After the doors had closed, Kara discarded Madark’s hand. Madark paused, his hands clenching and unclenching, sweat mingling with the raw sting of his fingertips. 

She knelt down in front of Madark. Madark looked away, afraid to meet her stare.
“Hmpf. Are you hungry?”

Madark tried to speak but his throat refused to cooperate.

Kara sighed. “You must be. Come.” The final word felt cold and uncaring as she scooped Madark up into her arms as effortlessly as one picked up a cat and then walked down the spiraling stairs.

Being picked up felt incredibly strange to Madark. He wasn’t a small, little boy anymore, yet she felt strong. Even Madark’s father would grunt if he were to pick him up. Or at least pretend to grunt. Kara did not pretend to grunt or show even the slightest bit of emotion. Madark felt embarrassed. Particularly because Kara was a stranger and not his mother.  He tried to pull up the shroud but it was caught under her arm. He hoped this was an indication to be let down so he could walk, but then remembered the stinging sensation. The inexplicable scratching. The same scratching that nearly killed him.

Kara gave no indication that she cared if Madark was uncomfortable. He politely tugged on his new shroud again. Kara ignored it. Madark then accepted he was going to be hauled around like a child. He moved his face into her hair, hoping to mask himself if someone were to witness the absurdity. Then he caught a whiff of her perfume that made his eyes water. It was vile. A strange scent that made Madark gag and pull his head away.

Upon reaching the landing, heavy wooden doors stood locked before them. Kara knocked twice and waited. The doors opened slowly and she stepped through revealing another spiral set of stairs. As she passed the threshold, Madark looked back behind them. He stiffened in Kara’s arms. Two statuesque figures, which he first assumed were mere sculptures, seemed to lock their gaze intently on him. Their faces were expressionless; that is, they had no expression, not even a face—just slates of metal and narrow slits for eyes. Madark jumped in surprise as the heads of the juggernauts tracked their movement.
They were big, the largest moving objects Madark had ever seen. They stretched out their arms and shut the door behind them in a slow, methodical fashion. Both giants continued to track Madark. Madark saw the symbol of the Seventh Tier on their chests, the Devil’s Hand holding a strange orb.

The doors thudded shut, and Madark turned away. He yearned to bury his head in Kara’s hair, seeking a hideaway from his fears. Yet he would  rather face the imposing sentinels than suffer the same exposure to the perfume again.
“The Arcane Constructs are harmless," Kara whispered, her voice tinged with amusement, "unless provoked.”

They arrived at a large rectangular room.The air was rich with the tantalizing scents of baking bread and simmering broth. His stomach contorted itself into knots.

Kara placed Madark down and called over a servant. Kara asked for something simple. Bread, soup, and for the meal of the day. Madark dared not to lift his head from the table. They sat in silence. Madark could feel Kara’s eyes poke and prod his every movement. Madark stiffened. He was going to be a statue and not reveal anything. His stomach growled, betraying him.

A large bowl of soup and bread were placed before Madark. Frozen in place, Madark caught Kara tilting her head slightly from the corner of his eye.

“Go on. You’re hungry, aren’t you?”

Madark reached out hesitantly. He pinched the red cloth and lifted the spoon and then slowly ate.

Kara seemed to sigh with boredom as Madark took small, careful sips. Terrified of what would happen if he spilled.

“Are you going to die?”

Madark nearly dropped the spoon.
“Are you? Or are you already dead?”

A tumultuous roar from his stomach punctuated the silence, as Madark grappled with trying to understand her question. The kitchen was beginning to come alive. More cooks and servers entered the dining hall. Madark heard a muffled grunt from Kara and interpreted it as a sign to continue eating. He ate faster. Madark was worried he was going to be kicked out. Soon more footsteps approached, the dull thud from the door above echoed down as the dining hall began to be filled with multitudes of people. Some were speaking loudly and others in more solemn tones. Others laughed and joked, but as each one entered the dining hall, a moment of hushed silence and whispers as they stared at the boy draped in the red cloth that now looked more of a cape.

