Casella and Mbukhe take turns helping me climb the stairway, keeping me steady while my headache subsides. Breathing is more difficult than I expected, and not just because I’m struggling to catch my breath after all the running and fighting. Within the dark, stifling confines of the obsidian tower, the air itself seems thick and cloying. In the total darkness, it’s all too easy to trip over the steep, uneven steps, particularly when the flight of stairs reaches a switchback and abruptly changes directions. The landings seem to be spaced out every three dozen steps, but even after Mbukhe tells me to start counting steps, I still stumble when my foot meets empty air instead of another stone tread.
My friends seem unperturbed by our dismal surroundings, however. They haven’t stumbled, fallen, or bumped face-first into a stone wall, like I have—twice now, I think with chagrin—which leads me to suspect that the pair of [Inquisitors] have some sort of dark vision Skill. Perhaps it’s another one of the various stealth and subterfuge Skills that [Inquisitors] all seem to learn. Of course, that doesn’t explain how Nicanor navigates the inky darkness so confidently, leading us up the tower without tripping or losing his bearings.
The [Spear Commander] is frighteningly competent. His combat prowess is impressive, yes, but he also carries himself with strength and conviction. His ironclad aura of absolute certainty bolsters the rest of us, a constant bulwark against my fears of the unknown and creeping doubts that we can assail the tower and conquer the Rift. He’s so unlike me; I’m constantly plagued by concerns and second-guessing, but he identifies his path forward, and then moves heaven and earth to reach his goal. I find myself grudgingly admiring Nicanor, as frustrating as he is to work with. I still wish he didn’t glare every time he looks my way, but I can learn a lot from his expertise.
“Second floor,” Nicanor calls out.
Soft light blooms up ahead, spilling out of a doorframe at the top of the next flight of stairs, stinging my eyes with the sudden glare. I blink, squinting in the faint glow, and pick up my pace so I can reach the light again. I’ve long since lost count of how many times we’ve reached one of the wide landings, turned left, and continued upward into the tower, but I thought we’d reach the top long before now. Unless we’re far slower than I’ve estimated, the obsidian tower is several times taller than I realized. Perhaps there’s some sort of strange spatial magic at play.
Nicanor bars the doorway with his arm, preventing me from charging into the chamber. He turns toward us and gestures for the team to gather closer, lowering his voice to a harsh whisper. “Not detecting any threats inside, but Rifts don’t usually get easier the farther in you go. Proceed with caution. Keep your weapons and Skills at the ready, but don’t engage unless I give the order.”
I nod along with the [Inquisitors]. Their faces are grim and harsh in the shifting shadows, but their eyes seem to glitter with the thrill of exploration.
“Sense any traps?” Nicanor asks.
“Seems clear, but who knows what we’ll find next? Rifts don’t exactly come with a map,” Mbukhe says.
Casella chuckles, soft and low. “Ha. Got that right. We’re likely the first humans to set foot in this particular Rift, given how randomly they connect to our plane.”
Privately, I grumble about the inaccurate comment. The Rifts don’t make random connections, not really. Predicting the intersection of the various planes of existence as they churn through the emptiness of the void is extraordinarily complicated. Not even [Viceroy] Tapirs knows how to solve that particularly sticky equation, which is why he was so excited to get his hands on the astral navigator. It should be mine, though. Tem and I should be exploring the world and clearing Rifts with my friends, not—
Nicanor claps his hands together in front of my face, making me flinch. “Focus, glass-maker. Time to go. If you’re out of mana, better you stay in the middle of the formation and keep watch.”
“I’m recovering. I can help.”
He snorts. “Not likely.”
My guilt at being caught daydreaming shifts to sudden anger, and I flush at his dismissiveness. “I’m not a liability. I know how to survive in a Rift.”
“Don’t get in the way,” he snaps.
With one last glare, he turns and stalks into the vast, wide-open chamber of the second floor. From the doorway, I don’t see any enemies, although the others are likely to sense them before I do. Inside the second chamber, the floor is flat and level in every direction as far as the eye can see, which admittedly isn’t very far in the milky half-light. Unlike the rest of the Rift, the flooring looks manmade. Flagstones are not what I expect to see in the Rift. They form a smooth pathway, fitted together with precision.
