Kael woke up to pain—a familiar, throbbing ache that reminded him he was still alive. His body ached from the ordeal of the Rite, muscles bruised and stiff, and the fatigue clung to his limbs like iron shackles. When he sat up, the cold floor beneath him made him shiver. He realized, finally, that he was not in the arena anymore.
Before him stretched a seemingly endless corridor.
It was vast yet eerily silent, the walls made of smooth, black stone, almost reflective, like obsidian polished to a mirror sheen. Vines twisted along the walls, climbing and curling in impossible shapes, sprouting delicate wildflowers that glowed faintly in soft purples, whites, and blues. The ceiling was impossibly high, lost to darkness, and the air was thick with a strange floral scent—pleasant, but also dizzying.
His bag had appeared beside him. With some effort, he rifled through it. There were a few essentials: a water flask, a small tin of nutrient-packed rations, bandages, and a small first aid kit. He used the antiseptic wipes and gauze to clean a deep scratch across his forearm, grimacing through the sting. It was nothing compared to the Rite.
He stood up with a grunt. The corridor stretched ahead endlessly, and he glanced behind him, only to find darkness encroaching from that direction—thick, inky, pulsating. The longer he stared into it, the more he felt like it was alive, watching, waiting. A pit in his stomach told him he didn't want to see what would happen if he stayed still.
So he walked.
Each step echoed faintly, the sound quickly swallowed by the oppressive stillness. As he moved, the voices started—soft at first, like wind whispering through long grass. Then clearer.
"Stop."
"You've done enough."
"There's nothing for you ahead."
It was like a chorus of doubt, steadily growing in strength. Kael clenched his fists. He refused to look back.
Why was this corridor so long? Why was there no end? No twists, no turns—just forward. It felt unnatural. Manufactured. A test.
And the voices were part of it.
His pace slowed. His breathing grew shallow. The wildflowers on the wall became denser, their colors warping slightly under the corridor's sickly light. Were they watching him, too?
Then came the memory.
He saw himself—years younger, standing before a panel of teachers.
"You dream too big, Kael. You need to be realistic."
"But—"
"You're not special. Dreams don't pay bills."
The vision faded into another. A teenage Kael stared into a mirror, fists clenched.
"You'll never fly, you know," he muttered to his reflection. "The world clips your wings before you even know you had them."
A loud crack echoed through the corridor. Kael stumbled.
And then—
He was outside the Tower. Alone.
His eyes were wide with disbelief. The memory—or was it a vision?—showed him being rejected, thrown out, discarded. No place left for ambition. No second chance.
The voices swarmed.
"See? You failed."
"You're not strong enough."
"Go home."
His knees buckled.
But before he could collapse entirely, another vision swallowed him.
A future Kael, battle-worn and older, stood beside Allen. The two fought a towering beast, its limbs jagged like shattered glass, its roar rupturing the ground. Allen was quick—too quick—but not careful enough. A claw caught him.
"No!"
Kael screamed.
Blood soaked the battlefield. The beast turned on him next, and despite everything, he couldn't win. He failed. Again.
The vision twisted, dimming. The corridor returned.
"Rest," the voices cooed. "Sleep. There's nothing more to prove."
He shook.
"No."
His voice was hoarse.
"I came here… because I wanted more. I needed more."
And suddenly—
A memory of Allen, laughing while bandaging Kael's scraped hands. "You're an idiot sometimes, but I've got your back. Always."
Kael smiled faintly.
"I want to fly," he said. "Even if I have to crawl first."
He sprinted.
The darkness behind hissed, but he kept running.
"I won't stop here!"
And ahead—
A soft light bloomed. The corridor, so endlessly bleak, began to shift.
A fork appeared. One path was shrouded in darkness, a calm, almost soothing void. The other was narrow, its walls thick with wildflowers, and a single white bloom lay on the path.
He chose the flowered path.
As he walked deeper, the flowers pulsed softly.
And then—the child from the first trial appeared, standing calmly in the middle of the corridor, a slight smile on his lips.
"Congratulations," he said.
Kael blinked. "You again?"
"You've completed part of the third trial," the child said. "This corridor was never meant to test your body, but your spirit."
Kael didn't answer, breath still heavy.
