The hall is loud, voice rising into a cacophony of countless conversations carried on with hushed whispers of who next might walk through the tower doors.
The hall is dark, barely lit by the magical torches along the sleek cobblestone walls.
Anticipation vibrates through the air, yet that anticipation is all sliced in half as the door opens again. A face the higher society had forgotten strides in, Odde Orpheus, the presumed dead heir to the house of Orpheus, is now back.
Back to join the reawakening of the King's tower.
.
.
.
Icarus Camelot, the king of Camelot, lies on his bed, his body a mere sliver of what it once was. The only thing that remains is an old and frail shell, incapable of even moving his own head.
"Sire." His last subordinate, kneels before him, frame cladded in armor. "The king's selection has come to a close. The next king will be Arthur, he has succeeded in pulling the sword from the stone."
"Good." His strained voice mutters, a weight lifting off his dying shoulders. Now he knows that Camelot is in good hands.
"Just wait. Merlin should arrive soon," the knight said, his voice tight with worry.
"𝐎𝐬𝐲𝐭𝐡." He began, a dry cough escaping his throat. "A king shouldn't cling to life if it's already failing. You die with honor and your head held high. Death is something no king can bypass."
"But how can Camelot stand without you!" Osyth's voice picks up.
"There is another king." Icarus reminded him. "It isn't chivalrous to look down on the future king." Osyth quiets, knowing he's in the wrong. "Arthur will live up to my legacy. I'm sure of it." He smiles even though it hurts.
"Yes, Sire." He bows, his last show of respect to his king as Icarus closes his eyes for the last.
Quiet fills his mind. The darkness surrounds his vision as he wonders if this is what peace is like.
'Peace have I finally found it.' Icarus ponders in his mind as he floats in the vast expanse of nothingness. 'It seems like it. No wars. No death. Just complete and utter silence.'
Crack! Crack! Crack!
The sound of glass cracking fills his inner mind. Destroying the silence and peace he thought he had. Before it all crumbles, the darkness around him shifts into a space of full white.
"Welcome, king of Camelot." An eerie yet powerful voice echoes in his head.
Looking around he spots nothing.
'Then where is that sound coming from?'
He snaps around to the rest of the room, his eyes meeting another's. Not two but one large one.
Moving back, he views the creature in all of its glory. Rings intersecting but all moving in all four directions. And embedded on each of the rings are smaller eyes, all closed.
'An angel. It's my first time seeing one.' On instinct he drops his head into a bow before it.
"Rise, Icarus. I'm not before you for respect, or worship, but a mission sent for by the gods." Its voice vibrates in his head, and he straightens up, confusion casting over his ghostly face.
'A mission? And what is that?'
"To become king again."
He is startled just by the mention of "King" and "Again" in the same sentence. Then his mind reverts back to all of his hardships, the wars, his greatest friend's death, and he can't help but say.
'I can't.' He pauses for a bit, as if questioning his own choice. 'I have already fought and died. I'm sure there's someone else who's willing to become king.'
"None among mortals possess your resilience, Icarus," the angel's voice echoed, as if carried on the wind of creation itself. "The realm you are to descend into teeters on the edge of chaos. One mortal soul had risen beyond even the reach of our divine order. He forged a structure beyond our comprehension— a tower unbound by fate or law. Should it be conquered, it holds the power to reshape the very fabric of existence, and with it, the destiny of all creation.
Icarus listens, his mind telling him no, but his heart screaming yes. 'If power like that falls into the wrong hands, it can be catastrophic. Yet, am I willing to suffer again?'
Hearing his worries, it assures him"You are guaranteed peace in heaven even if you don't accept this mission."
'But there might not be a heaven for much longer. Plus, how can I be sure someone would accept this mission?'He lingered in silence, weighing the weight of eternity.'I…accept.'
The angel's eye widens slightly. "Excellent."
Sighing, he questions. 'What do I have to do?'
"Ascend the King's Tower, and endure its trials. It is said to span one hundred realms (floors), though even we cannot know for certain. Upon the final floor rests the Crown. In this tower anything is possible. But don't overlook the world around it. If monsters shape the realms inside the tower. Humans are the monsters of the world outside."
'I see.' He nods along. 'No matter what stands in my way. A king never goes back on his words. No matter how treacherous the task may be.'
"That is why the gods have chosen you," the angel intoned. "As your reward, the gods shall bestow upon you a single, irrevocable quest — one that shall not be denied by fate nor force." Then the angel closes its eyes. "And from me, a gift… bestowed by my eyes."
'What? No–" His thoughts are cut short with an explosion of pain coursing through his left eye. 'I shouldn't feel pain, I'm a ghost.' He winces.
"Icarus, you are now Odde Orpheus. Survive, fight, and relive the glory of fighting to become a king…A true king." Its voice fades from his min,d and he gasps.
Icy air filled his lungs that he didn't have previously. Snapping his eyes open, white fluffy snow blocks half of his vision. Each breath of the icy air is a pain. Yet it isn't the only thing that hurts.
A searing pulse blooms within his stomach, an agony beyond mortal description — as if the heavens themselves branded him with purpose.
'I'm alive…again.' He thinks to himself. 'But am I injured?'
His numb fingers drift slowly down his chest, tracing through snow that melts into slush… then blood — warm and crimson against the cold.
'I am,' He acknowledges. 'Blood.'
Glancing around, only snow and trees circle him. The irony of his situation settled on him.
'Death after just being reborn.' His vision flicks in and out of focus. "Am I going to die? Or pass out.' He doesn't know that answer, but the crunch of boots to snow ripples through the air behind him.
He can't turn to see who it is, as reluctantly, his eyes closed.