Awakener's Guide to Climbing the Tower

Her very first Observer.

The failed Floor Quest had probably triggered the broadcast. A settlement collapsing into an active secondary quest qualified as the sort of event the Tower considered worth displaying. Caleb might have helped too.

Misha could imagine him somewhere above, quietly adjusting the profile’s visibility while pretending he had done nothing.

"My sister finally stopped looking completely helpless. Promote her." The thought came with his voice far too easily.

’Wonderful.’

Her first follower had arrived precisely when an alley full of weapon-carrying corpses decided to look in her direction.

At least Caleb had enabled the private interface. Without it, she would have been performing for some ancient creature without realizing the channel had gone live.

The Observer could not see the notification itself, but it could probably see her pause, the direction of her gaze, and the slight delay before she reacted so Misha dismissed the window and forced her attention back to the present.

The Vestiges remained motionless for another second. Then they began advancing in unison.

Their pace was slow at first. Ash shifted beneath their feet as they moved deeper into the alley. None bumped into the walls, and none tripped over broken stones. That made them worse than ordinary zombies.

The Vestige Husks inside did not need to teach the body how to walk from nothing. It had reached the spinal pathways and pulled on patterns that had already been repeated thousands of times in life.

Misha stepped back from the inspection panel and slammed it shut. "We need to leave."

Behind her, the old man raised his sharpened shovel. His arms trembled so badly that the metal edge knocked against the wall.

"T-the back door," he stammered. He nodded toward a dark opening behind the storeroom. "There’s a service lane. W-we can reach the Undertaker’s Run from there."

The boy hurried toward the unconscious woman and dropped to his knees. "We can’t leave mama!"

His kitchen knife slipped from one hand and clattered across the floor. He ignored it. Instead, he seized the blankets and them higher over his mother, tucking the cloth against her shoulders as though hiding her might prevent the dead from finding her.

"No one said we were leaving her," Misha replied.

The boy looked up, his face had already gone wet. He wiped his nose against his sleeve without seeming to notice.

"Lysa said we have to go." His voice climbed with every word. "Mama can’t walk... she won’t wake up, and Grandpa can’t carry her that far. You’re all going to leave her here!"

He snatched the knife from the floor and held it in both hands. The pointed part wavered toward Misha, then Lysa, then nowhere.

He was not threatening anyone. He was twelve, terrified, and trying to stand between his unconscious mother and three adults who controlled every decision.

Misha lowered her hands away from her daggers.. "What’s your name?"

The question caught him off guard. "W-what?"

"Your name."

His lower lip trembled. "Carl..."

"Fine, Carl." Misha kept her voice level. "Keep the knife if it makes you feel safer. Just point it away from everyone trying to help your mother."

His hands still shook as he stared through the tears.

"We’re not your enemies," she added. "We are here to help you."

The blade dipped slowly. Carl remained between her and his mother when she tried to get close.

"I need to check whether she can be moved. I promise not to hurt her."

Misha crouched until they were closer to eye level, though the mask kept him from seeing her expression. "You can watch my hands. If I do something you don’t understand, ask me. But I need you to let me check her."

The boy’s gaze darted toward his grandfather to which the old man nodded once. Only then did Carl shift aside, barely.

Misha knelt beside the woman. The first priority was breathing. She placed two fingers against the side of the woman’s neck and felt a pulse beneath the skin. It was fast, weak enough to concern her, but regular.

Then she leaned closer to the woman’s mouth and air faintly brushed against her hand. The chest rose in shallow, even movements. It was hot from fever. "She’s breathing."

Carl’s shoulders finally relaxed as he continued to watch her.

Smoke inhalation could explain the unconsciousness and shallow breathing. So could dehydration, exhaustion, or an untreated infection beneath the bandages. Misha did not have enough information to choose one cause, and guessing would not make the woman safer. What mattered was simpler. She was alive.

She glanced at Carl. "Your mother is breathing on her own. Her pulse is too fast, and she has a high fever, but I don’t see a reason we have to leave her."

Hope entered the boy’s face so quickly it hurt to look at him.

"How do we bring her?" Lysa asked from the door.

Misha scanned the shelter. A broken interior door leaned against the far wall. The panel was narrow enough to pass through the service corridor and thick enough to support an adult. One side had split, but a wooden brace could keep it from folding. So she pointed toward it. "That."

The old man followed her gesture. "That?"

"We turn it into a stretcher." Misha stood. "Old man, find some rope. Tear the blankets into straps if you have to. Curtain cord, laundry line, anything strong enough to hold her in place."

He moved at once, looking around frantically.

"Carl, find me a folded coat or a small bundle of cloth for her head. We need something that will support to keep her neck straight while we carry her." She pointed at his mother. "If she vomits or starts choking, turn her head to the side and tell Lysa immediately, understand?"

Carl nodded too quickly.

"Say it."

"I turn her head to the side and tell Lysa."

"Good."

Giving him instructions worked better than telling him not to be afraid. Fear had nowhere to go but a task gave it direction.

Carl hurried toward the supplies.

The old man dragged the wooden panel into the center of the room. Misha helped him brace the split with two short wooden boards taken from a broken shelf. Lysa kept watch through the panel while they worked with one hand pressed tightly over the bell around her wrist.

Together, they rolled the unconscious woman onto the makeshift stretcher.

Carl hovered close enough to interfere, then caught himself and stepped back when Misha looked at him. He brought a folded coat and tucked it beneath his mother’s head.

She adjusted it lower. "Keep her neck straight."

Carl copied the position of Misha’s hands, cradling his mother’s head without lifting it too far.

The old man returned with lengths of cord and torn cloth. They secured the woman at the shoulders, hips, and thighs. Not tight enough to restrict breathing. Only enough to prevent her from sliding if the stretcher tilted around a corner.

Misha turned toward Lysa. "Give me the bell."

Lysa looked at her sharply. "No."

"They reacted to it."

"That’s why I’m keeping it silent."

Misha bit back the first response that came to mind.

The woman was frightened, not stupid. Fear merely made her cling to the thing she believed she could still control.

She held out one hand. "That is exactly why you are going to give it to me."

Lysa’s fingers tightened around the iron bell.

"The three of you can’t move quickly while carrying her," Misha continued. "If the pack follows you into the Undertaker’s Run, those passages will become a slaughterhouse."

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