Eventually the dining hall was full. Loud conversations echoed from all around him. Madark dared not look up. He finished his soup and began pulling pieces of bread from the loaf. He didn’t know if the load was entirely for him or for his escort. He tilted his head towards Kara to ask if she wanted some bread, yet she was gone and left only a vacant seat. A second bowl of soup appeared in front of him. Madark relaxed slightly and ate this second bowl faster than the first. He dipped pieces of bread into the soup. The flavor was excellent. Yet this second bowl wasn't soup at all, but a stew. Large, round potatoes and moist morsels of meat that melted apart when bitten.

After Madark had finished the bowl a small plate was then placed in front him. Before him lay a triangular pastry, its crust a perfect golden hue, the dark brown filling peeking out beneath a generous scattering of nuts. Madark reached for his spoon but it had been replaced with a small fork. Madark thought for a long moment. He was in the Ascari tower. He was near home. But none came for him. Neither his mother nor his father. They certainly wouldn’t be allowed to enter the tower, even if his father was the Commander of the First. Definitely Medina wouldn’t be allowed to enter either.
Madark tried to resist the thought that he knew in his heart. They’re all dead. He tried to resist crying. He draped his long black hair in front of eyes and allowed himself to cry.
“Are you going to eat that?” An exuberant young girl’s voice asked.
Madark sniffled and shook his head. “You can have it.”

“Are you sure?”

Before Madark could reply the strange girl interrupted.

“Those cakes are delicious! Those on top are from the Orion trees. They’re only found in the valley north of the city, deep in the forests of the Second tier.They’re really good. Kind of my-” She stopped, trying to peer behind the black hair that covered Madark’s face.

“Are you crying?”

“No,” Madark said, obviously crying.
She placed a bundle of clothes beside Madark and sat opposite him.

“I’m sorry. You can eat it. You should.”

A part of Madark yearned to taste the sweet concoction before him, but he felt guilty. He thought of his family, how none of them would be able to ever enjoy cakes like this again. His mother had rarely made anything sweet, and his father would only give carrots as ‘dessert’. 

‘This will make you grow!’ he would say. Madark smiled at the thought. After boiling and then roasting, carrots did taste sweet.

Madark felt the stranger staring. Maybe if he had a few bites she would go away. He reached out for the fork, but then retracted his hands. The bandages had continued to unravel during the lunch and the scabbed, scarred appendages poked through, relieving a grotesque sight.

“Could you please,” Madark hesitated, knowing the question he was about to ask was strange, “could you please look away?”

“Oh! Of course.” Her voice was cheery and sweet. “I don’t like people watching me eat either!”

Madark waited and then looked through the hanging strands of hair that masked his tear-streaked face. He saw her pull a book from a satchel and place it on the table and began reading. Madark found that strange. He tried to recall ever seeing someone else read at a table. It seemed like a strange thing to do in public. 

Madark then ate slowly. It was delicious. The orion nuts were good. They provided a bitter and crunchy texture to the otherwise soft and overly sweet filling.

Madark finished the dessert and sat in silence. Someone moved by the table and removed the plate. This startled Madark, causing the strange girl to giggle. She thanked the server.
Madark blushed and felt bad not having thanked anyone for the meals he received. The dining hall emptied and silence fell. Only the girl and Madark remained. The one time servers now became cleaners. Sweeping the floors and watering the plants.

Madark tightened the red cloth around his body and cautiously looked up at the stranger reading. She looked more than halfway done with the book she had been reading. The text on the spine of the book was too faded and difficult for Madark to discern.

“What book are you reading?” Madark asked, his voice barely a whisper, laden with the fear of being overlooked.

