His horse’s hooves kicked up thin clouds of dust that clung to his boots and the worn leather of his saddle. The sun hung low behind a veil of gray clouds, washing the landscape in a dull, colorless light that made everything look half‑dead. He shifted in the saddle, feeling the familiar pull of fatigue in his shoulders. The contract he’d taken in the last town had been advertised as simple, a quick job, easy coin. Simple jobs never are, he thought, rubbing the back of his neck where a half‑healed cut still stung with every jolt of the horse’s stride. “Should’ve stayed in Falador,” he thought to himself. “At least the thieves there are honest.” His horse snorted, as if agreeing, and Rayz nudged it onward.

His coin purse felt lighter than he liked to admit. Too many nights spent paying for stables, food, and the kind of “travel arrangements” that always cost more than they should. He burned through more coin on the road than the last contract had earned him, and the realization gnawed at him. He needed work, real work, soon. Not monster hunting or escort jobs, but something steadier. Advisory work again for a bit he considered.

The land stretched barren around him, a wasteland of brittle gray grass and trees stripped to skeletal silhouettes clawing at the dim sky. Rayz guided his horse through the desolation, debating whether to stop and rest, when something on the horizon pulled his attention. A tower rose from the earth like a wound. Tall, twisted, its stone warped as if melted and reshaped by unseen hands. Narrow window slits dotted its surface, each one giving the unsettling impression of a watching eye. Even from a distance, Rayz felt the faint prickle of magic. Instinct told him to steer wide and leave whatever lived there to its own misery. He had no interest in warlocks, curses, or the kind of trouble that clung to places like this. But something at the tower’s base caught his eye. Something that made him pull the reins and look again. A figure. Upon a closer look, he could make out a woman laying in the weeds.

Rayz crouched beside his horse, keeping a deliberate distance between himself and the collapsed woman. He’d seen too many tricks on the road, bandits using wounded decoys, illusionists feigning helplessness, even cursed spirits mimicking human suffering to lure travelers close. But this… this felt different. The air around her seemed wrong. Not dangerous, exactly, just heavy, as if the tower’s shadow pressed down on her alone. Her hands shook as she reached toward him, fingers trembling like brittle twigs in the wind.

“You… you’re real,” she whispered. Her voice was thin, frayed at the edges.

“Aye,” he said, keeping his tone steady. “I’m real enough. What’s happened, ma’am? Are you in danger?”

She swallowed hard, her throat working as though the act itself pained her. “Cast out… he cast me out.”

Rayz’s eyes flicked toward the tower. The structure loomed above them, its twisted stone spiraling upward like a thorn piercing the sky. He studied her again. Pale. Trembling. Barely breathing. “Who cast you out?” he asked, voice low. She lifted her head slightly, her silver‑gray eyes unfocused.

“I need… I need to go back. To the top…”

Rayz, felt a sense of annoyance by her not answering his questions, but was too curious to stop. “The top of the tower? Why?”

She nodded again, more desperately this time. “Please… I have to stop it all.”

Rayz exhaled slowly, his mind racing beneath the calm. None of this made sense. The woman’s torn dress, the dirt streaked across her skin, the violent tremor in every breath. She was barely holding herself together, he thought. How had she been cast out of a place like this? Had she been cast out as if she was thrown out through a window? What inside that twisted tower had thrown her out and left her half‑broken in the dirt and weeds? Whatever lived in that tower was connected in ways he didn’t yet understand.

“You need a healer,” Rayz said firmly. “There’s a village not far from here. I can take you there. Get you medicine-”

“No!” The word tore from her throat with sudden force, startling even her. She reached for him again, her hand shaking. “No… no time… please…”

Rayz frowned. “You’re in no state to up the tower. You’ll die if you do not get proper healing soon.”

“I know,” she whispered.

Rayz blinked. “You… know?”

