"Fuck! Where is that bitch! I swear I saw her move through this damn place!" a man wearing blue plated armor with the lion sigil howled as he looked all over the place.

His voice bounced between stone teeth and empty air, ricocheting down the canyon like a warning bell.

The twenty-second floor of the Reverse Tower didn’t swallow sound the way the city floors did, it threw it back at you, sharpened it, made it louder and meaner.

Every shout became an invitation for something hungry to listen.

This was the twenty-second floor of the Reverse Tower. A canyon of rocks and desert, full of deadly creatures, massive lizards, serpents the size of trains, earthworms, and deadly plants. The land was carved into jagged ribs, high spires of cracked stone, narrow passes choked with sand, sudden drop-offs that disappeared into black.

The air tasted dry enough to peel your tongue, and the wind came in gusts that carried grit like knives.

It was dark where a broken moon lit parts of the world, and during this dark hour, a group of wounded and angry-looking climbers moved about searching. Their boots dragged lines in the dust.

Their armor clinked in ugly, impatient rhythm, metal plates scraping, straps creaking under sweat and dried blood. Some held torches or lanterns, but the light didn’t reach far; it only made their shadows longer, more grotesque, and it made their breathing visible in faint puffs when the wind cut cold through the canyon.

The man in blue kept turning in place, head snapping left-right, as if anger alone could force the world to reveal what it was hiding.

His lion sigil caught what little moonlight there was and flashed, a polished, practiced shine that didn’t belong in this wasteland. He looked like he’d been born to lead men, the kind that barked orders and expected the universe to obey.

"Don’t let her get to the portal! She’ll fucking disappear on us again! I can’t allow that bitch to live!" the same man howled.

A few of the others answered with eager nods and tightened grips, as if the command had fed them something. They weren’t just searching anymore; they were hunting, and the shift was visible in their posture: shoulders rolled forward, weapons lowered, eyes scanning not for danger but for opportunity.

The canyon had seen enough blood that it didn’t care who spilled it; it only cared that something spilled.

Everyone looked too enthusiastic at that statement. "Captain, we’ll not just kill her straight away, right?"

The one who spoke tried to sound casual, like this was a normal question between soldiers. But his voice carried that thin tremor of anticipation, too excited, too hungry.

The men around him chuckled under their breath, not because it was funny, but because they liked the direction the conversation was taking. Moonlight washed over their faces and made them look older and crueler than they probably were.

"Fuck will I not! I’ll murder the bitch ten times over if I can!"

The captain’s answer came fast and hot, like a blade drawn without thought. Spit flew with the words. He stepped forward and kicked a rock hard enough to send it skittering down the slope. It clattered, loud and stupid, and for a second several heads snapped toward the sound, trained instincts remembering that loud noises on a floor like this weren’t harmless.

Then, when nothing immediately leapt out of the dark, the men laughed again. Nervous laughter. Mean laughter. The kind that tried to drown out the knowledge that something could be watching.

"No, I mean... before killing her, we gotta have some fun, you know."

The subordinate leaned closer as if sharing a secret, as if the canyon itself might disapprove. His grin was wide, teeth too visible. He didn’t notice, or didn’t care, that even some of the others shifted uncomfortably, not from morality, but from the practical risk of wasting time.

The captain’s head snapped toward him like a predator catching movement.

"Don’t be a fucking retard, the bitch might have teeth in her pussy for all I fucking know. Just kill the whore. You can have your fun with her corpse after she’s dead; she’ll still be warm then," the man said.

The words sat in the air like rot. The subordinate’s grin faltered, replaced by a small scowl and a swallowed complaint. A couple of the men snickered anyway, not because it was clever, but because they liked the cruelty. One of them spat into the dust, the sound lost in the wind.

The subordinate scuffed as he moved away from his captain, trying to look for the woman.

He didn’t argue. He didn’t push. People like him never pushed when the one above them was already angry; they saved it for later, saved it for someone weaker.

He took a wide path around a cluster of dead-looking brush, careful not to step too close. In this desert, plants killed just as efficiently as beasts, and he’d already bled enough tonight to understand that bad luck didn’t need encouragement.

Somewhere not far from them, and above one of the high-rising rocks of the canyons, was the person they were looking for; she had hair red as blood and eyes that didn’t feel like they’d seen what hope nor joy looked like.

She lay against a stone that still held a little warmth from the day, though the night was crawling in.

The rock ridge gave her a vantage point over the search below, a shallow bowl of darkness lit by wandering lanterns. From up here, the group looked smaller than they sounded. From down there, she knew, she would look like prey.

Her red hair wasn’t styled, wasn’t dramatic. It was simply there, loose strands sticking to sweat, catching moonlight in dull streaks. Her eyes stayed open, not because she was alert, but because closing them for too long felt like surrender.

Exhaustion pressed on her shoulders like hands that wanted to force her down.

Her expression didn’t change when the captain screamed. It didn’t flare with anger. It didn’t tremble with panic. It carried something colder, weariness that had outlived fear, disappointment that didn’t even bother to pretend.

A small creature sat atop her shoulder. It was almost invisible without the white streak going down its stomach, a red colored honey badger the size of a fist. Its claws lightly hooked into her fabric as if anchoring itself against the wind.

