The Great Staircase reached from the roots of the Tree to its tip, winding widdershins up the trunk. It was said that it dated to the very founding of the Tree, generation after generation of druid crafts-folk maintaining it for the merchants and workers who needed to travel between strata. Trunk-side, a wide gutter channeled water from rains or snowmelt into reservoirs up and down the Tree. The steps were only wide enough for two, and the outside edge had no rail. This close to the trunk, no leaves or shrubbery blocked the view of the long drop to the light-devouring darkness of the mist below: an inverse night sky without stars.

The somber mood of the morning still lingered as the recruits carried their packs down the trunk, heading towards the ground. Reg had been surprised by how many complaints and curses he heard as they got onto the stairway; almost everyone seemed uncomfortable with the close-by edge and the long drop to the below. Reg felt totally comfortable; goats were adroit climbers who liked to scamper around on the sides of branches to find the best patches of moss and fungus to eat, so he was no stranger to heights or the view of the mist. Compared to clinging to an outcropping of bark to rescue a bleating kid while everything swayed in the wind, the narrow staircase felt positively secure.

There were few travelers on the staircase heading up to Ithilia and the cities above, especially as time wore on. They passed two porters who moved faster up the tree than the cohort moved heading down, despite the heavy loads that they carried on their backs. In the early afternoon, a ragged gnome merchant passed them leading a long train of goats, each goat bearing panniers stuffed full of fungus. Later, a woman in a dirty homespun dress trudged past, carrying a small child whose tiny face was marked by deep scourgeblight scars.

This close to the trunk, the curve was almost imperceptible, so it felt like they were walking straight down alongside a massive barky wall. The only way to tell progress down was by picking a far-off bough burl or knot, and checking on it as the minutes dripped by.

Occasionally, the staircase leveled out as it passed trunk towns. Most were small places: a few shanties leaning up against the trunk. These shanties stood next to larger and more carefully constructed warehouses. These warehouses were full of all kinds of trade goods destined to be sold in villages up the Tree: hearty funguses, nuts, dried berries, nuts, legumes, silk, wool, and timber. Slow-moving workers, all humans and gnomes, hauled heavy bags around to load up panniers in preparation for goat-trains up the trunk. Reg wondered how economical all of this could be after the constructor of the massive crystal-powered elevator in Ithilia.

One town rivaled Ithilia in size and grandeur, but was entirely abandoned. The roofs of once-beautiful buildings had fallen in, walls were covered in white and orange fungi and mushrooms and the crystal lights that lined the city streets had been removed from their holders. The curves of many of the buildings that melded gracefully into one-another and into the landscape made it clear this city had been wealthy, wealthy enough to be mostly druid-crafted.

A herd of wild goats bounded away from nibbling on vines that covered a once-grand tower as the cohort passed by. Ravens and squirrels watched the cohort carefully as they tramped through. Jackoby, the gangly elf who had picked up the mask of criss-crossing branches, had a quick cawing conversation with one of the ravens, and relayed that they were still hours away.

The poverty of the people and towns they passed felt more apparent now that Reg had spent over a moon at the Achivian Guard Campus. The campus’ tall druid-crafted halls, well-tended gardens, rich meals, clean buildings, and well-lit paths all stood in sharp contrast to the shoddily constructed shanties, grimy people in worn clothing, and general disrepair that they passed by. Even though they weren’t yet in the below, it still felt to Reg like they were descending into a poverty-stricken past.

As they passed by a small shanty town built around a single warehouse, Fenjor loudly commented, “Ugh, why do people live down here? It’s filthy.”

Reg ignored him. It wasn’t the first time that Fenjor had disparaged the quality of towns they were passing through, and responding to him wasn’t worth the breath.

Belladonna slipped into line behind Reg. She poked him on the shoulder, “So, why do people live down here? It seems horrible. Why wouldn’t they live further up?” Unlike Fenjor, her tone of voice was curious, and she seemed a little upset.

“Things grow better on the lower and outer branches, dunno why. We take the herds out lower too. More dangerous, but it’s the only way to fatten them up, especially the spiders. Folks need work and food, so they have to live down here.” Reg answered. He called to Val, two people ahead in line, “Val, why do things grow better down here?”

Val perked up and answered in an excited voice, “Climates on the Tree vary a bunch by stratum! The best cropland is on the lowest branches near the edge, it’s wetter and it gets more sun. As you go up, it gets drier and harder to fill reservoirs. Plus, some plants just don’t like altitude. Have you heard of the fungus-line? Most fungus and moss won’t grow at all even a few hours above Ithilia. And plants like sunshine, but near the trunk you only get good light in the mornings or evenings.”

Reg added on, “The general rule is the more dangerous things are, the better plants grow. At least that’s what my mum always said. Doesn’t feel fair, eh?”

Belladonna sounded thoughtful as she said, “Huh. And there are really mist storms down here? Reg, everyone was saying that you were lying about being in one to get attention, but the captain seemed to believe you. Did you actually see a twist?”

Reg nodded before realizing that his head was hidden behind his large wood-framed rucksack. “Yeah, but they’re not that common unless you go lower than folks live. They generally don’t make it too far trunkward, so villages are mostly safe, although you might have to run hard if you’re farming or something further out. I’ve only ever been caught in the one, and I still have nightmares about it, but I know some folks with more mistmarks than most guards.”

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“And you still signed up to join the guard?”

“Being part of the group that’s fighting against the mist and the storms? Keeping my family and friends safe? Felt even more important after the storm.” Reg turned around to face Belladonna, walking backwards down the staircase, “Do you remember the oath we swore the first day? ‘That we might one day escape’? Did your fancy education tell you what that means?”

Belladonna shook her head, “Ugh, turn around. Seeing you walk like that near the edge makes me nauseous.”