She nodded, tears welling in her eyes. Her desperation was raw, unfiltered. Rayz rubbed the bridge of his nose. He knew he did not want to walk inside that tower. But he also couldn’t walk away. Not from something like this. (Put in inner dialogue of Rayz wanting to help the woman, but his curiosity of the situation is what has him engaged) She reached trembling fingers toward her necklace. A strange piece of metalwork, intricate and delicate, shaped like interlocking spirals. At its center sat a glowing stone, pulsing faintly like a heartbeat. The light flickered weakly, as though struggling to stay alive.

“I won’t need it anymore,” she whispered.

“What is it?”

“A gift,” she said. “A promise. A lie.” Her fingers tightened around it. “But you… you can use it.” She gains some excitement in her voice, her breath trembling. “He said it was the most precious thing in existence. People like you would find great value in it, I’m sure. If he thinks it’s important, then must be worth coin to you.”

Rayz studied the necklace. The metalwork was unlike anything he’d seen. Too delicate for a trinket, too intricate for a simple charm. And the stone… it pulsed with a rhythm that felt disturbingly alive. He didn’t trust any of this. But he couldn’t ignore the desperation in her voice.

“I won’t need it anymore. Not once I reach the top.”

Rayz exhaled, long and slow. Every instinct told him to walk away. To get back on his horse and ride until the tower was nothing but a memory. But he didn’t move. He looked at her again, really looked. The trembling hands. The shallow breaths. The fear. The determination. What was causing it? What would bring the woman to be so desperate that she wouldn’t rather get help. He has to know why.

Rayz slid an arm beneath her shoulders and lifted her with slow, deliberate care. She weighed almost nothing, far too light for someone her size, and her head fell weakly against his chest, as if even holding it up required more strength than she had left. He shifted his gaze upward. The tower loomed above them, its twisted stone spiraling into the gray sky like a malformed spine. Up close, it was worse, its surface warped as though melted and reshaped by hands that didn’t understand the nature of stone. The entrance gaped open at the base, a dark hollow that resembled a mouth waiting to swallow anything foolish enough to step inside.

—--

Rayz adjusted his grip on her, feeling how her weight sagged against him. Breath shallow, skin cold. Whatever strength she had left was slipping through her fingers like water. He stepped deep into the tower’s warped interior, boots echoing softly against the stone. The sound bent strangely, swallowed by the twisting walls. The air grew colder with every step, thick with a metallic tang that clung to the back of his throat. The woman shivered in his arms. Her head rested weakly against his shoulder, her breath brushing his collarbone in faint, uneven bursts.

Rayz glanced around the corridor, taking in the warped stone, the unnatural curves, the faint hum vibrating through the walls. The tower felt alive in a way stone shouldn’t. It felt aware. This place is wrong, he thought. Everything about it is wrong. He looked down at the woman again. Her trembling wasn’t from cold alone. Something deeper gnawed at her, something unseen.

He’d seen people poisoned by curses before. Seen how their strength drained, how their breath faltered, how their bodies fought against something they couldn’t name. This felt the same. The tower’s presence pressed against her like a weight, dragging her toward death with every step. Rayz looked up the spiraling corridor ahead, the path twisting into shadow. If the magic here is doing this… then I need to know why.

Rayz carried her up the first narrow flight of stairs, each step groaning beneath his boots. The air grew colder as they climbed, the tower’s strange hum vibrating faintly through the stone. At the top of the stairs, the passage widened into a long corridor. The walls curved inward, warped like softened wax dragged by invisible hands. A faint draft whispered through the hall, carrying the scent of oil and old wood. Rayz stepped forward cautiously.

The corridor opened into a vast chamber lit by flickering lanterns suspended from iron hooks. Their flames sputtered as if struggling to stay alive in the stale air. Shadows jittered across the walls, stretching over rows of tables that lined the room. Rayz stopped short. Each table was cluttered with half‑finished creations, metal limbs joined with tiny gears, wooden torsos carved with uncanny precision, glass eyes staring blankly from bowls as though waiting for faces to inhabit. Tools hung from hooks above the workstations: saws, chisels, and delicate instruments Rayz couldn’t name. This place felt abandoned, yet not entirely dead. As if the room itself was holding its breath.