The child stepped forward. "The rest of the trial will continue on the floors you're about to climb. But for now… this is your reward."
He held out a small object.
A seed. Strange and organic.
Kael took it slowly. It was warm.
The seed was in the shape of a wildflower in bloom—but beneath it, dark roots twisted into the shape of a cage. And within the root cage, a bird lay curled and still.
A voice—not the child's—spoke.
"Radix Captiva," it said. "Captive Root. The first stage of your Sigil. Wings of the Wild Bloom."
Kael stared. "What… does that mean?"
The voice didn't answer.
"…Wind. Formless potential," it said cryptically.
"What kind of explanation is that?" Kael muttered. "Wind?"
Still no reply.
He looked down. The skin above his heart burned slightly.
And there—etched on his chest—was the sigil.
A delicate image: wildflowers blooming beneath the outline of a bird trapped in the twisting roots. It glowed faintly, pulsing.
Kael's brow furrowed. "So this is what I fought for?"
"Not fought," the child said. "Endured. Gained."
And then, with a blink, the child was gone.
Kael remained in silence, alone again. But now, with something tethered to him.
Something alive.
Kael stirred.
His body ached from the relentless mental assault of the corridor. Bruises ran like smudged ink across his limbs, and exhaustion hung heavy over him like a soaked cloak. For a moment, he lay still against the cool stone floor, his hand instinctively brushing the strap of his bag. He fumbled through it and pulled out the basics: a water flask, a strip of dried meat, some cloth bandages, and a small roll of medical tape. He patched himself up with slow, practiced care.
Then he looked down.
The strange symbol on his chest still pulsed faintly—the caged bird wrapped in wildflower roots, perched over his heart.
"Radix Captiva," a voice had told him earlier.
A name with almost no clarity attached.
"Wind. Formless potential. Freedom bound. Learn its shape, and it may learn yours."
That was all he had.
He pulled his coat tighter around him and stood. The hallway beyond the end of the corridor opened up into a massive circular chamber filled with newly arrived climbers. The light here was soft but ambient, humming like distant thunder. Kael stepped into the chamber.
Noise hit him like a wave—climbers talking in small clusters, some laughing nervously, others pacing. The anxiety was palpable. Everyone was trying to make sense of what they'd just gone through.
Kael's eyes darted across the room.
Allen… where are you?
He strained to see over heads and shoulders but couldn't find his friend. The crowd was too thick. A quiet sense of loneliness trickled in—but before it could settle, a voice beside him said:
"You look like you just walked through three miles of nightmares."
Kael turned.
A tall boy leaned against one of the room's support pillars. His hair was dark brown, loosely tied back, and he wore a calm, almost lazy smile. Despite the friendliness of his expression, something about him felt carefully constructed. Not forced—just... precise.
"I'm Risan Del Miro," he said, pushing off the pillar and offering a hand.
Kael shook it. "Kael. Kael Faelwyn."
"A pleasure. Mind if I stick with you? I've been trying to figure out if anyone else in this room actually speaks in complete sentences."
Kael chuckled. "I think most of them are still trying to figure out if we're alive."
Risan laughed with him, and the two walked toward the edge of the gathering. Their conversation flowed easily. Risan mirrored Kael's dry humor and curiosity, asking subtle questions about the trial, but never prying too deep—until his tone shifted, just slightly.
"So… your chest. I saw the mark glowing earlier when you stepped out. That's your Sigil, right?"
Kael paused. He opened his mouth, unsure whether to share anything—but before he could respond—
"KAEL!"
Allen's voice cut through the noise like a lifeline.
Allen appeared from the crowd, pushing his way through with a breathless urgency. His eyes landed on Kael, relief softening his tense features. "Kael! There you are."
Kael grinned. "Took you long enough."
Allen glanced briefly at Risan, his expression unreadable. "And…?"
"Oh, right. This is Risan Del Miro. We just met—he was one of the first to talk to me after I woke up here," Kael explained.
Risan extended a hand with a friendly smile. "Risan. Nice to meet you."
"Allen Solmere," Allen replied, shaking it briefly. His grip was firm, but his tone carried a subtle wariness.
Kael shifted his bag on his shoulder, sensing the undercurrent. "We were just chatting. Risan's been through the same weird wake-up as us."