“The Eighth’s Exploration of the Cosmos,” she replied, her eyes lighting up as she hugged the book close. She seemed to be waiting for his question. “It’s about Admiral Alistair Shae and the Mighty Eighth tier. Their battles and adventures. It’s so exciting!” She continued. “How they liberated Vel from the bandits and how they fought back the Tide! I’m on the chapter where Saj’a Raise destroys the Tide’s fleet on Meridian with just a whistle! A whistle!” She forced the air out of her mouth with the word. “If it weren’t for them, we’d all be eating squid for dinner every night. And I don’t like squid much. Too chewy!” She said, clutching the book against her chest with a large smile.

The barrage of unknown words made Madark simply nod in agreement.

“Is it good?”

“Good? It’s amazing! You should read it once I’m done! Which should be soon! I promise to let you borrow it but then we will need to return it to the library. Oh! I will show you where that is too!”

“Who are you?” Madark finally looked up. His neck was stiff but saw a young woman. Older than himself but maybe younger than his older sister. Her posture was elegant. She sat straight and proper. The complete opposite of Madark who was hunched over with drooping shoulders and matted black hair. She had long shining brown hair, intricately braided in an elaborate pattern of tight plaits, cascaded down her back, hinting at a meticulousness Madark had never seen before. The braids were adorned with small beads that caught the light that sparkled in the dining hall.

“I’m Eirlys!”

“Eirlys?” Madark struggled with the pronunciation.

“Close. Eirlys, my mom told me it means ‘Snowdrop’.”

Madark nodded slowly, Snowdrop. He liked that name and preferred it to the difficult to pronounce Eirlys. If he needed to, he would call her that instead of her actual name.
“You’re Madark, right? What does your name mean?”

“I don’t know.” Madark said.

She waited patiently. Madark squirmed in his seat uncomfortably. He could see her waiting patiently. Madark sighed and continued.

“Everyone in my family has their name start with the letter M. It’s a dumb tradition, or something. Except my mom, I guess. Her name,” Madark’s throat constricted, he wasn’t able to say her name without tears breaking through the barriers.

Eirlys laughed. “Then it does start with an M her mom”

Madark cocked his head in confusion.

“M! Mom! She’s part of the tradition!”

Madark tried to smile and then became suspicious.

“How did you know my name?”

“The new Archanauch sent me,” she whispered conspiratorially. “Told me to find you, bring these clothes, and then show you to your room.” Her eyes flicked to the red cloth draped around him and then around the empty dining hall. “Is that all you're wearing?”

A flush of embarrassment washed over Madark’s cheeks. Eirlys’s laughter filled the air again. 

“Don’t worry! I’ve brought different weftlores for you to try. Oh no! Shoes! I forgot to bring shoes! I’m so sorry! The floor here is so cold and rough. But when the new Archanauch gives an order, especially to someone like me, well, I just scrambled! But I promise once we get to your room, I’ll go get an old pair of mine for now!”

“That’s okay.” Madark said in a dejected tone. He’d rather be barefoot than wear girl's shoes.

 “But the weftlores! They’re the attire you see everyone wearing! The white symbolizes purity, or so they say, so I brought you something darker and more mysterious!”

He nodded and then tightened the red shroud around him, trying to shrink into obscurity. 

Eirlys laughed. “It’s okay!” She began to whisper again, “but what a scandal!” She giggled.

Madark looked to his left at the neatly folded clothing and then back at Eirlys. 

“Those are weftlores?”

“Yeah. Oh, this?” She pointed at her own dress. “No. This is an Aelin. Or dress. Aelindress is the proper name that only people that are a thousand years old would ever say!” She giggled, then looked around to ensure no one heard the joke. “Only girls wear aelins here. The weftlores look so much more comfortable. And they have pockets! I wish I could wear a wetlore. They look warmer. Easier to keep wrinkle-free, but mostly for the pockets!”

“Why can’t you?”