The woman stirred in his arms, lifting her head slightly. Her eyes scanned the chamber with a strange mixture of fear and familiarity, as though she recognized every table, every tool, every unfinished body. Rayz felt her tense.

“You know this place,” he murmured.

She didn’t answer, but her fingers curled weakly into his shirt. Rayz’s gaze drifted across the room again, taking in the grotesque artistry. This isn’t just a workshop, he thought. It’s a graveyard for things that were never alive. He shifted his stance, tightening his grip on her. Whatever had been made here, whatever had been abandoned here, was tied to her somehow. He could feel it in the way she trembled, in the way her eyes refused to linger on certain shapes. Rayz stepped deeper into the chamber, the lantern light flickering across his path, and that is when he noticed them.

Wooden figures.

Dozens of them. Some no taller than a child’s toy, others nearly life‑sized. A few shaped vaguely like humans, others resembling animals, and some that didn’t seem to belong to any species at all. Their bodies were half‑carved, limbs unfinished or attached at odd angles. Many were cracked, splintered, or sagging where joints had never been reinforced. A few had torsos hollowed out, as if someone had started to build something inside them and then abandoned the idea halfway through. Their faces were the worst. Simple, almost crude. Flat planes of wood with shallow grooves where mouths should be, and hollow sockets where eyes had been carved but never filled. Yet the emptiness made them look as though they were staring at him anyway, silently pleading or silently accusing. He couldn’t decide which. Why keep them like this? he wondered. Why make something only to let it rot?

The woman stirred weakly in his arms, her gaze following his. When she saw where he was looking, her fingers tightened around his shirt.

“Don’t stare longingly,” she whispered. “It bothers them.”

Rayz blinked. Bothers them? He didn’t ask what she meant. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know. He stepped carefully between the tables, mindful not to brush against any of the figures. Up close, their simplicity became even more unsettling. Some had only one arm. Some had no faces at all. Some had faces carved too quickly, too carelessly, expressions frozen in half‑formed grimaces. A few had wooden ribs exposed, as if the sorcerer had started to carve organs and then lost interest.

“Why leave them like this?” he asked, his voice low.

The woman’s eyes drifted over the figures with a strange mixture of sorrow and resignation. “He loses interest,” she said softly. “He starts something new. Something better.”

Rayz frowned. “What is being built?”

Rayz waited for her to speak, but she didn’t. He shifted her slightly, pulling her closer so she wouldn’t slip from his arms. The workshop stretched around them in warped shadows, and the wooden figures seemed to lean toward the lantern light as they passed, their hollow sockets catching the glow like faint, accusing embers.They moved toward the staircase at the far end of the chamber. The steps spiraled upward into darkness, the stone edges worn smooth by years of use, or something else entirely. Just before they reached the first step, the woman stirred.

“Thank you…” she whispered, her voice trembling. “For helping me.”

Rayz shrugged, though the gesture was more to steady himself than dismiss her gratitude. “I want to help,” he said. “But I also want to know why you’re so set on reaching the top. What’s waiting up there?” She didn’t answer immediately. Her breath hitched, and she pressed her forehead weakly against his shoulder. Rayz continued, “Is it a sorcerer? I can feel magic in this place. Old magic.” A faint nod brushed against his collarbone. “Yes.”

What kind of sorcerer builds things like those wooden figures? What kind of magic twists stone like this? What kind of man casts out a woman like this?

—--

The chamber stretched impossibly wide, far larger than the tower’s exterior should have allowed. The ceiling arched so high above them it vanished into shadow, swallowed by a darkness no lantern could ever hope to reach. The air was thick with the smell of sap and rot—fresh and ancient at once—layered with a metallic tang that clung to the back of Rayz’s throat. He took one step inside.

