Awakener's Guide to Climbing the Tower

Lysa hesitated as her gaze landed on the hand Misha held out, then to the bell still trapped beneath her palm. "And if they follow you?"

"That’s the point."

Misha could just leave. The thought came without guilt.

The quest did not require her to save everyone in this room. The Passage Seal was enough to reach the next floor. She could take the information she needed, find the crematorium, and let these people deal with the consequences of a city she had entered less than an hour ago.

Survival did not demand heroism. If she lacked the skills, the weapons, or the speed to help them, she would choose herself. If saving someone meant throwing her own life away for nothing, she would walk out. She had made peace with that kind of calculation long before entering the Tower.

But this was different... She could help and she had the skills to do it.That changed the equation.

Walking away when there was nothing she could do was survival. Walking away when she had the ability to intervene would follow her long after Exodus. Her sanity had already collected enough ghosts.

She stepped closer to Lysa and lowered her voice. "I draw them into the square and you take the back lane."

Lysa’s brows pulled together. "How will you find us afterward?"

"You’ll mark the route."

"With what?"

Misha nodded toward the table. A child’s slate lay beneath a stack of stained papers. Beside it sat several stubby waxy crayons, dulled from use. "Those."

Lysa followed her gaze and instantly understood.

"One line at every turn," Misha continued. "Two if the route is blocked. Keep the marks low on the left wall. The wax should hold against damp stone, and the Vestiges are less likely to brush over it."

Lysa stared at her as the plan settled across her face piece by piece. Finally, she nodded. "Alright." She crossed to the table, swept the crayons into one hand and shoved them into her coat pocket. "The Undertaker’s Run leads to Kiln House Four. It’s three streets west of the Central Crematorium. The roof has a white chimney with a broken iron cap."

"Can it be secured?"

"Two iron doors and one cellar entrance."

"Go there. Lock everything behind you." Misha looked at the bell beneath Lysa’s hand. "And if you find another one of those, do not ring it."

"I know." Lysa untied the cord from her wrist. "If you reach the main avenue, don’t cross it," she warned. "Mortuary Row runs along the other side."

"What’s wrong with Mortuary Row?"

"The Vestiges there carry collection hooks." Lysa’s mouth tightened. "They used to haul bodies down from the upper districts. Now they pull living people from bridges."

Misha accepted the bell, its metal felt cold enough to sting. "What a wonderful city."

"You haven’t seen the worst of it." Lysa wrapped the cord twice around Misha’s wrist and tied it tight enough that the bell would not fly loose during combat.

BANG!

The shelter door jumped in its frame.

Misha’s head snapped toward the rear passage. "Move!"

Lysa and the old man hurried to the opposite ends of the makeshift stretcher. Both strained when they lifted and the old man’s knees nearly buckled, but he managed to straighten with the wooden frame braced against his thigh.

Carl rushed toward his grandfather’s side.

"No," Misha’s voice stopped him.

He turned, already defensive. "But–"

"You stay near your mother’s head."

"I can carry her." He wiped his nose against his sleeve. "I’m strong."

"Then be strong enough to do the job I gave you. Watch her breathing. If they tilt too far, you tell them. If she coughs, chokes, starts shaking, or stops responding, you tell Lysa immediately.

His mouth tightened. "I can still help grandpa."

"You can support the stretcher if he starts losing his grip." Misha crouched slightly so she was not speaking down at him. "But your first job is watching your mother and the route behind them." Then she pointed toward the passage. "If you see anything more, even if you think it’s just a shadow, you say something. Don’t go check it yourself and don’t try to be brave. You warn the adults."

"I’m not scared." His voice shook badly enough to ruin the lie.

Misha did not call him on it. "Good. Then you can pay attention."

Another blow struck the door.

CRACK!

A long split ran through the wood.

Carl swallowed whatever protest had been forming. The kitchen knife was tucked into his belt with the handle pointing inward. One wrong movement would drag the blade across his stomach once he would try to draw it.

Misha caught his shoulder before he followed the others, making the boy flinch.

"Knife on the outside," she said, adjusting it carefully, positioning the handle where his right hand could reach without crossing his body. "This way, if you need it, you pull it away from your body. And do not fight unless something gets past the adults, understand?"

"What if they get hurt?"

"You warn them first."

"What if–"

"Carl."

He looked up at her, his lips stretched into a thin line.

"You are twelve. That does not mean you’re useless. It means your job is different, do you understand?"

Tears filled his eyes again. He looked down before they could falll. Then, very quietly, "Are you coming?"

"Yes."

"You promise?"

The word struck somewhere Misha preferred not to touch. She had started hating promises inside the Tower. They had too much confidence for things made of breath. People said ’I promise’ as though the words could control blades, monsters, failing bodies, or doors that refused to open.

Misha looked toward the stretcher. Carl’s mother lay pale beneath the blankets, alive because four strangers were currently choosing not to abandon her.

"I know where you’re going," she said instead. "Keep your mother alive until I get there."

Carl searched the blank white mask. He probably wanted to see the face beneath it. A smile, or maybe a reassuring expression. Some proof that the stranger asking him to leave was not lying. The mask gave him nothing so after several seconds, he nodded anyway.

"Let’s go." Lysa shifted her grip on the stretcher. "Quietly now."

They disappeared into the rear corridor.

The old man’s breathing grew rough almost immediately. Carl whispered something to his mother as they passed through the narrow doorway, his voice too low for Misha to understand.

She waited until the stretcher cleared the turn. Then she shut the rear door and lowered the crossbar into place.

The shelter became quiet except for the banging on the door.

Thud! Thud! Bang!

Misha pulled her hood farther over the cat mask.

’First broadcast, Misha.’ She flexed her fingers around her daggers’ hilts. ’Try not to die embarrassingly.’

Something slammed into the outer door again. This time, metal punched through. An axe head tore through the wood near the lock, sending splinters spinning across the floor. It withdrew then struck the exact same place.

Misha watched the widening hole. "Right." She drew both daggers. "I know someone who loves cutting off heads."

「 Constellation Soul within the Capricorn Chamber Requesting Authorization. 」

Of course Olivia had been paying attention. An alley full of corpses waiting to be decapitated was apparently her idea of an invitation.

"Come, Olivia."

「 Authorization Accepted. 」

「 Possession Initializing... 」

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