The deeper they went, the less real the world became.

  At first, it was subtle. A strange curve to the halls, a sense that distances stretched and shrank at will. But soon, the changes became impossible to ignore.

  Their footsteps did not echo.

  The air did not stir.

  The torches they carried did not flicker, did not cast shadows.

  The Blackspire did not obey the rules of the world outside.

  And that was when Korrak knew—it was going to get worse.

  The warband had been thirty strong when they entered.

  Now, they were eight.

  The rest had been dragged down, burned, consumed, twisted into things that no longer walked as men.

  Korrak barely noticed who was left.

  He only counted the ones who could still fight.

  That number was shrinking.

  One of the survivors, a grizzled fighter who had once bragged of killing twenty men in a single battle, was muttering under his breath.

  Korrak ignored it—until the man stopped walking altogether.

  He stood in place, staring blankly at the stone.

  Korrak stepped beside him, frowning.

  “What.”

  The mercenary didn’t react.

  Didn’t even blink.

  Then, in a voice soft and dreamlike—

  “I think I’ve been here before.”

  Korrak tensed.

  “We just got here.”

  The man’s eyes were too wide now.

  “No. No, I remember this place. I—”

  He turned to Korrak, and Korrak’s stomach tightened.

  Because the man’s own face was gone.

  In its place was the face of someone else entirely.

  A face Korrak had seen dead long ago.

  Korrak drew his sword.

  The not-man smiled.

  And then it tore itself apart.

  It was not a man at all.

  Not anymore.

  The moment Korrak's blade sliced through it, the thing collapsed like dust in the wind, its flesh unraveling into nothing, its bones folding inward like crumbling paper.

  And where it had stood—

  There was nothing.

  No blood. No remains.

  Just a widening crack in the floor beneath it.

  The others stared, silent.

  The Mage took a slow, thoughtful breath.

  Then, quietly—

  “The Spire is not only swallowing bodies.”

  Korrak glanced at him.

  The Mage tilted his head.

  “It is eating time. Memory. Identity.”

  He looked back to where the mercenary had stood.

  “Whoever he was, he never existed at all now.”

  Korrak said nothing.

  He didn’t have to.

  Because now—now he understood why the Spire kept its victims alive.

  The corridor stretched.

  Then it shifted.

  One moment, it was stone and archways. The next, it was a great, spiraling drop into nothing.

  And the Mage did not stop in time.

  Korrak saw it before it happened.

  Saw the way the Spire bent reality, twisting the space beneath them, pulling the hallway into an impossible descent.

  The Mage—**eager, entranced, always three steps ahead—**walked forward.

  And the floor collapsed beneath him.

  For a heartbeat, there was nothing but empty air.

  Then—Korrak moved.

  Faster than he should have.

  Faster than he ever had before.

  His hand closed around the Mage’s wrist, just as the world gave way beneath them.

  The Mage choked on a breath.

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  For the first time since they’d stepped inside the Spire—he looked afraid.

  Korrak held on.

  Beneath them, the pit stretched into endless dark.

  And something was waiting below.

  The Mage’s golden eyes met Korrak’s.

  For once, there was no amusement in them.

  No smugness. No glee.

  Just quiet, dawning horror.

  Korrak gritted his teeth.

  “Hold.”

  The Mage’s fingers twitched.

  His free hand reached for something—

  A spell? A trick? A desperate escape?

  Korrak’s grip tightened.

  “Don’t.”

  The Mage froze.

  And then, slowly, painfully, Korrak pulled him up.

  It took everything.

  The Spire wanted him to fall.

  The stone beneath Korrak’s feet shuddered, twisted, tried to break.

  But Korrak did not let go.

  And when he finally dragged the Mage back onto solid ground—

  The Spire screamed.

  Not a sound.

  Not a noise.

  A feeling.

  Like the entire tower had noticed what had just happened.

  And it was not pleased.

