"That is the last of them," Alarion said as he withdrew his greatsword from the head of the downed Soulless, smiling thinly at the notifications in his peripheral vision 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, 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 structure's core, 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.

The lobby left something to be desired as a tactical position, 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 their fellows' wreckage.

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 an 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 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 farther up, and from his new vantage, Alarion caught his first real glimpse of the upper floors. They were more uniform and 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 I can not keep," Sierra said glumly. The spire was larger than any building they could have imagined, let alone one they'd ever occupied. With no idea what 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 amid 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 were designed in every way for function over form, and then they were given the breath of life by their departed occupants. This 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, 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 discernible 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 could, but as his vision cleared, he realized 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. 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 a 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, Alarion was interrupted, and not by something as rudimentary as the lights turning on.

One moment, he was pacing by the edge of the balcony railing, watching Sierra down below. The next, the floor beneath him lurched and began to move. It separated away from the rest of the balcony and then raised—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 farther and farther 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, he had 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 to find a way back down, or I will try to 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 that he'd stepped into more of a trap than transportation.

Thankfully, the ceiling ahead of him opened up before his arrival, and the conveyance slowed at stomach-lurching speeds until it finally deposited him into an enclosed room flooded by a dark blue light.

There were no entrances or exits, and the room itself was barely larger than the platform that had brought him there. It was cold and stale, with the slightest hint of mist floating about him, visible only in how it interacted with the lights in each corner.

"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 how they were spoken told him that not all were in the same language. Some were short and harsh, others elegant and flowing, though all were foreign.

<Is thy primary language, Villican?> The voice asked, and Alarion snapped to sudden attention. He was about to respond when the voice answered for him. <Aye tis, but archaic.>

"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.

<Is your primary language, Ashadi?> There was another pause, as the original voice returned. <Yes. It is. Please state and spell your name for our records.>

<I'm sorry?> The voice did not respond, and Alarion pushed the issue. <Why do you want to know?>

<All individuals entering high-security areas are required to be logged. As your biometrics are not listed in our existing staff or visitor logs, we require that you identify yourself. The issue can be forced, if necessary.>

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. <Dar Elzmyr. D-A-R. E-L->

<In the interest of time, we ask that you refrain from dishonesty during this interview.> The voice cut him off immediately. <We are fully capable of discerning truth from lies in your statements, or discovering the information directly if you refuse to provide it. You need not say anything, if you wish. You have nothing to hope from any deceitful answer, and nothing to fear from truth or silence.>

Alarion considered the words. <Prove it.>

<Very well.>

The room's dim light was disrupted as a projection appeared on each of the four walls, displaying the Ashadi alphabet. A cursor bobbed slightly above the letter A.

<For your first name, does the name begin with the letter A?> There was a pause. <Yes, it does. Is the second letter A?> Another pause. <No, it is not. Is the second letter B?>

The machine ran through half of the alphabet, the cursor moving from letter to letter until it reached the letter L.

<Is the second letter of your name L? Yes, it is. Is the third letter of your name A? Yes, it is.> Again, the voice was delayed, but this time a set of names flashed on each wall, all names beginning with the letters 'Ala'. <Is your first name Alarion?>

Alarion stared at the word on the wall in confusion and awe. <Yes.>

<Do you now wish to comply with the screening procedure?>

<What happens if I fail?>

<This chamber is segregated from the surrounding ventilation systems. Should it become necessary, the chamber will be flooded with physiologically inert gas, specifically nitrogen. This will displace the oxygen in your lungs and result in swift, humane euthanasia.>

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