The Tower's pulse did not fade.
Instead, it deepened—like a drumbeat buried beneath every stone, every echo of silence, every breath of those who lived within its endless reaches. The battlefield they stood on began to mend in strange, unnatural ways. Shattered ground knit together not with healing, but with purpose, arranging itself into lines of trenches, ridges, and scarred pathways as though preparing for armies yet to march.
Naval's grip tightened around his trident. "…It's rearranging itself."
Roselia groaned, pushing herself upright on her blade. "Not rearranging. Aligning. The Tower isn't waiting—it's shaping the war before it even begins."
Roman spat blood into the dirt, his tone sharp. "Then we're already inside it. Every floor's about to become a battlefield."