  The Mage rolled onto his back, chest rising and falling.

  For a long moment, neither of them spoke.

  Then—softly.

  “You saved me.”

  Korrak just grunted.

  The Mage turned his head toward him.

  There was something unreadable in his expression now.

  Something that felt more like the past than the present.

  Korrak ignored it.

  He stood.

  “We move.”

  The Mage sat up slowly.

  Then, to Korrak’s deep irritation—

  He smiled.

  “I suppose I owe you, then.”

  Korrak exhaled through his nose.

  And kept walking.

  They did not stop to rest.

  The Spire had shown its hand.

  It did not just kill.

  It unmade.

  And the deeper they went—

  The more Korrak was certain that it was trying to unmake them, too.

  The Mage walked beside him now, quieter than before.

  The others followed, uncertain, shaken.

  And behind them—the walls breathed.

  The Tower was waiting.

  And it was not finished yet.

  They descended.

  The staircase stretched onward, cut from black stone that swallowed sound and drank the light from their torches.

  Korrak didn’t know how long they had been walking.

  A minute? An hour?

  It didn’t matter.

  There was no turning back.

  The Spire had made sure of that.

  Korrak had always trusted his senses.

  They had saved his life more times than he could count.

  But now?

  Now his instincts were failing him.

  He could feel it.

  Time was… wrong.

  His boots landed on each step solidly, the rhythm of movement steady, unchanged. But somehow, he felt… out of sequence.

  At one point, he saw his own footprints ahead of them—deep impressions in the dust, as if he had already walked this path before.

  At another, he saw himself below.

  Just a glimpse, a flicker.

  But for the briefest second—his own silhouette, further down the staircase, walking ahead of them.

  And then, gone.

  The warband saw nothing.

  The Mage did.

  And for once, he did not smile.

  The first corpse was waiting for them at the base of the stairs.

  A man.

  One of theirs.

  He had been dead for hours—his throat opened in a familiar, jagged wound.

  Korrak recognized the work of his own sword.

  A man he had killed on the first night inside the Spire.

  That body had been left behind.

  And yet—here it was.

  The mercenaries stopped.

  One of them, a scarred raider with a missing ear, spoke first.

  "This ain’t possible."

  Another spat onto the ground, fingers tightening on his axe.

  "No such thing as ghosts."

  Korrak ignored them both.

  He knelt beside the body.

  It smelled wrong.

  Not like rot. Not like death.

  Like something that had been made, not killed.

  He reached for the corpse—and its hand shot out, grabbing his wrist.

  The thing’s eyes snapped open.

  It whispered with his own voice.

  "You should not have come."

  Korrak ripped his hand free and drove his sword through the thing’s chest.

  It dissolved the moment the blade hit.

  Not into blood.

  Not into flesh.

  Into dust.

  The others staggered back, cursing, shouting.

  The Mage?

  The Mage watched.

  Korrak turned to him, voice low.

  "You knew that would happen."

  The Mage tilted his head.

  Then, softly—"I suspected."

  The staircase ended in a vast, black chamber.

  The walls were polished stone, but they did not reflect light.

  They reflected something else.

  Korrak took one step inside.

  And the walls came alive.

  Not with their reflections.

  With possibilities.

  One of the mercenaries—the scarred raider—staggered backward.

  "No. No, this ain’t—"

  Korrak turned.

  And froze.

  The wall beside the man showed him his own death.

  A spear through his throat.

  His body crumpling to the floor.

  His killer?

  It was himself.

  A second version of the raider, standing over his fallen form, blade dripping.

  And then—the second version looked up.

  Looked at him.

  And grinned.

  Another mercenary broke immediately.

  He turned and ran.

  The others shouted, reaching for him—

  Too late.

  The moment he reached the door—

  He was gone.

  Not taken.

  Not attacked.

  Not killed.

  Gone.

  As if he had never existed at all.

  Korrak exhaled slowly.