Nicanor strides forward with the same ground-eating pace that he set previously, amazing me with his ability to move more quickly than he ought to with each step. My mind drifts back to when I first met Ezio; he had that same type of movement ability, despite his lack of martial training. Somehow, he was able to include me in the Skill effect, but Nicanor doesn’t seem inclined to share.
I wonder if this simply doesn't fall into the domain of his Squad Skills. Or perhaps he’s conserving them so that we have options if we run into a problem. Soon, I'm jogging to keep up and my idle curiosity is pushed to the edges of my mind. I glance around, determined to prove my worth as a lookout since I’m not ready to assist with the fighting yet. Keeping an eye out for anything out of the ordinary as we run helps me stay focused on what matters. Anomalies haven’t presented themselves, but I try to stay vigilant, not wanting to fall prey to an ambush. Nicanor will never let me hear the end of it if I fail to warn the team, assuming he doesn’t pick up on the enemy well before I detect that something’s amiss.
Closer to the center of the chamber, the light grows stronger, pushing back the circle of darkness that hides the rest of the second floor chamber. The visible area grows wider as we trudge deeper into the vast room, and soon I’m glancing upward in curiosity to locate the source of the light. The vaulted ceiling high above us is covered with some sort of moss or lichen that gives off a faint, orange-red luminance. I've never seen anything quite like it before. I suspect the glow is actually somewhat dim—in natural sunlight I probably wouldn't be able to see it at all. Here in the gloom of the Rift, however, we're able to navigate by its light just fine.
Little flecks of dust and moss float through the still air, carried aloft on some unfelt current of wind. The detritus around us floats in slow patterns and whorls, dreamlike as it dances throughout the chamber. The movement is majestic, yet unsettling, as though unmoored from time. The hypnotic rhythm of the pulses of light and shadow draw my eye; the steady ebb and flow of the light show overhead reminds me of white-capped waves crashing on a shore of black sand, the foam and water rushing up the beach and then withdrawing again, repeating in an eternal cycle.
“Or perhaps it’s more akin to breathing,” I mutter to myself with a shiver. That mental image makes me feel like we're stuck inside the gullet of an enormous, world-ending beast. The only thing that doesn’t fit that picture is the steady movement of glimmering lights, like falling snowflakes catching the last rays of the setting sun. It’s eerie and beautiful all at once, yet utterly alien.
The further into the chamber we proceed, the closer the strange lights drift. By the time our party is halfway to the other side, by my estimate, the little dots of light surround us like a thick, mesmerizing fog. It’s gone from dusk to blazing day in the last several paces. The tiny, glowing sprites are growing brighter with every step, filling the air and growing more numerous. Entranced, I watch as they spiral all around us and obscure my view of the walls.
The ceiling is no longer visible through the innumerable blinking layers of sparks, and the floor of the chamber is hidden away from view a moment later. My boots hit flagstone, but I no longer see it or even hear the echo of each footfall; I feel like I am walking through the clouds, sinking into a dreamlike trance. Everything is dull and muted except for the orange-red haze of endlessly falling dust motes. The fiery pinpricks intensify the farther we trek ahead, reminding me of the forge glow at the shop. The light burns and burns, growing blindingly brilliant until tears streak down my face from squinting against the harsh glare.
I turn to glance over my shoulder, planning to ask Casella if he’s ever seen anything like this odd display, but he’s not behind me anymore. I flinch and spin back around, squinting harder than ever to try to see through the disorienting, dancing lights as I search for the rest of my companions. Neither the formidable [Spear Commander] nor the crafty [Inquisitor] are visible. Bile rises in my throat. Separation from the team is high on my list of worst-case scenarios. I don’t want to get lost in the Rift when I’m so low on mana. For all my big words to Nicanor, I don’t want to solo a Rift ever again. Besides, Smoke helped me, so I wasn’t truly alone.
“Mbukhe? Nicanor?”
No response to my tentative questions.
Tamping down my pride and hoping that my stomach will settle down so I can avoid the ignominy of throwing up all over myself, I holler at the top of my lungs for the other men in my group. Maybe they’ll hear me and come get me. I don’t care if I have to admit my weakness. I need them to lead me through the bright, terrifying fog and guide me toward the exit. I call in all directions, praying for a response.
