The last stretch of the tower was no longer stairs.
It was a gauntlet of living memory.
The corridor narrowed into a spiraling ascent that defied geometry—walls folding inward, then outward, forcing them to climb at angles that should have been impossible. The grey light had turned sickly, veined with black. Every breath tasted of dust and forgotten things.
Finn led, ribs burning from the gash across his side. Blood soaked his dark blue tunic, but he ignored it. Space folded around him in short, jagged bursts, letting him cover ground while his clones—four of them now—flanked the group. Each clone carried a different affinity, rotating through fire, water, earth, and air in a ceaseless defensive weave.