“The scandal!” Eirhys giggled. “The boys wear weftlores like the other specthrons. They’re usually only white. It’s supposed to show purity or some other type of thing. The girls are supposed to be all dressed up all the time. It’s exhausting.” She tugged and adjusted her braid and then smoothed out the imaginary wrinkles on her aelin.
Madark, still processing, nodded slowly, his mind awhirl with new terms and the unexpected kindness of this girl, Eirlys. For a moment, amid the overwhelming newness of everything. Madark fidgeted and raised a hand to bite his fingernails but felt only skin touch his lips. He switched hands, ensuring to cinch the shroud, his right hand was worse. He found only the sliver of a nail left on his little finger. He wondered if his nails would ever grow back. He then noticed Eirlys looking at him. He tucked away both hands back under the safety of the shroud.

“Where did she go?”

“Who?”

“The lady with the red hair and green,” Madark tried to pronounce the new word for dress, “aelin?”
“Oh! Lady Kazarian!? The Mystarch!? She was here? You spoke to her? Wow! You’re so lucky. She’s so pretty! And nice! She smells like-fresh! You know? I just adore her. I want to be just like her!” 

Madark nodded anxiously. 

“But,I didn’t see her when I came down. Maybe, if we are lucky, we will see her going up to your room. Let’s go check out your new room! You’re lucky! You’re nearly at the top of the tower. The Archanauch must like you!”

Madark wanted to ask if anyone in his family had survived the battle. Or what even happened. The world in the tower seemed normal. The ceremony he rushed into, he suspected, was a funeral. But had they won? Madark had a million questions he wanted to ask but saw the overly cheerful young women. She stood. Madark noticed she was taller than him. As tall as Medina. He then looked around at the empty dining hall. If anyone was alive, they would have been here by now. Medina would have come. Another intrusive entered Madark’s mind. Maybe they’re burying Mira. Maybe they’re upset at me for not protecting her.

“Hey! Don’t don’t look so sad! The room is probably huge!”

Madark followed Eirlys up the spiral stairs. He noticed she walked with a heavy limp on her left leg, as if it were an inch shorter than her right. She supported herself by grabbing onto the handrail. Madark winced. She was Medina’s age, but walked like an old lady. He wanted to ask what happened but then thought about his own predicament. Asking questions may bring about her own questions. He decided not to.
And then Madark noticed he no longer felt the strange itching sensation on the soles of his feet as he did earlier, yet, his body was covered in bumps and bruises from when he had tumbled down the stairs. Sitting and enjoying the warm food seemed to ease any lingering pains. His eyes still felt heavy and he wanted to sleep.
Eirlys limped up each step and continued to talk. She was an excellent tour guide if Madark had been paying attention. While being tired, Madark was able to get a better understanding of his surroundings. The walls were adorned with intricate geometric shapes and painted walls displaying a type of language he had never seen before. But a strange smell caught his attention. It smelled like smoke, but not quite. There was an aroma in the scent. It was sweet and pleasant. 

But as soon as they had rounded the stairs, the large, heavy wooden doors and the two juggernauts stood motionless.
“Hi Grimm,” Eirlys greeted with a wave “hi Gromm!”

Madark hesitated, stopping precariously on a step as Eirlys continued upwards. She turned and looked at the frozen Madark.
“Oh don’t worry. These guys aren’t going to hurt us.”
“They are alive?” Madark didn’t know what the word alive meant in this circumstance and feared he had just insulted the imposing guards.

“Sure! I think. And their names aren’t Grimm and Grom. That’s what I call them.” She limped up several more steps. Grom’s eyes tracked Eirlys as Grimm’s focus remained on Madark.

She reached up and affectionately tapped Grimm’s hip like one would do with a friendly dog. “Right, Grimmard? You aren’t going to bite? No you aren’t!” she turned to Gromm, “eh, Grommard? I call them that, too, sometimes. Depends on the day!” Her tone was playful and familiar.

Madark remained rooted as if waiting for the giants to give an inclination he was allowed to proceed. None came. His eyes widened even more as Eirlys walked over to Grom and began scratching his lower ribs. Or where ribs would be.
“Oh so cute! I’ve never seen them move. Like, really move, that is.”
“They move?” Madark asked nervously.