Whispers echo back to me, faint and dissonant. No matter how loudly I shout, however, my words are swallowed up by the luminous cloud. Light and sound fade into meaningless concepts.
I break into a jog, panic welling up within me. My paranoia swells with every stride.. I'm gonna be trapped in the wild chaos of this shattered Rift forever. This is how my life ends, consumed by the void. This is it. This is the end.
I slap myself in the face, breaking the spiral of self-recrimination and desperation. Determination burns in my chest, warring against the cold fist of despair tightening around my heart. I will survive. I’ve done it before, and I can do it again. Focusing on escape, I wave the fog out of my way as I accelerate into a hard run. No matter how much I lean forward, sprinting toward the far wall, I can’t seem to make any headway. My muscles burn and my lungs scream for air, but without a fixed reference point, I have no idea if I’m getting anywhere. I feel like I’m wading through a peat bog, fearing that each step will be the one that pulls me under the unforgiving mud.
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Illusions born of sparks and smoke meld with the tenuous fabric of reality surrounding me. All is fire, like memory fanned into flame and twisted into a grotesque parody of the Rift. In the space of a single step, the world shifts. I’m back in the labyrinth, running side by side with Tem, dodging wraiths even more ethereal than the original. They burst apart at the slightest contact, dispersing back into smoke, but the touch leaves scorch marks on my clothing and skin.
The world flickers. The scene shifts. I’m back with Scalpel, watching in wordless horror as she cuts apart my Skills, my sense of self, my very soul—
I scream, flexing my mind against the vicious mental intrusion, and the fiery illusion shatters apart like a fist through cheap glass. Compared to the exquisite touch of [Chief Inquisitor] Xharrote’s mind magic effortlessly plucking memories of my past, this is crude and clumsy. Nonetheless, the power of hundreds or perhaps thousands of the little sprites is undeniable. Struggling against the glimmering, white-hot murk takes every last ounce of energy I can bring to bear.
My breath grows more ragged as smoke fills my lungs. Vaguely, I wonder where the fuel for the fire comes from; smoke should be a byproduct of burning something, but these flames feel like they’ve sprung forth from a higher order concept for fire, or perhaps a runic array. Coughing and shaking, I press onward. No time to tease out that thread from the tangled knot of mystery right now. The oppressive heat haze is all around me, pressing down on my skin. I’m running headlong into a raging forest fire, caught in a race against time to escape from the all-encompassing inferno.
Feeling foolish for forgetting my Skills for so long, I fall inward, seizing hold of my [Greater Heat Manipulation] and siphoning off energy until a zone of absolute cold coats my clothes in a thin layer of rime as the moisture in the air freezes. My boots crunch on the thin sheet of ice. The sound fills me with a thrill of hope, and when I look down, the pitted texture of the stone floor peaks through the crust of frost. I’m doing it! I’m breaking free. All I have to do is extinguish the fire and I’ll break through the illusion, too. Armed with the knowledge, I begin to take the fight to the Rift.
I marshall my willpower, throwing myself against the power of the sprites’ trap. The obfuscating swirls of smoke and fire sputter and thin out, wavering as I wage war on the onslaught of illusions. The veil lifts slightly, and I catch a faint glimpse of the far wall. The real wall. As the motes of light dissolve, the heat moderates, although the second floor is still sweltering.
I glance around, trying to get my bearings. My breathing comes a little more easily now that I’m not cooking from the inside out. I keep running now that visibility is restored, desperate to be on the other side of this devious mind maze.
My feet slip on the ice. I flap my arms, trying to catch my balance, but my feet tangle together and I trip, falling toward my left. Instinctively, I reach out with my hand to brace my fall. Nothing’s there. My hand is gone, I remember belatedly as I fall.
The moment stretches on longer than it should, as though I’m suspended in time and space. My mind leaps back to my last time in a Rift. The agony when I lost my hand crystallizes in my memory, and I wrestle with the anger and shame all over again.
Then the bizarre moment passes, and I crash face-first against the hard floor, bouncing across the flagstones twice before I roll to a stop. The sharp pain brings with it a sudden moment of clarity: I’m not in here alone. Gingerly, I stand up, wincing at the bruises on my cheek, and look for the missing members of my hunting party. One of the men is nearby, swinging his arms drunkenly, as though shadow-boxing while blindfolded. Just my luck, it’s Nicanor. Of the pair of [Inquisitors], however, there’s not a hint.