Reg laughed and turned back around, “Oh come on, your balance is better than mine. I’ve seen you on the line in Arms.”

“That’s different! The line isn’t over a blighted void. Anyways, the only thing I can think is that the mist doesn’t extend over the whole world -- or at least it didn’t used to.”

“That’s what I thought too. What a strange idea. Seems as permanent as the moon or trunk.”

The mist’s boundary wasn’t firm, and in the late afternoon, Captain Merrin’s command of “Masks on!” was followed by the recruits who hadn’t yet put theirs on. Reg had put his on a few bough-crossings ago, the wood a comforting weight on his face. They were below the point where anyone lived, but they still occasionally passed through abandoned, rotting towns.

As the afternoon wore on, the world around them gradually darkened. At a command from Captain Merrin, the line paused for recruits to pull out crystal-torches to illuminate the staircase. There were no boughs visible below. Above, the closest boughs were still visible, but they were hazy and indistinct. The gnarled bark of the trunk to their left was reassuring as they pressed onwards. It felt like the world ended beyond the small circles of torchlight.

Eventually, Reg saw something that interrupted the blackness down below: a gently curving arc of stars. As they got closer, he was able to make out more details: a vast platform extending from a bough; platform edges curling up into a short wall; huge crystal lights burning back the darkness; guards, tiny in the distance, patrolling in pairs; and towers against the trunk.

It took another thirty minutes for them to make it to the platform and look around. A nearby hardwood cauldron sat over an empty fire pit, right next to a small closed grate. In the distance, Reg saw shapes that looked like massive crossbows: ballistae. A small number of masked Achivian Guards passed by, heading towards one of the towers. Despite the murk and dim light, the masks were clearly visible. They didn’t produce their own light, but they weren’t occluded by the gloom and swirls of mist the way that everything else was.

The recruits fanned out into a rough semi-circle around Captain Merrin, pressing closer together than they normally did, backpacks jostling against one another. Captain Merrin spread her hands wide, “Welcome to the inner wall. This structure extends all the way around the trunk as a last line of defense against twists that try to climb up. We aren’t nearly to the ground yet, but we shall stay here tonight and finish our descent in the morning.

“From this point on, we operate on the rules of engagement that we covered in tactics. Now, what’s the first rule, Irina?”

The second pair of eyes sunk into the cheeks of Irina’s bear-faced mask reflected the crystal-light, “If it doesn’t have a mask, it’s an enemy. It doesn’t matter what it says or what you feel.”

“Correct. And the second, Fenjor?”

“No one does anything alone. You take a companion everywhere, no matter what.” The fangs framing Fenjor’s mouth seemed alive as he spoke.

“Yes, and that includes when you make manure. Now, what’s the third, Reg?”

“Overcommunicate. Run your thoughts by others and trust your teammates.”

Command Merrin nodded, “Good. I want to stress this last one. Trust is essential down here: this is no place for levity or games. Mud-headed guards have died, even up here, to nothing but the whispers in their head.

“For now, I want you all to sit down and concentrate on your emotions. This high up, the influence is weaker, but you should still be able to sense it.”

During Reg’s first mist storm, he hadn’t been nearly as aware of his own thoughts and emotions as he was after the regular mental assaults from Instructor Mossgate’s class. The thoughts he’d had at the time -- that he should walk off the branch or that he should carve off Martha’s ears in order to improve his hearing and discover the secrets of the whispers -- had felt like his own. Now, when he concentrated, he could sense some of the thoughts and fears trying to slip into his skull, but they felt foreign and attenuated: he should take the doll off of his hip and eat it to master his magic; his own shadow sat behind him stroking a knife; his mum’s voice was coming from the underside of the platform where he could find her; or the mask was melding with his flesh and taking him over and if he didn’t take it off, he’d be consumed. The ideas felt light, like passing fancies.

Reg sensed Captain Merrin and a few of the platform guards walking through the sitting recruits, comforting people as they went, but most people seemed to be bearing up well under it, any fears hidden by the masks they all wore.

After giving them time to adjust, Captain Merrin led them into a small dining hall for dinner. The hall was full of guards, some coming off duty for the evening and eating dinner, others just waking up and grabbing bowls of gruel before heading out to their own shifts. When the dining guards saw the group of recruits, there was a quick cheered welcome, the warmly lit hall with its happy guards serving a surprising counterpoint to the gloom outside.

Inside, most still wore masks, but the mist seemed unwilling to enter the hall, and several of the guards wore their mask on their hip or as a necklace. As he entered the dining hall, Reg felt like an oppressive weight had left him that he hadn’t even realized he’d been carrying.

Down here, the food was much simpler than in the Achivian Guard campus -- gruel, stew, nuts, and simple fungi -- but it was hearty and solid. Seats were limited in the hall, so Reg ended up squeezing into a table with a group of older guards just coming off-shift. Their welcomes seemed genuine, even after they heard his accent and pegged him as a human from the twigs. In the words of one, “Down here, anyone who wears a mask is a friend.”

The older guards shared stories of their first times in the mist. One, in a mask of a raven with scales made of rosewood rather than feathers, told a story about how he’d been too ashamed to ask a partner to come with him to poop on early missions, so he’d held it in for long enough that he had to go to a healer. Another guard, her voice a harsh rasp, told Reg about being so nervous that she forgot to put on her archery bracer and then panicking and attacking when she saw one of the lighthouses, large stone towers, down below.

The guards’ stories reminded Reg of the stories that the older herders would sometimes tell: the mistakes that were a necessary part of experience, exaggerated in the retelling. The genuine welcome and warmth from these guards felt like such a relief after the weeks of thorns and dismissal from many of his classmates. Down here, despite the hungry gloom of the mist outside, Reg felt at home.