“Oh, no. Not usually. These two used to be in the guards of the Mechanarium! It’s amazing to think Keda and the traitors were able to bypass guards like these guys!” Eirlys steadied herself on the juggernaut and then examined her hands. “Wow! You guys need to be dusted. I promise I will do that!”

Eirlys stood, admiring the Grimm. 

“They’re our guards. If you ever need them, just shout ‘Grimm! Gromm! Intruders!’” The juggernauts flinched, startling Madark.
Eirlys giggled. “False alarm!” Eirlys said with a giggle. “Grimm, stay!”

“They can move!” Madark said in amazement after regaining his courage to speak. They seemed too large and too heavy to move.

“Yeah! They’ve never moved-moved that I’ve seen. And if they did, oh boy, we would be repainting the walls for weeks! There’s supposedly a whole bunch of them down there where the attack happened! I’ve personally never been there, but I would love to go see the Mechanarium one day or maybe they will write a book about it!”

The answer only added to Madark’s confusion. He took several tentative steps upwards, carefully trying to follow the exact path Eirlys had made. The doors opened. Madark walked by cautiously as both heads now tracked Madark. The hulking metal giants were an imposing fusion of ancient craftsmanship and arcane technology. Towering over any who dared approach, these guardians were wrought from dark steel, their surfaces etched with intricate runes that pulsed faintly with a mystical glow. Each step they took resonated like a distant thunder, the ground trembling beneath their massive, armored feet.

Their faces, if they could be called that, were sheer plates of metal, devoid of any expression Narrow slits where eyes might be glimmered with an inner light, scanning the entrance ceaselessly for threats. Despite their formidable size, there was an elegance to their movements, a testament to the unknown magic or technology that animated them.

As Madark approached closer to the threshold which separated the lower half and the upper half of the tower, no sound emanated from the two juggernauts save for the soft hum that seemed to emanate from within, suggesting a complex network of gears and arcane mechanisms hidden beneath their armored exteriors. They were not just protectors of the tower but relics of a bygone era, their true origins and the extent of their capabilities shrouded in mystery.

Armed with weapons that were themselves masterpieces of the artificer's craft—great dark halberds that seemed to absorb the light around them—these steel sentinels were an unyielding barrier between the tower and any who sought to breach its secrets. They were the silent watchers, the eternal guardians, whose vigilance was as unwavering as the metal from which they were forged. They were a bizarre outlier to the tranquil and decorated surroundings of the tower.

Once they had crossed beyond the doors and the thud echoed behind them, Madark released a breath he hadn’t realized was being held.

“Who made them?”

“Grimmardian Grim and Gromantis Grom? I think the Seventh. I’m not sure. The tower bought them a very long time ago.”

Madark smiled. He liked how Eirlys, or Snowdrop, whimsically changed their names each time. He envied her bravery. To talk about those entities with such a carefree manner.

Madark’s smile then changed to an expression of fear. As they approached the door, Madark thought he smelled smoke. Remnants of a fire, but now it was certain. The air in the spiral stairs was filled with dense, dark smoke.
“There’s a fire!” Madark exclaimed.

Eirlys giggled.

“No! That’s just the mist. It’s for our protection.”

“The mist?”

“Yeah. It’s almost impossible to create any sort of telemantic spell when the air is filled with smoke like this.”
Eirlys turned. She must have seen the look of confusion on Madark’s face and giggled again.

“It’s complicated. There’s no fire. I promise! Well, there’s no real fire,” she clarified.

They ascended several more spiraling stairs, with Eirlys resuming her role as Madark’s guide. The pace was leisurely, Eirlys pausing at every landing to elaborate on the myriad rooms and corridors of the Ascari Tower. Initially, Madark appreciated her thoroughness, but it wasn't long before he noticed the real reason for their slow progress: Eirlys's limp, which grew more pronounced with each step upward.

“Just a little further,” Eirlys exclaimed, her voice betraying a mix of excitement and effort as she hobbled forward. Madark, sensing her determination, nodded in understanding. 

“Okay.” he replied, masking his concern with a tentative smile that went unnoticed.

