Awakener's Guide to Climbing the Tower

Misha did not move closer. The warning had been carved there for a reason.

"Please let me out." The voice trembled.

She shifted her grip on her dagger’s hilt but left the blade sheathed as she asked out. "What’s your name?"

A pause followed, long enough to resemble hesitation.

"Please let me out."

"What district is this?"

"Please."

That was not an answer. The thing had recognized that she had spoken. That did not mean it understood her.

Misha took one step to the side, changing her position without making much noise. If whatever waited inside was following her voice, she wanted to know.

"How many people are in there?"

Silence. Then the door shuddered beneath a second impact.

BANG!

The red paint had cracked around the center, where repeated blows had bowed the iron outward.

"Please let me out." The voice moved, following where it heard her voice.

Misha backed away one step.

"Open. The. Door."

The child vanished between one word and the next. A man spoke now, older. His voice dragged low and coarse, as though the throat producing it had been packed with dirt.

Misha’s hand drew Twinfang free by several inches.

"Please," a woman whispered.

Another voice joined hers, then another.

"Please."

"Open."

"Let me out."

The pleas overlapped badly. A little girl sobbed beneath an old man’s growl. A woman called for someone named Tomas. A boy laughed on, too brightly, before the sound cut off and began again.

"Please open the door please open the door please open the door–"

The pounding resumed. Hands struck the door from different heights. Some near the handle, others high enough to belong to something much taller than a person.

The red door slowly bowed toward Misha.

「 Fear and panic suppressed. 」

Her breathing steadied before it could become shallow. It simply cleared enough of the fear away for common sense to breathe.

The warning said not to open the door and the thing inside could imitate voices. That concluded the investigation.

Misha turned away. Behind her, the pounding changed rhythm.

There were three blows, then a pause, and followed by two blows.

"Misha."

Her step nearly faltered.

The voice had changed again, male this time. It was tired, and familiar enough to tug at a memory without becoming anyone she could name.

The mask concealed her real identity. No one in Exodus should know it. Whatever occupied the room had not learned her name from her. It had simply found another sound trapped inside whatever collection it carried. Some dead person had known another Misha, that was all.

It was not comforting. Especially when there were people who knew her name. Those people were youngsters who went ahead of her.

"Misha," the thing repeated, the pronunciation shifting slightly as another stolen voice took over. "Open the door."

Her chest tightened as she clenched her fist. She didn’t want to believe her ears. ’No... it can’t be them.’

She refused to believe it. Misha kept walking and increased her pace before the thing inside could decide she was worth breaking through for. She did not look back. Sometimes, a person has to recognize a door marked ’do not open’ and respect the person who had taken the time to write it.

The road widened into a narrow square. At its center stood a dry fountain filled with ash and broken glass. No statue rose from the basin. Instead, an iron pole had been driven through the middle.

A bell hung from it. The metal had darkened with age. Heavy chains wrapped around the bell’s body and clamped the mouth shut.

A wooden sign beneath it read:

| THIRD BELL — EVACUATE LOWER WARD |

The rope lay several feet away, cut cleanly through.

Misha examined the square. Another bell tower rose above the roofs farther north. Its bell was narrow and tall, unlike the broad one chained above the fountain. Beyond it, a smaller iron frame stood on the roof of what might have been a guardhouse. That bell was squat, painted white, and covered by a metal hood. They had different sizes, different shapes, and different locations.

Genesis used bells to mark the hour, or warn the walls of an approaching army. Exodus had probably used them as a language.

A soft chime rang somewhere to the east.

Misha froze at the sound. One note, then two. It was not loud enough to be a tower bell. It was a handbell.

’Is it someone alive?’ Possibly.

The thing behind the red door had used voices. A parasite capable of moving a corpse could probably shake a bell.

Misha turned toward the sound without hurrying. It came again from an alley between a boarded tavern and a stone building marked with a red circle.

There were quick rings, a pause, then two more. It was a pattern. Deliberate, perhaps. Or maybe bait designed by something that had learned patterns mattered.

She crossed the square with Twinfang loose in her hand.

