Tower of Astrum Ruin

As the last of the Grest tribe settled in, Tinkwick—who had vanished after their meal on the carriage bench—suddenly reappeared as if by magic. He now wore a long leather-and-fur jacket that nearly reached his ankles, cinched at the waist with a braided belt to keep it from dragging. He looked immensely pleased with himself.

"Where have you been?" Suren asked, raising an eyebrow at the giddy gnome.

"Oh, nowhere," Tinkwick replied with a mischievous grin, gesturing toward a group of older women by a fire. "Just chatting with the lovely ladies of the Grest tribe."

Suren glanced over. Most of the women appeared old enough to be his mother—or possibly grandmother.

"How old are you?" Rickon asked dryly, prompting laughter from both Suren and Ti'chan.

Their amusement was interrupted by a shift in the camp. In'ang, seated with the top warriors in the most prominent ring of firelight, raised his arm as a magnificent royal blue hawk descended gracefully onto his leather bracer. The bird had a crown of faintly glowing yellow feathers above its brow—ethereal and regal. From the round leather tube strapped to its back, In'ang retrieved a letter and a rolled piece of marked leather.

What's that?" Suren asked, nudging Ti'chan and pointing at the hawk.

Ti'chan followed his gaze, nodding. "That's the Yond Hawk of the Grand Yond Tribe. They're the messengers of the Great Plains—tribal beasts bred to fly across the entire territory. They say a Yond Hawk can cross the whole plains in just three days."

As the hawk preened its feathers, another man approached. He wore finely tailored robes embroidered with tribal markings—clearly not a warrior. With practiced ease, he took the hawk from In'ang and began feeding it strips of bloody meat.

"That's a Yondrahl liaison of the Yond Tribe," Ti'chan explained. "They travel with us. Only liaisons are trained to speak to the Yond Hawks." Ti'chan said pointing at the man.

Before Suren could ask more, Ti'chan stood. "Come on. It's starting."

They followed him to a communal cooking area near one of the large fire pits. Mi'isa stood over a steaming pot, ladling stew into wooden bowls. She handed each of them a bowl and a flat loaf of bread, gesturing for them to sit on a circle of animal leathers laid around the fire.

Suren watched Ti'chan tear a piece of the bread, dip it into the thick stew, and eat. He and the others followed suit. The flavor hit instantly—rich and gamey, spiced with wild herbs, smoky and warm. The warmth sank into their bones, pushing away the exhaustion.

Around them, the tribe gathered. Men and women moved closer to the fire pits, forming a rough circle. The dancers stepped into the center. The men wore only dyed leather trousers, their bare torsos painted with tribal designs in swirling colors. The women wore long flowing dresses of dyed wool, adorned with loose strands of carved bone and shells that clacked softly when they moved.

The dance began with slow, deliberate steps.

Around the ring, the onlookers began to stomp their feet rhythmically, echoing like distant thunder. The dancers' movements quickened, growing more complex. Horns joined the rhythm, deep and resonant, followed by the low hum of the men in unison. Then—one voice rose above them all.

A woman sang. Her voice was hauntingly beautiful, melodic yet heavy with sorrow. The words were unknown to Suren, but the emotion was unmistakable. He sat still, unmoving—until a single tear slid down his cheek.

"What's the song about?" he whispered to Ti'chan.

Ti'chan, swaying slightly as he ate, paused to swallow before answering.

"It's a song about the war… when the outlanders first arrived on this continent."

They sat together until the moon climbed to the center of the sky. Most of the nomads had already drifted off to sleep, their laughter and voices fading into silence.

Eventually, Mi'isa and Ti'chan led them to a large yurt where several people were already lying on mats beneath furs, the moon and stars casting silver light through the open roof flaps. Mi'isa guided them to a quiet corner.

"Come now, you three will sleep beside Ti'chan," she said gently, ruffling Ti'chan's shaggy hair.

They sat down quietly. One by one, the others crawled under their covers. Rickon yawned loudly and rolled onto his side. Tinkwick and Ti'chan were already asleep, soft snoring rising and falling.

"Su, come on. Go to bed," Rickon mumbled, half-asleep.

"Soon," Suren whispered. "I just want to stay up a little longer."

From his wooden chest, he pulled out a roll of tanned leather and a stick of charcoal. Sitting cross-legged, he unrolled the leather on the ground. By the pale glow of starlight, he closed his eyes and breathed deeply.

A faint warmth traveled down his fingertips. His Mark—resting just on the skin at the back of his hand—began to shimmer softly, feeding light into the charcoal. And then he began to draw.