“[Spear Commander]!” I scream, opting for his Class and title over his name, hoping that it will get through to him thanks to decades of Army discipline. “Can you hear me? I need you to focus! Whatever you’re fighting, it’s not real.”
He doesn’t hear me.
Grinding my teeth in annoyance, I drag myself closer to the imposing soldier and his wild fists. At least he isn’t swinging around his enchanted spear, so I’m not likely to die instantly if he hits me. When I’m just outside of his range, I gather up the meager amounts of mana I’ve recovered during the long climb up from the first floor, and flare my [Greater Heat Manipulation]. Heat energy rushes into me, far faster than before—perhaps now that I’ve fully broken free, I’m more efficient against the sprites’ magic?—and I vent it away from the exit, toward the center of the chamber.
The abrupt drop in temperature clears out a swathe of the arcane fire sprites preying on Nicanor’s mind. With a shuddering gasp, he wrenches himself free of their nefarious influence. He drops down to his hands and knees, his chest heaving for air. Great beads of sweat drip from his forehead.
“Get up!” I roar, striding over to Nicanor and slapping him on the back. I’m enjoying the reversal of fortunes more than I probably should, given the danger we’re still in while the unnatural fire rages around us. “We can’t stay here. It’s not safe. Let’s go! We have to find Casella and Mbukhe and get to the next stairway. We all got separated during the attack.”
He lifts his head, and I recoil at the charred, blistered skin on his face. He looks more monstrous than some of the creatures I’ve fought in Rifts before. His words slur together as he struggles to string together coherent thoughts. “Gotta kill the—fire everywhere. What happened? Where are—”
He breaks off, coughing and wheezing. Hands shaking, he unstoppers his canteen of water and takes a long swig as I cool the air further to ease the mental pressure from the fire sprites. He sighs, wipes drops of water off his chin with the back of his hand, and regards me again. His gaze sharpens as he seems to recover some control of his faculties.
“I’ll pierce and skewer every last one of the blighted monsters in this place,” Nicanor growls. He scowls at me. “That was a nasty trap if I’ve ever seen one. How in the abyss did you get out?”
“Not my first encounter with mind magic,” I say, my voice carefully neutral despite the anger that’s churning beneath the surface at the memory of the abuse I endured. Then I grin at him cheekily. “Plus, it’s just fire. I told you that I have [Greater Heat Manipulation].”
He snorts, and to my surprise he cracks a small smile in return. “You sure know how to nurse a grudge, huh? Guess I won’t hold it against you after saving me. Draining away the heat was smart.”
“Thank you,” I say stiffly, not knowing how to handle his gratitude. He doesn’t like me much, since in his view I stole the astral navigator and then compounded my guilt by breaking out of my prison cell and becoming a fugitive from the Army. His dislike for me isn’t going to change overnight, but it seems like I’ve earned his grudging respect after I fought off the mental effects of the sprites and saved his life.
“Need to move. Can’t hold off the fire much longer,” I say, lowering the effects of my [Greater Heat Manipulation] to preserve the last of my mana for an emergency.
“Won’t be a problem. I know what to guard against now,” Nicanor assures me. “Mental traps are a single-shot. They lose their effectiveness after the trick is discovered. Let’s track down the other two and get off this blasted floor.”
He unslings his spear and charges back into the overheated smog, parting the fire sprites like the prow of a ship cutting through the waves. I jog behind him as quickly as I can, determined to keep up and do my part to save the others. The Rift has my friends. I’ll tear this entire tower apart brick by brick to free them.
Three minutes of hard running later, just as I’m starting to get dizzy from the fumes and lack of air, I sense something peculiar nearby. “Nicanor! Something’s off.”
He spins around, his spear ready to strike. Anger makes his voice harsh. “Report!”
I point off into the darkness. “There’s an odd void in the heat signature off to our right. These fire sprites are all around us, driving the temperature to lethal heights—except for there. Cold zone. I only just now noticed that there’s an absence of heat, but I’m not sure what it means.”