And froze.

A giant wooden man lay sprawled across the entire floor, positioned on his stomach like some fallen titan. His massive torso pressed into the stone, limbs splayed outward as though he had collapsed mid‑crawl. His arms were thick as tree trunks, carved with symbols that had long since faded into shallow scars. His back rose in a broad, uneven arc, cracked and splintered where the wood had warped with age and neglect. But it wasn’t the giant alone that made Rayz’s breath catch. Movement skittered across the floor.

Dozens of small wooden creatures, no taller than two feet, hurried around the giant’s body. Their limbs were thin and jointed like marionettes, clicking softly with each step. Their faces were blank ovals of carved wood, smooth and featureless except for faint grooves where eyes might have been. The emptiness made them look disturbingly aware, as though they were watching without needing eyes at all. Each one carried a tiny metal pail. They dipped the pails into the pools of spilled oil surrounding the giant, scooping up the thick, tar‑dark liquid. Then, with eerie coordination, they climbed his limbs, skittering up his arms, his back, even his face, and poured the oil into the cracks of his body. The oil hissed faintly as it seeped into the wood, as though the giant were drinking it in.

The giant’s face was turned slightly toward them. It was a mask of carved wood, its features worn smooth by time. Only the deep crevices where eyes and mouth should have remained, hollow and cavernous. From those cracks, black oil seeped in slow, steady streams. It dripped from the corners of his eye‑sockets like thick, tar‑dark tears. It leaked from the open slit of his mouth, bubbling up before spilling down the ridges of his chin. It pooled beneath him in a wide, shimmering lake, spreading across the stone floor in rippling patterns. The giant’s entire body shuddered, just once, sending ripples through the oil beneath him. The sound that followed was a low, groaning creak, like ancient timber straining under its own weight. The wooden man’s fingers twitched, scraping against the stone with a sound like splintering bark. His head shifted slightly, the movement slow and painful, as though every inch of motion cost him something vital. With every breath, more oil seeped out, dripping into the lake beneath him. The giant’s voice came next, deep, rumbling, and strained, like a dying tree forced to speak.

“Who enters this place.”

The small wooden creatures frozen, their blank faces turning toward him in perfect unison. Rayz swallowed, forcing his voice steady. “Just passing through,” he said. “I’m trying to reach the top of the tower.” The giant’s head shifted a fraction, the movement slow and agonized. The hollow eye sockets fixed on him, oil dripping in thick trails down the carved grooves of his face.

“Why.”

Rayz hesitated. Every instinct screamed at him to lie, to turn back, to get as far from this place as possible. But the woman in his arms trembled, her breath shallow and uneven, and he felt her fingers curl weakly into his shirt. He drew in a slow breath. “She says she needs to get there.” The giant’s body creaked as he inhaled, the sound like a forest groaning under a storm. “Needs,” he repeated, the word strained and heavy. “Those who climb need only death.”

Rayz tightened his grip on the woman. “I’m not here to die. And neither is she.” The giant’s fingers twitched against the stone, sending ripples through the pool of oil beneath him. The small wooden creatures scurried closer to his limbs, as if sensing his distress, dipping their pails and pouring more oil into the cracks of his body. The giant’s voice dropped to a low, mournful rumble. “The top is not for the living. Turn back.”

Rayz felt the woman stir weakly. “Please,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “Let us pass.” The giant’s head shifted again, the movement scraping wood against stone. His voice came out softer this time, though no less pained. “Child… you were cast out. You should not return.”

Rayz shifted his stance, bracing himself. “I’m taking her up,” he said. “Whatever waits there, I’ll deal with it.” The giant wooden man let out a sound that Rayz at first mistook for a groan. But then it rose, warped, splintering, almost like laughter. A deep, broken laugh that rattled through his cracked frame and sent ripples skittering across the lake of oil beneath him.