He worked in silence, lines emerging as if already known to him: a tower, nine floors tall, with sharp contours, arched windows, and layered balconies. When the first scroll was filled, he reached for another, sketching floor layouts—spiral staircases, vaulted chambers, observation decks. On the final scroll, he crafted the crown: an open top formed by nine slender poles, each aligned with the major stars visible in the sky above.

He lost track of time. The moon had already shifted from its apex by the time he leaned back, eyes aching, fingers trembling. A sharp pain bloomed behind his eyes. His vision blurred.

And then, as he collapsed back onto the furs, his scrolls stirred.

The drawings lifted off the ground, glowing faintly, lines of charcoal unraveling into threads of starlight. They spun slowly above him, absorbing the celestial light until they shimmered like living blueprints. Then, as if inhaling some unseen breath, they folded in on themselves and pressed into his chest.

His Mark flared once, pulsing with radiant heat.

Then all was quiet.

Congratulations. You have created your first design.

The Tower of the Astrum Ruin.

The essence of the Abyss has been purified.

The world was wrong.

Darkness clung to everything, but not the comforting dark of night—this was an absence of order, of reason. The terrain twisted like a half-finished sketch, as though drawn by a hand unfamiliar with symmetry or sanity. Yet despite its alien distortion, the place felt old. Ancient. Timeless. Unchanging

At the center of the landscape, a gothic spire loomed—inverted. Its sharp roof was buried in the earth, its wide base pointing toward the heavens like a defiant monument to madness. Hanging in the air before it was a stone throne, and upon that throne sat a figure cloaked in tattered red robes. Chains locking it in place.

The figure's legs were crossed. One hand supported its chin in idle thought, the other draped lazily across the armrest. At first, it seemed still, like a sculpture—but then it moved. Slowly. Deliberately. Its face turned toward Suren, though no eyes were visible beneath the hood.

Then it spoke.

Not with breath or sound, but with words that pressed directly into Suren's skull. They clawed at his mind, fracturing thought, each syllable unraveling sense.

"The universe's scales do not weigh right against wrong… only balance against imbalance. So why fight to unmake what is?"

Suren woke with a jolt, gasping for air.

His head throbbed violently, and his body trembled with lingering dread. The vision clung to him like smoke—its pieces already slipping through his fingers. He couldn't recall the place, the details, the words.

But he remembered the red figure.

And the spire that pointed at the sky.

Sitting beside his bedroll was Tinkwick, hunched over Suren's scattered drawings. The sudden motion as Suren jolted upright startled the gnome, making him jump and drop the parchment.

"Demons of the Abyss!" Tinkwick yelped, clutching his chest. "You nearly scared me to death!"

Suren ignored him, groggy fingers reaching for the papers. As he gathered the sketches, a faint glow pulsed from his Mark. A soft whisper of starlight traced through the drawings.

[Tower of Astrum Ruin]

Tower uses the light of stars to purify Abyssal Essence into pure Ethos. Stored in the Pool of Ethos (Substructure Level).

Suren frowned. He didn't remember adding anything like that to his design. Confused, he tapped the Mark again and read the earlier message.

"Congratulations. You have designed your first Drawing."

Tinkwick leaned in, eyes glinting with curiosity.

"Those are some fine sketches," he said, scratching his chin. "Did you draw all this with your skill?"

"Yes… last night," Suren muttered, still a little dazed. "But—Tinkwick—what exactly is Ethos?"

The gnome blinked, then squinted at him. "Ethos? That's… one of the most valuable things in the world! When a Professional uses their abilities, their Mark purifies Abyssal Essence into Ethos—raw, radiant energy. It gets stored inside the Mark and fuels their growth. Advancement only happens when you gather enough and understand your Word."

Suren nodded slowly. "This tower—it can purify Essence into Ethos. And store it."

Tinkwick's eyes bulged.

"What?" he gasped, his voice loud enough to startle some of the nomads outside the yurt. Mi'isa glanced over with a raised brow.

He leaned in close, his voice now a barely audible whisper.

"Are you sure?"

Suren turned the sketches toward him. "It says so. Hold it. Look."

Tinkwick snatched the parchment and held it like a sacred relic, squinting hard. The glowing script flickered for a moment—but to him, only the name appeared: Tower of Astrum Ruin.

"I only see the title," he said, frustrated. "But Suren… if what you're saying is true…"

He trailed off, eyes wide, breath shallow.

"We have to build this."