Its body looked compact, absurdly small compared to the pressure it carried in its presence. Even still, the tiny thing felt like it belonged there, like it owned that shoulder more than she did.

"Dear... why rest here?" the small creature said 𝚏𝐫𝚎𝗲𝕨𝐞𝐛𝕟𝚘𝐯𝚎𝗹.𝕔𝐨𝗺

Yenna’s eyelids fluttered once. The question wasn’t harsh, but it wasn’t gentle either. It carried that quiet insistence of something that didn’t understand stopping.

"I can’t go on anymore... I’m exhausted..." she replied.

The admission cost her more than a wound. She hated saying it. She hated that it was true. Her breath came shallow, and her fingers flexed once, as if trying to remember what it felt like to be strong without thinking about it.

"What a shame for you to lose so much of your power, and to suffer so at the hands of these fools."

The small creature’s voice was low, almost purring, but there was a blade under it. Not pity, contempt. The kind that wanted to turn weakness into fuel.

"It was my own mistake, Rath. I shouldn’t have trusted others." She said.

The words came out flat. Not self-pity. Not dramatics. Just a statement carved out of experience. Below, the lanterns moved like insects. The captain’s voice rose again, distant now, muffled by rock.

"One cannot survive without trust," Rath replied.

Yenna’s mouth twitched faintly, the closest thing to a smile that had visited her in hours.

"That’s new, coming from a god of wrath and carnage. Coming from one who never had friends..."

Rath shifted its tiny weight, as if clearing its throat in embarrassment.

"Ahem, it’s not a god anymore. I’m just a fake one. I would have never allowed your death if I weren’t sealed up. I apologize, Yenna."

Yenna’s hand rose slowly, heavy, reluctant, and she brushed two fingers along the creature’s back, a gesture more calming for herself than for it.

"I never blamed you, don’t worry about it. If we just manage to fix your pendant, then I’ll have a better chance at surviving these idiots."

Her voice sharpened at the end. Not anger, focus.

"As much as I want that to happen," the small creature said, "The Tongue of Gods has long been lost, and not many are interested in learning it. Finding a smith who can repair my Pendant is practically impossible." He said.

The wind sighed through the canyon, carrying sand across stone like whispering footsteps. Far below, someone laughed, a short, crude sound, then it cut off abruptly, as if even they remembered where they were.

"That’s why we have to keep climbing," she said as she relaxed, raising her head to the broken moon.

"You’re right, Yenna, someone up might have a solution. I’ve heard of an item that can repair even divine artifacts, back when I was still among the Constellations. But to find it... that isn’t easy. Especially if it’s in the hands of that blasted Ulsal." The creature followed her eyes to gaze at the moon.

The moon looked like it had been bitten. A fractured crescent, pale and wrong, hanging in a sky that offered no comfort. Yenna stared at it anyway. It was easier than staring at the world below.

"This tower should have an answer. Even if Ulsal has it, he cannot always own it."

"Indeed, the laws of the tower forbid constallations from hoarding. He must place it on trial. We just haven’t heard of any of his trials having it," the creature sighed.

"Just because he owns a lot of items doesn’t mean he personally has it. Not that that’s the only answer to our predicament. We can still find replacements..."

"You rush too much then, you climbed twenty towers in less than a Year, Yenna. You work too hard."

"I don’t have a choice, Rath. I must leave this place, I mustn’t let my younger sister alone in that world, only god knows what that villain can do to her now I’m not out there protecting her."

This time her voice did carry something, urgency wrapped in restraint. The kind of urgency you kept behind your teeth because letting it loose would make you reckless.

"As long as you’re alive, my dear, there is always hope. It’s just..."

Rath’s words slowed, careful, like it didn’t want to speak the next part because speaking it made it more real.

"The one wish..."

Yenna’s jaw tightened. Her fingers curled once against the rock. Somewhere below, footsteps crunched faster; someone had started climbing a slope, close enough now that Yenna’s mapless instincts prickled.

"Yes, a very cruel fate, isn’t it. Even if you leave..."

The unfinished sentence hung there like a noose. Yenna didn’t look away from the moon, but her eyes narrowed.

"I won’t have my powers anymore, but," she looked at the badger, "I’ve climbed the normal tower before, I can climb it again. All I need is a chance."

Her palm settled more firmly over Rath, protective without being soft. The creature leaned into it, satisfied in a way that would’ve been absurd if anyone else had been allowed to touch it.

She petted the creature. And the creature enjoyed it.

Little that anyone would ever dare try such a thing to a literal avatar of Wrath and Carnage.

"I FOUND HER!" one of them howled.

The shout sliced through the canyon like a thrown knife. Lanterns jerked. Shadows lurched. Somewhere, a beast answered with a low, distant hiss, annoyed at the noise. Dust kicked up as bodies shifted direction all at once, momentum turning search into a rush.

Yenna didn’t flinch. She simply exhaled, slow, like she’d been expecting the moment and was disappointed it came now.

"Tsk, I guess we’ll have to keep going," she stood up and disappeared from above the stone.

No grand leap. No dramatic flourish. One second she was there, blood hair, dead eyes, small red badger perched like a crown, and the next she was gone, swallowed by the canyon’s angles, moving the way survivors learned to move: fast, quiet, and leaving nothing behind but the faintest echo of a presence that refused to die.