“Reach the top,” the giant rasped. “You think that is a mercy.” The giant’s laugh deepened, turning hollow. “Only bad things wait above. Only pain. Only endings.”

Rayz tightened his grip on her. “She believes she must go.”

The giant shifted. The small wooden creatures clung to him, scrambling to keep their balance as they continued pouring oil into his wounds. “Child,” the giant said, his voice dropping to a low, mournful rumble. “Accept death, if you can. It is kinder than what waits at the top.” The giant inhaled, the sound like a forest collapsing under its own weight. “I am forced to neither live nor die. Too broken to move. Too afraid to stop breathing.” His voice cracked, oil spilling faster from the hollow of his eyes. “I lie here. Always. Waiting to fall apart. Waiting to be refilled.” One of the small wooden creatures climbed onto his cheek, tipping its pail into a deep crack. The oil hissed as it seeped in. The giant continued, voice trembling with bitterness. “I hate this existence. I hate this body. I hate this tower.” His hollow gaze shifted toward Rayz. “And I envy you. You walk,” the giant said. “You breathe. You choose. You are alive. I envy. We envy.”

Rayz glanced at the small wooden creatures. They had paused again, their blank faces turned toward him, pails dangling from stiff hands. For a moment, the chamber felt suffocating, filled with silent longing, with things that wanted what they could never have. The giant’s voice rumbled again. “Go, if you must. But do not hope for salvation at the top.”

Rayz turned toward the far staircase, the shadows swallowing the path ahead. Behind him, the giant whispered one last thing, so soft Rayz almost missed it. “We were all made to serve him. And we all wish we had never opened our eyes.”

Rayz didn’t look back.

The next staircase was narrower, quieter. The air felt less oppressive here, as though the tower itself were pausing, gathering breath before whatever waited above. Rayz shifted the woman in his arms, feeling the faint tremor running through her limbs. She was weakening with every floor. She tried to hide it, but her body betrayed her. For a time, neither of them spoke. Only the soft scrape of Rayz’s boots against stone filled the silence, steady and rhythmic, a heartbeat against the tower’s stillness.

Then, softly, she asked, “Rayz… what do you live for?”

He blinked, caught off guard. “Live for?”

“Yes.” Her voice was thin, but there was a spark of curiosity beneath the exhaustion. “What keeps you walking? What gives you… purpose?”

Rayz snorted under his breath. “I don’t live for a purpose. I live because I’m alive. That’s enough.”

She tilted her head slightly against his shoulder, studying him with those fading silver eyes. “But you must have something. A reason.”

He exhaled through his nose. “I’m a Master. I suppose that gives me a purpose.”

She frowned faintly. “A… master of what?”

He continued, voice low. “Fifteen years in a school. Books, numbers, old histories. How the world works. How people fail. How monsters don’t. They teach us what humanity has learned. All of it. So it doesn’t vanish the next time the world tries to kill us.”

Her brow furrowed. “And they teach you to fight.”

Rayz gave a small shrug. “Knowledge is useless if you die before passing it on.” She was quiet for a moment, absorbing that. The stairwell hummed faintly around them, the tower’s pulse echoing through the stone.

Then she asked, “Is that your purpose?” Rayz hesitated. Purpose. He’d never liked that word. It implied direction, meaning, some grand design guiding a person’s steps. He didn’t trust things like that. Life was simpler when you didn’t pretend it owed you anything.

“I don’t know,” he said finally. “I do what I’m trained to do. I survive. I help when I can.” He shifted her weight again, feeling how light she’d become. “That’s enough.”

She rested her head against his chest, her breath warm but weakening. “It sounds like freedom.”

Rayz didn’t answer. He kept climbing.