More than anything, Madark longed to see his new room, especially the bed; he hoped it would be more comfortable than the last. The previous one, was oddly placed at the room's center, its vastness offering too many shadows for unseen fears to lurk. His feet were feeling more uncomfortable. He wished Eirlys had brought him shoes more than clothing. The red shroud Madark had draped around him was warm but drew strange looks from the members of the tower going about their days. Madark just wanted to nap.

They climbed one more set of stairs and Eirlys gasped audibly.

"But this—this is the real library!" Eirlys exclaimed, her grip tightening on the handrail as she led Madark toward a balcony overlooking the vast, multi-story library. "It takes my breath away every time!"

Stepping onto the indoor balcony, Madark and Eirlys were greeted by the vast expanse of the library tower below—a sprawling labyrinth of knowledge that left Madark awestruck. While the First tier's library boasted ancient tomes and dusty scrolls, this library's sheer magnitude dwarfed that entirely. Bigger in a way that made Madark feel small. That there was a whole world of knowledge he was completely unaware of. So much knowledge that it would take several lifetimes to even begin to read all of it, let alone understand whatever was written.
Eirlys braced herself on the balustrade and then, her eyes sparkling with excitement as she gestured towards the scene below, giving him an impromptu tour.
"Down there," she began, her voice laced with awe, "is the heart of it all. Those ancient shelves? They're not just wood and nails; they're the backbone of centuries, holding up worlds within worlds. And the books - oh, the books!” She inhaled deeply. “Some are so old, their pages might crumble if you turn them too eagerly.”
She turned to Madark, waiting for a response.
“I never really read many books.”
“Oh you must! We will! I promise! First we need to start with ‘The Legacies’ and then, my favorite, ‘The Tales of the Free Sails!’”
Madark didn’t know what she was talking about but nodded anyway. He didn’t want to disappoint his new friend.
She pointed towards the walls, where mathematical charts hung like tapestries of logic. The tapestries contained long strings of numbers and dotted lines connecting smaller points decorated the upper ceilings of the library. "Those charts? They're not just decoration. They're puzzles waiting to be solved, secrets of the universe coded in numbers, lines and equations! It's like looking directly into the mind of Aevitern herself! That is if you know how to read them."
Madark had never heard the name before. His eyes followed Eirlys's gesture towards a celestial painting as he inquired, “Aevitern?”"
“Most people outside of the tower call them the Celestial Three. The Daughter, The Father and The Mother. But! In the tower, well, in our books, their names are Chrona, Aveitern, and Nexara. Aveitern at the center, the point-between. From which Metrisei calculate the alignments. She’s beautiful, isn’t she?”
“The Father is a girl?”
“Aveitern?” Eirlys corrected with a smile. “Naturally! The finest Metrisei, like Lady Kazarian, are women—masters of telemancy in their own right,” Eirlys asserted with pride.
“Oh. I’m sorry. I didn’t know.” Madark hesitated. “Why isn’t she the one who drank from the cup?”
Eirlys hissed. “You saw the ceremony?”
“I didn’t mean to! I had just woken up and was being-” Madark hesitated.
“Scandal!” Eirlys laughed. “Don’t worry, I promise I won’t tell anyone! Just don’t speak about that around the tower.” Her voice turned into a whisper, “it’s a secret!” She added with a giggle.
Embarrassment and a creeping sense of dread overwhelmed Madark as he recalled the chalice's intoxicating aroma.
“I, uh, I.” Madark stammered.
"See those Lucidarchs? The ones that look a million years old? They come here to be alone together, if that makes sense. It's their sanctuary, where the world makes sense between the pages of their books. Most of them write the books too."
Eirlys's gaze drifted to small groups scattered throughout, her enthusiasm undimmed as she explained, “see those gatherings? Specthrons—where the future Metrisei are being shaped.”
“Are you a spect—?” Madark stumbled over the unfamiliar term. He tried to sound interested. He wanted to know more about his new friend, but the day felt too long.
“No. Well. Not yet! Soon I hope. Maybe you too!”
Madark wanted to ask what that all meant but she continued to descend from the balcony.
Eirlys continued to speak. "This tower, this library, it's not just a building. It's a living, breathing entity, and now, you're a part of its endless story-"
“I’m sorry, Eir-” Madark struggled with the name again, yet felt too shy to use Snowdrop. He tried again with all the politeness he could muster. “Please, can we go see my room?”