Nicanor nods grimly. “It’s either a monster cloaking its presence, or our [Inquisitors] are hunkering down and waiting out the arcane fire storm.”
“I don’t sense any mana signatures,” I say, my voice catching. “They should be well-defended against mental intrusions, but maybe the fire was too much for them. Maybe they didn’t—maybe—”
“Steady,” Nicanor says, more kindly than I expected. He places a hand on my shoulder. “Stay behind me. Be ready for anything.”
He quick-steps in the direction I pointed. His spear leads the way, ready to intercept any threat and end it with extreme prejudice.
From out of the mists, a squat, square shape coalesces. It’s long and low, and the sprites avoid it like it’s dangerous. Nicanor lets out a cheer. He twirls his spear and slams the blunt end of it down onto the flagstones. “I knew those sneaky [Inquisitors] would make it through all right. Let’s collect them and get out of here.”
Nicanor’s spear darts forward, whirling in a profound pattern and clearing away the fire sprites in a burst of wind. He knocks on the outer frame of the tent with his fist. “All clear! Time to finish this miserable Rift.”
The pair of [Inquisitors] emerge a moment later. They eye the sprites warily, and based on the burn marks on their clothing and their soot-streaked faces, I don’t blame them. The strange little creatures are a menace when they combine their strength. The two look like they weren’t faring much better than Nicanor was before they took shelter in their tent.
Mbukhe wipes his brow. “We broke out of its siren call quickly enough, but the oppressive heat forced us to use an artifact to protect ourselves. We barely deployed this tent in time.”
“I thought you were dead!” I shout, running forward. I stop myself just shy of hugging my friends, suddenly feeling awkward about Nicanor witnessing our reunion.
Casella pulls me into a rib-busting hug anyway. “Glad to see you, too, Nuri. We were worried that you wouldn’t be able to escape the illusion, but I guess it’s a good thing we brought a specialist with us.”
Nicanor pauses from applying a healing unguent to his face and arms. He shakes his head. “Hate to admit it, but the glass-maker saved me, not the other way around. Guess he’s made of sterner stuff than I thought.”
“A tenacious talent. No wonder the boss has plans for you,” Mbukhe mutters darkly.
Casella simply grins. His perfect white teeth flash in the glowering gloom. “Nuri proved his worth, yes? Resilient as ever. I knew you’d survive until the storm dispersed.”
“We need to kill that thing,” I hiss. Hatred bubbles up within me. “But how do you stop something so big?”
“We don’t,” Nicanor says. “Better to escape, not to fight impossible odds. I’ll come back with a platoon—maybe even an entire company—and clear out the threat later. A swarm of these fire sprites is a city-devouring threat, left unchecked.” He shudders.
“If you call upon us, we will shield you from harm,” Mbukhe vows. “Once the illusion breaks, it's just a matter of enduring the searing heat, but most of your [Soldiers] are poorly equipped to deal with mind magic. We will keep them safe.”
Nicanor bows his head. “Thank you.”
“Have enough salve to share?” Casella asks, nodding toward the treatment that Nicanor slathered all over his blistered skin. “I’m happy to plan for the future, but I’m hurting in the present.”
“We should get out of here. Talk later,” Nicanor says, handing over the healing balm and picking up his spear again. Gone is the rattled, half-burned man struggling to free his mind; in his place stands the [Spear Commander] once more.
The [Inquisitors] rub some of the unguent on their faces, then strike their tent artifact quickly and prepare to march. The tent disappears into a knapsack that looks several sizes too small to hold it, but after all of the bizarre things I’ve seen today, the casual display of rare spatial magic barely fazes me. Of course they have the best gear. They’re always well-prepared.
The four of us stick together in a tight group as we run toward the exit, trusting in Nicanor’s spear arts and my [Greater Heat Manipulation] to keep us safe from further attacks. When we reach the exit at last, I let out a heavy sigh, as though shedding a weight I didn’t realize I was still carrying.
We leave the second floor behind—for good, I hope—and climb higher into the obsidian tower. I’m eager to take on the Rift boss and return home. Despite my dislike for not seeing where I’m going, I’ve never been so grateful to plunge into a pitch darkness. We climb onward, toward the dangerous unknown, but I’m not scared. I trust the men by my side. We’ll make it through, no matter what comes our way.