherever you end up. Do. Not. Move. Not unless you have to. Try and find a way back down, or I will try and find a way to-” The increasing distance had garbled many of Sierra’s words, until the last where they cut off entirely.
“Understood,” Alarion replied hoping she heard him.
The platform rose and rose, barreling toward the atrium ceiling at a speed that made Alarion increasingly uneasy. The roof above him had no visible opening to accommodate him, and for a moment he worried he’d stepped onto more trap than transportation.
Thankfully, the ceiling ahead of him opened up in advance of his arrival, the conveyance slowing at stomach lurching speeds until it deposited him at last into an enclosed room flooded by a dark blue light.
There were no entrances nor exits, the room itself barely larger than the platform that had brought him there. The room was cold, stale, with the slightest hint of some sort of mist floating about him, visible only in how it interacted with the lights in each corner of the room.
“Ei vidar talisi sevari, Istvani?” A clipped feminine voice asked from everywhere and nowhere. “Il, ei sel Ili.”
“Hmm?” Alarion asked, looking around for the voice.
“Li seita nio legas, Natar?” The voice repeated with the same flat tone. “Sye, li vier lie.”
Unsatisfied with his response, the voice spoke again. And again. Alarion understood none of the words, but the way they were spoken told him that not all were the same language. Some were short and harsh, others elegant and flowing, though all were foreign.
“What does that mean?”
Instead of answering the voice paused, then came back. This time its tone was ever so slightly different, as if spoken from a room with different acoustics.
That struck a bad tone with Alarion, but given the circumstances being openly defiant seemed a poor choice. Not that it stopped his stubbornness from rearing its ugly head.
Alarion considered the words.
The dim light of the room was disrupted as a projection appeared on each of the four walls, displaying the Ashadi alphabet. A cursor bobbed slightly above the letter A.
The machine ran through half of the alphabet, the cursor moving from letter to letter until it reached the letter l.
Alarion stared at the word on the wall in a mixture of confusion and awe.