The final staircase was unlike the others. It was narrow, spiraling tightly upward, the stone steps worn smooth by centuries of footsteps, or perhaps by something else entirely. The air grew colder with every step Rayz climbed, the woman’s weight in his arms feeling lighter and lighter, as though she were fading. Her breath came in shallow, trembling pulls. Her fingers clutched weakly at his shoulders. “Almost there,” Rayz murmured, though he wasn’t sure if he was reassuring her or himself.

The tower hummed around them, a low, vibrating sound that seemed to come from the stone itself. At the top of the staircase, a heavy iron door waited. Its surface was carved with symbols that pulsed faintly, like dying embers. Rayz shifted the woman in his arms and pushed the door open with his shoulder. It groaned loudly, the sound echoing through the chamber beyond.

The room was vast, circular, and dimly lit by lanterns filled with flickering blue flame. Tables and shelves lined the walls, cluttered with tools, gears, metal limbs, wooden torsos, and glass jars filled with floating eyes. The air smelled of oil, dust, and something sour, the scent of old magic left to rot. At the center of the room stood a man. He was hunched over a workbench, muttering to himself as he tinkered with a half‑assembled creation. His hair was wild and matted, streaked with gray. His robes were stained with oil and ink. His hands shook as he worked, but his movements were quick, frantic, obsessive.

Rayz stepped forward cautiously. The man froze. Slowly, he turned, his eyes wide and bloodshot. When he saw the woman in Rayz’s arms, his lips curled into a twisted smile.

“Oh,” he croaked. “You brought it back.” The sorcerer stepped closer, his gaze fixed on her with a mixture of fascination and disgust. “I didn’t expect you to crawl back here. I thought the fall would have broken you.” Rayz’s jaw tightened. “She said you cast her out.”

“I did,” the man said cheerfully. “Through the window.”

Rayz shifted his stance, keeping the woman close. “Explain.” he said, coldly. The man blinked at him, as though surprised he needed to. The sorcerer’s smile stretched too wide, too pleased, as though Rayz had returned a misplaced tool rather than a dying woman.

(there needs to be a scene in which the sorcerer explains he makes living beings from wood, and uses magic to bring them to life. He needs to say “precious life” in reference to the necklace he gave the woman, implying the necklace is what makes her alive)

Rayz shifted his stance, keeping the woman close against him. “Explain,” he said, his voice cold and controlled. The sorcerer blinked, as though genuinely surprised the request needed to be made. Then his mouth stretched into a smile far too wide to be sincere, an expression of delighted recognition, as if Rayz had returned a misplaced tool rather than a dying woman.

“Explain?” he echoed lightly. “Very well.” He stepped closer, hands clasped behind his back, eyes gleaming with a feverish pride. “I am a maker,” he said. “A craftsman of bodies. A shaper of forms. I carve wood, shape metal, stitch pieces together… and then I breathe life into them.” His fingers twitched, as though itching to demonstrate. “Magic is a delicate art, you see. It takes more than skill to coax a soul into something that was never meant to live. It takes power. Precision. And a spark.” His gaze slid to the woman in Rayz’s arms, lingering on the faint glow beneath her collarbone. “In her case,” he continued, “that spark was the necklace I gave her. A reservoir of precious life.”

He said the words with reverence, but the reverence was not for her, it was for the magic itself.

“That little trinket is worth more than any of my creations,” he added with a soft chuckle. “It is the only reason she walks, speaks, breathes. Without it, she is nothing but wood and metal arranged in a pleasing shape.” Rayz’s jaw tightened, but the sorcerer only smiled wider, pleased with his own brilliance.

“She was an experiment,” he said. “A promising one. But ultimately flawed. Too human in all the wrong ways.”

Rayz didn’t speak at first. The sorcerer’s words hung in the air like a foul stench, settling into the cracks of the room, into Rayz’s bones. Wood and metal arranged in a pleasing shape. A spark of precious life. A failure. He looked down at the woman in his arms. Her breath trembled. Her eyes fluttered weakly. She clung to him with a desperation no machine should have been capable of. And yet, she did. She felt fear. Pain. Hope. She had spoken to him like a person. She had asked him questions no construct should care about.