"Seems like the Tower isn't very welcoming," Risan said with a soft chuckle. "Though I suppose that's to be expected."
"Yeah," Kael muttered, glancing around. "Still surreal being here."
The three stood together for a moment, letting the murmur of the crowd wash over them. Risan spoke again, lightly. "So… what did you guys do before this? Y'know, in the world outside?"
Kael answered without hesitation. "Nothing much. I was… waiting. Hoping something would change."
Allen gave a small laugh. "He means he was bored out of his mind."
"And you?" Risan asked Allen, tilting his head curiously.
"I studied a bit. Helped with some research. Nothing that exciting."
Risan gave a thoughtful nod. "You both don't seem like the typical warrior types, but maybe that's the point. The Tower likes pulling in all sorts."
Kael shrugged. "I'm still not sure why it chose me. Feels like I stumbled in."
"Sometimes that's how it works," Risan replied. "Some stumble, others chase."
There was a pause before Risan leaned forward a little, voice dropping just slightly—still casual, but with a tinge of curiosity. "So, how did your Rite of Passage go? Mine was… confusing, to say the least. Just trying to piece it all together."
Allen narrowed his eyes, just slightly. "What about it?"
"Oh, nothing specific," Risan said quickly, raising his hands with a disarming grin. "Just wondering if we all got thrown into different things, or if there's a pattern."
Kael looked thoughtful, hesitating, but before he could answer, Allen cut in, his voice calm but edged. "Does it matter?"
"Only out of curiosity," Risan replied with a slight bow of his head. "But I get it. Tower secrets and all. No pressure."
He smiled again, but Allen kept his eyes on him, unreadable. Kael, sensing the shift, quickly spoke to defuse the tension.
There was a beat of awkward silence before Risan turned to Kael again, this time shifting the subject to small talk. "So—any guesses what comes next? I've heard rumors it's either a free-for-all or some kind of orientation."
"I hope it's orientation," Kael said. "I could use a map."
"Or a nap," Allen muttered.
They shared a small laugh.
A low chime echoed across the chamber, and a clear voice called, "All climbers, prepare to be grouped."
Groups started forming, and Risan stretched with a faint yawn.
"Looks like I've got to meet some old friends. Maybe we'll run into each other again." He smiled warmly. "Kael, Allen—stay alive."
Kael nodded. "You too."
As Risan disappeared into the shifting crowd, Allen leaned close.
"I don't trust him."
"Why?"
"He's too perfect. That kind of friendliness always hides something."
Kael frowned. "He just seemed nice."
Allen shook his head. "He seems like someone who knows how to wear a mask. Be careful."
Before Kael could respond, another voice boomed across the chamber.
"All new climbers, gather here!"
Veterans began filtering through the crowd—clearly marked by worn coats, confident eyes, and weapons strapped with casual familiarity. One stepped forward. She was tall, with grey-streaked braids and a voice like tempered steel.
"Name's Maren. We're your floor guides. Some of us stayed behind to keep the new blood from running into a death trap."
The room hushed.
Maren continued. "You've passed your Rite. Doesn't mean you'll live to the next floor. Each floor is different. Floor I is a transitional zone. Safe, for the most part. But that depends on how stupid you are."
A few chuckles.
"You'll meet Non-individuals here. Locals. Tower-born. They run the settlements, hold information, or provide services. Think of them as NPCs, if that helps."
She leaned in, serious now.
"Do. Not. Mess with them."
Silence.
"Their personalities are set, but their influence isn't. Help them, you might get boons. Piss them off? You might not make it to Floor II. Some of them are older than any climber here, and none of us fully understand how they work. Don't get clever. Don't get cocky. Just be respectful. Got it?"
The room murmured agreement.
Maren nodded. "Good. We'll give you your orientation materials and assign temporary lodgings. Floor I has its own tests, and you'll want to be ready. You get one week before the gates to Floor II open."
Kael's eyes flicked to Allen, who met his glance with quiet determination. They had time—but not much.
Kael placed a hand lightly over the Sigil at his chest.
Radix Captiva…
The root of captivity. The beginning of something.
But what?
And more importantly—what would it cost him to see it through?