Madark’s new quarters were decidedly modest, verging on claustrophobic—a space that might have once served as a storeroom, nestled near the tower's summit. The notion of it being a former closet crossed his mind, yet the room's lofty position lent it an air of unexpected significance. Eirlys, with a gentle touch, laid out Madark’s garments on the modest bed, its frame creaking slightly under the weight, before she excused herself, the door clicking shut behind her to afford him privacy.
Alone, Madark’s first instinct was to scour beneath the bed for lurking shadows or forgotten entities. His search revealed nothing more sinister than neglected rolls of carpet and candle stubs, their wicks charred from use. A wave of relief washed over him, dissipating some of the tension that had knotted in his chest.
Even through the closed door, Eirlys’s voice, muffled yet unmistakably animated, filtered into the room. Madark strained to decipher her words, catching fragments that hinted at something significant, perhaps a continuation of the tower’s many mysteries or guidance for the days ahead. Yet, fatigue draped heavily upon his shoulders, pulling him towards the bed’s meager comfort.
Draping the red shroud over the bed's corner, a makeshift symbol of sanctuary, Madark surrendered to exhaustion, sinking into the thin mattress. The door creaked open once more at Eirlys’s polite inquiry, her silhouette framed by the dim light of the corridor.
“Are you finished? Can I come in?”
“Yes,” came Madark’s weary reply, his voice a soft murmur against the quiet of the room.
“Tomorrow! We will go dust Grimm and- Oh! You've already found your way to bed. I hope it’s comfortable. You must be exhausted, I’m so sorry to have kept you.”

“It’s okay. I just, I just need to rest,” Madark murmured, the words barely a whisper as sleep tugged at his consciousness.
“I understand!” Eirlys offered, her hand lingering on the door, ready to retreat.
“Wait!” Madark’s voice cracked as he bolted upright, a plea on his lips he couldn’t quite voice, halted by the vulnerability of admitting his fear of the dark to someone he barely knew.
Eirlys, mistaking his hesitation for discomfort due to the room's ambiance, chimed in,
“Oh! I know, these rooms can feel so stuffy and hot, can’t they?”
Madark nodded, grateful for the misunderstanding. The room, in truth, was touched by a chill, the small window inviting a brisk breeze that danced through the sparse space. He hoped his silent acquiescence would mask his true apprehension, wishing only for the door to remain ajar, a slender barrier against the vast, unknown darkness of the tower.
Eirlys, with an understanding smile that suggested she might have guessed more of Madark’s feelings than he realized, left the door cracked open, allowing the soft, comforting glow from the hall to pierce the room's gloom. As she departed, her footsteps faded into the distance, leaving Madark to the quiet solace of his thoughts.
Clutching the corner of the red shroud, Madark looked up at his hand, noticing the twisted forms. Memories flooded in, each one sharper and more painful than the last. He couldn’t remember all that had transpired, but he remembered the grotesque feet. He remembered dropping Mira. A surge of helplessness and regret. He tried to protect her. He was told to protect her.
Tears formed silently, their paths leaving invisible streaks in the dim light. Each breath was a struggle against the weight pressing on his chest. The confines of the tower seemed to draw closer, mirroring the tightness in his heart.
As his sobs subsided and the evening sun was setting, the tight grip on the shroud relaxed. Overwhelmed by both physical and emotional fatigue, Madark surrendered to sleep. It didn’t promise oblivion from his pain, but a temporary respite. In the embrace of rest, he drifted off, where he hoped everything was just a dream and he would wake up at home in his own bed.