A hollow feeling opened in his chest. Disappointment, sharper than he expected. Not disappointment in her, but in himself. He had let himself believe she was something fragile and human, someone he could save. Someone who needed him. Instead, she was something made. Something thrown away. He lifted his gaze to the sorcerer, who was humming to himself as he sorted through a tray of gears, as though the conversation had already ended.

Rayz said quietly. “You threw her from a window.” The sorcerer waved a hand dismissively. “She was defective. Too much emotion. Too many questions. A creation that questions its purpose is a creation that cannot serve.” Rayz felt heat rise in his chest .Slow, controlled, but unmistakable. “She’s dying.”

“Yes, yes,” the sorcerer said, annoyed. “That is what happens when the spark runs out. The necklace was never meant to last long. A temporary breath of life. A test.”

Rayz’s fingers curled into the woman’s shoulder, steadying her as she shivered. He thought of the wooden figures downstairs, unfinished, abandoned, left to rot. He thought of the giant wooden man, broken and suffering, begging for death he was too afraid to take. He thought of the small wooden creatures, scurrying like insects, tending to a body that would never heal. All of them were made by this man. All of them discarded.

“You abandon everything you make,” Rayz said. “Every creation in this tower is falling apart.”

The sorcerer blinked, then smiled as if Rayz had complimented him. “Progress requires sacrifice. Failure is inevitable. I move on to better designs.” Rayz stared at him, something cold settling behind his ribs. “You call them failures. But they feel pain.” The sorcerer scoffed. “Only because I made them too well. Sensation is a side effect of complexity. I will remove it in the next iteration.” Rayz’s anger sharpened. Not loud. Not wild. Just a steady, simmering heat that made his voice drop even lower.

“She begged me for help. Does that sound like something that isn’t alive?”

The sorcerer shrugged. “They all do. It is a flaw.”

Rayz’s looked down at the woman in his arms. He felt her pulse flicker against his arm, weak, fading, but real in its own way. More real than anything the sorcerer had said. He looked around the room again at the half‑assembled bodies, the jars of drifting eyes, the tools stained with oil and old magic. A workshop of horrors masquerading as genius.

“You don’t create life,” Rayz said quietly. “You trap it.”

The sorcerer paused, his smile faltering for the first time. Rayz stepped forward, his voice edged with something dangerous. “And you throw it away when it doesn’t please you.”

The sorcerer’s expression hardened. “Careful, Master. You do not understand the work I do. Now leave her there for me to deal with later. You may leave.” Rayz met his gaze without flinching. “No,” he said. “I understand it perfectly.” He would not let her be discarded. Not by this man. Rayz opened his mouth to speak again, but the woman stirred in his arms, more movement than she’d shown since the base of the tower. Her fingers twitched against his chest, then curled, gathering what little strength she had left.

“Rayz…” she whispered.

He looked down at her, expecting another plea, another tremor of fear. Instead, she pushed against him. It wasn’t forceful, she barely had the strength to lift her own head, but it was deliberate. Determined. Before Rayz could react, she slipped from his grasp, her feet hitting the stone floor with a soft, unsteady tap. “Wait-” Rayz reached for her, but she staggered forward, one hand pressed against him for balance.

The sorcerer turned, eyebrows raised in mild annoyance. “Careful, now. You’ll fall apart before I can salvage anything useful.” She didn’t answer. She took another step toward him, swaying like a candle flame in a draft. She spoke, her voice thin and trembling.

“Please… help me.”

