Chapter 9 — Eyes Above, Dreams Below
(I'll weave both halves together, keeping the Overseers' part you liked intact, then finish with Avon & Laura's log conversation. About ~1,150 words total.)
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The Rift's night howled, but inside the transport ship orbiting above it, silence ruled the command deck.
Banks of surveillance screens flickered with images of firelight, claws, and blood. Drones swept over the hunting grounds, transmitting every heartbeat of the Crucible back to the overseers.
Director Bill Harrow stood at the center, arms folded, his broad frame casting a shadow across the glowing monitors. Even now, his presence was wolf-like—power coiled beneath the surface, controlled but undeniable. His eyes glowed faintly, a remnant of the Warwolf King Transformation he carried in his blood.
"Look at them," Bill said, voice like gravel. On the screens, Mara's flames roared from her hands, blue-black tongues of fire scattering beasts. "They're adapting. Working together. That's the only strategy that brings anyone out of the Crucible alive."
Colonel Marcus Veyr snorted, smoke curling from his cigar. His scarred face twisted in disdain. "Teamwork won't save them when a real monster decides to strike. That orphan boy—Avon Standfeild—charging a lion with a sword? Fool's luck. He should be ashes right now."
Dr. Evelyn Kael tapped her stylus against the screen, enlarging the footage of Avon's squad springing their trap on the Black Flame Lion. "Luck?" Her voice was cold, analytical. "No. Coordination. Improvised snares, fire pressure, synchronized strikes. Not refined, but effective. If anything, his instincts are… troubling. Leadership from a nobody is more dangerous than raw strength."
Commander Rafe Dorn leaned on the console, jaw tight. "Dangerous is the word. If orphans walk out of the Rift with Traits, it disrupts order inside the Towers. Nobles won't allow it."
Bill's stare sharpened. "Maybe it's time they learn power doesn't ask for permission. The Crucible rewards the willing, not the wealthy."
Marcus sneered. "And if that power breeds more monsters? We've buried too many who lost control of their Traits."
Dr. Kael's lips curved faintly. "Or perhaps that's simply evolution taking its course."
Bill's hand flexed, the shimmer of fur rippling over his knuckles for an instant. "Don't underestimate rats, Dorn. I was one once. And I returned with the Warwolf crown."
The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by the hum of the ship. On the screens below, the orphans' fire burned bright against the dark.
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Down in the Rift, Avon sat on a log by the flames, warmth licking his boots. Around him, his squad buzzed with quiet energy—Rob teasing Kira about her tails, Hank sharpening his blade, Mara practicing tiny bursts of flame between her palms.
Laura sat across from him, her cloak pulled close, firelight soft against her face. She had listened to the hunters' chatter for a while, then looked at Avon with a thoughtful smile.
"You asked me earlier what it's like in the Towers," she said.
Avon nodded. "Yeah. Hard to picture when all I see is stone walls and the Tower's shadow."
Laura's gaze drifted to the distant glow of the Tower, faint even through the Rift's haze. "When I was little, we lived on Floor 1. Just one step above the slums. My father worked as a clerk for years. Then with time—and his leadership—he rose. Floor by floor. Until he became mayor."
She traced lines in the dirt with a stick as she spoke, as if drawing her memories. "Every floor is like its own city. Markets, mom-and-pop shops, arenas for fights, clubs where people lose themselves, even temples tucked between alleys. On Floor 1 it was cramped, noisy, desperate. By Floor 100, things were cleaner, safer. By Floor 300, we had light gardens, theaters, entire plazas carved into the walls."
Avon leaned forward, eyes fixed on her words. He could almost see it. "So higher means better?"
"In some ways," Laura said softly. "But I've never gone above Floor 500. My father said that beyond there… life belongs only to nobles and families whose wealth runs so deep it might as well be blood."
She looked back at him, the fire reflecting in her eyes. "That's why this Crucible matters, Avon. People like you—like us—don't usually climb. But if we survive with Traits, even the floors above 500 might one day open."
Avon let her words sink in. Around them, laughter and fire crackled. Above them, beasts howled in the night.
And somewhere unseen, a Tower a thousand floors high waited—every step a promise, every level a battle.
Avon clenched his fists, silent vow burning in his chest. I'll climb. Even if I have to tear through the Rift, the nobles, and the aliens themselves. I'll climb.