The alley narrowed after several steps. Iron grates had been installed overhead, closing the space into a roofless cage. Some could be lowered by chains fixed to the walls, allowing the passage to be sealed in sections.

It was not looking like a protection from an army but more like... a quarantine.

Notices covered the stone on both sides. The official ones had been printed in block lettering and nailed at eye level.

| ALL DECEASED MUST BE REPORTED BEFORE NIGHTFALL. |

| UNAUTHORIZED BURIAL IS PUNISHABLE BY DISTRICT EXPULSION. |

| A FAMILIAR FACE IS NOT PROOF OF LIFE. |

Messages written by hand filled the gaps between them.

| Mara went north with the second group. |

| Do not believe the bells after sunset. |

| The guards locked Ward Six. |

| They knew.|

The handwriting changed from message to message. Some letters were neat, others had been scratched in charcoal or blood.

Near the end of the alley, someone had carved a final sentence directly into the stone.

| THE CITY WAS NEVER THE OBJECTIVE. |

Misha stopped reading as a cold pressure moved down her spine.

The words had been cut slowly. Whoever wrote them had gone over each line more than once, deepening the grooves until the message could not be washed away.

If the city was never the objective, then what had been? The people? The evacuation? Something kept inside Exodus?

The handbell rang again, closer now.

Misha tore her attention from the wall and followed. The alley ended at a small courtyard enclosed by three buildings. Two doors had been broken apart, their planks scattered across the wet stones.

The third remained intact. A white line had been painted across its frame. Someone had placed shallow bowls of ash along the threshold, each spaced a hand’s width apart.

The ash had not been disturbed and the bell rang behind that door.

Someone had placed bowls of ash across the threshold.

The bell rang from behind that door.

Misha stopped beyond striking distance. "Hello?"

The ringing stopped and after several seconds, nothing happened. Then a narrow panel slid open. One eye stared through it. Brown, bloodshot, and human, perhaps.

Misha no longer trusted that distinction from a single eye.

The person behind the door did not speak. Their gaze traveled over the cloak, the daggers in her hands, and the white cat mask concealing her face. A masked stranger arriving in a dead city did not inspire confidence.

Misha slid Twinfang into its sheaths, slowly enough that the person could follow the movement. Then she raised both empty hands.

"My name is Shana," she said, the lie coming so easily.

Gravekeeper was the name the Tower would show anyone using an identification skill. Shana could be the ordinary name beneath it.

"I came through the portal."

The eye widened. "The portal?"

The voice belonged to a young woman. Hoarse, but alive.

"Yes. From Floor 10."

Metal shifted behind the wood. One lock, then another. Misha counted five before the door opened no wider than a hand. Then, a knife appeared through the gap.

"Show your wrist."

Misha glanced down at the blade. "What?"

"Your wrist," the woman repeated. "Bare skin."

Misha understood. She lowered one hand, pushed back her sleeve, and held her wrist near the gap.

"Closer."

She brought it within reach.

Two fingers emerged and pressed against the radial artery below her thumb. The stranger’s skin was cold. A faint tremor ran through the hand, though the grip remained controlled.

The woman counted silently. She shifted her fingers once to confirm the rhythm, competent enough that Misha suspected this had become routine. A corpse could move. It could speak. Apparently, it could not maintain a pulse.

After several beats, the knife lowered and the door opened.

A young woman stood behind it, though exhaustion had taken enough from her face to make age difficult to place. Early twenties, perhaps. Her hair had been hacked short with a dull blade, leaving uneven dark strands around her ears.

Bandages covered the left side of her neck and a small iron bell hung from a cord around her wrist. She wore no armor, only a long dark coat over clothes stiff with dried blood and ash.

Three other people waited behind her. An elderly man gripped a shovel with both hands. A boy stood beside him, no older than twelve, holding a kitchen knife at chest height. His knuckles had gone pale around the handle.

Another woman lay unconscious on the floor beneath two patched blankets.

Misha’s attention went to the bandages around the unconscious woman’s forearm.

The boy noticed. "She wasn’t bitten," he said quickly. His voice cracked, and anger followed to cover it. "It’s a burn."

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