  The Spire had claimed another.

  The Mage?

  The Mage was staring at the reflections.

  And for the first time—

  Korrak saw fear in his golden eyes.

  The Mage’s own reflection did not move.

  It did not mirror him.

  It simply stood there, watching.

  And then—

  It raised a hand.

  The real Mage did not.

  His reflection moved on its own.

  A slow, deliberate motion.

  As if it had been waiting for this moment.

  Then it opened its mouth—

  And whispered something Korrak could not hear.

  And the Mage flinched.

  Korrak had seen enough.

  He drew his blade—

  And drove it into the wall.

  The stone shattered.

  The reflections broke apart.

  And the illusions died.

  The Spire screamed.

  And when Korrak looked back at the Mage—

  The younger man was breathing hard.

  His hands were shaking.

  He met Korrak’s eyes.

  And for once—

  He had nothing to say.

  The illusions were gone.

  The path was open.

  A great door stood ahead of them, massive and obsidian-black, carved with symbols none of them could read.

  And Korrak knew.

  This was it.

  The core of the Spire.

  The place where the real nightmare began.

  The door stood before them.

  A great, impossible thing, towering into the dark, carved with symbols older than language itself.

  It pulsed.

  Not with light.

  Not with magic.

  But with something worse.

  Something alive.

  Something waiting.

  Korrak did not care.

  His attention was elsewhere.

  The Mage.

  He was still staring at the walls, his breath coming slow and unsteady, his golden-globe eyes flickering with something Korrak had never seen in them before.

  Doubt.

  And that was a problem.

  Because if the Mage was hesitating now—

  That meant they were already dead.

  Korrak was not a man for subtlety.

  He stepped toward the Mage.

  Stopped just close enough to loom over him.

  Then—flatly.

  "What did you see?"

  The Mage did not answer.

  Korrak grabbed his shoulder.

  Not hard.

  Not to hurt.

  Just enough to make sure he was listening.

  The Mage finally turned to him.

  And when he spoke, his voice was quiet.

  "Nothing."

  Korrak’s fingers tightened.

  The Mage sighed.

  And then, with a voice softer than usual—

  "Nothing that exists yet."

  The others—what was left of them—stood further back, watching.

  This was a conversation not meant for them.

  The Mage exhaled, rolling his shoulders, shaking the tension from his hands, rubbing at his wrists like he was trying to rid himself of something crawling beneath his skin.

  Then, softly—

  "The Spire does not only show what has been.

  It shows what could be."

  Korrak studied him.

  Waited.

  The Mage’s throat worked as he swallowed.

  "It showed me something I do not want to understand."

  Korrak narrowed his eyes.

  "Tell me anyway."

  The Mage let out a breath.

  Then, finally—

  "It showed me myself.

  And I was not in control."

  Korrak had known the Mage for a long time.

  Longer than either of them ever spoke of.

  It had never been spoken aloud, not even once.

  But now—the weight of that past hung between them.

  And Korrak saw the cracks forming in the younger man’s confidence.

  The Mage was always the smartest man in the room.

  Always two steps ahead.

  And now—for the first time in his life—

  He did not understand something.

  And that terrified him.

  Korrak sighed.

  Then—carefully, deliberately—

  He let go of his shoulder.

  The Mage stared at him.

  And in the silence that followed, something passed between them.

  Something unspoken.

  Something that belonged to the past.

  A wizard’s tower.

  A ruined laboratory.

  A child with golden eyes, standing amidst the wreckage.

  A barbarian with a bloody sword, stepping past him without a word.

  Korrak said nothing.

  But the Mage understood.

  As he always did.

  The Mage’s breathing steadied.

  His fingers stopped twitching.

  And when he finally spoke—

  His voice was his own again.

  "We go forward."

  Korrak nodded.

  "We go forward."

  And then—without another word—

  They opened the door.

  And the Spire swallowed them whole.