The sorcerer’s expression softened into something like amusement. He stepped toward her, reaching out as though to steady her. “Come here, then. Let me see what’s left of you.” Rayz’s breath caught. Her hand slipped behind her back. He hadn’t noticed it before, hadn’t even thought to look. But now he saw the faint glint of metal between her fingers. A small carving tool. One of the delicate instruments used to shape wooden joints. She must have taken it from the workshop below. Hidden it. Rayz’s eyes widened, but it was already happening. The woman lurched forward, collapsing into the sorcerer’s arms as though fainting. He caught her with a startled grunt, irritation flashing across his face. “Honestly, must you-”

Her arm snapped upward. The carving tool plunged into his side. The sorcerer’s words died in his throat. His eyes went wide, shock overtaking irritation. He staggered back, staring down at the small wooden handle jutting from his ribs. For a heartbeat, the room was silent. Then the sorcerer screamed. It was a raw, furious sound, more outrage than pain. He stumbled away from her, clutching his side, blood seeping between his fingers.

“You…” he choked. “You dare…”

The woman collapsed to her knees, breath ragged, the last of her strength spent. She didn’t look triumphant. She didn’t look afraid. She simply looked… done.

Rayz stared at her, shock rippling through him. He had carried her through the tower, protected her, tried to understand her, and all along, she had been holding onto this one final purpose. She had come here to kill him. And she had used the last flicker of her borrowed life to do it. Rayz’s heart pounded, a mix of disbelief, anger, and something like grief twisting inside him. The sorcerer staggered backward, clutching at the tool jutting from his side. His breath hitched in a wet, ragged gasp. For a moment he tried to stay upright, fingers scrabbling against the edge of a workbench. Then his knees buckled. He crashed to the floor with a choked cry, knocking over jars and tools that clattered across the stone.

The woman collapsed almost at the same moment. Her legs folded beneath her, her body hitting the ground with a soft, fragile thud. Whatever strength she had borrowed for that final act was gone.

Rayz dropped to his knees beside her, hands already reaching to lift her. Her eyes fluttered open, unfocused at first, then settling on him with a faint, weary smile. She lifted a trembling hand, brushing her fingers against his sleeve. “You live so differently from us. I could never live like you,” she said softly. “Walking because you choose to. Fighting because you decide to. Asking questions no one gave you permission to ask.”

Rayz shook his head. “You asked questions.”

She smiled faintly. Her gaze drifted toward the ceiling, toward the tower’s unseen heights. “You have something irreplaceable, Rayz. Something we were never given.” Her fingers curled weakly around his wrist. “Cherish it. Even when it hurts. Even when it feels pointless.”

Rayz felt a fire in his body. Anger, grief, frustration, he couldn’t tell. “You deserved better than this.”

She closed her eyes for a moment, her breath trembling. “Maybe. But I had this. I had… a moment. I had a choice. And I used it.” Rayz looked down at her, at the fading glow beneath her collarbone, at the spark that was slipping away. He wanted to tell her she wasn’t just a creation. He wanted to tell her she mattered. But the words felt too small, too late. The woman’s breath grew thinner, each inhale a faint tremor against Rayz’s hands. The glow beneath her collarbone flickered, once, twice, like a candle fighting a draft.

Then it went out.

Not slowly. Not gently. It simply vanished. The light in the necklace dimmed to nothing, and with it, the warmth in her body faded. Her fingers loosened around Rayz’s wrist. Her eyes, once bright with borrowed life, dulled like glass left in the cold. It happened in a single, quiet moment. Her skin lost its color, turning pale, then gray, then the muted brown of carved wood. The softness of her features hardened into smooth planes. Her hair stiffened into carved strands. Her limbs grew rigid, joints settling into fixed angles. Where a woman had been, a wooden mannequin now lay in Rayz’s arms.

Rayz didn’t move. He didn’t speak. He simply held her, feeling the weight shift from a living body to something lifeless.. The silence pressed in around him, thick and absolute. Even the sorcerer’s ragged breathing in the corner seemed distant, unimportant. After a long moment, Rayz exhaled and gently laid the mannequin on the cold stone floor. The necklace rested against its wooden chest, the once‑glowing stone now dull and ordinary. Rayz reached for it, fingers brushing the smooth surface. It was warm only from the memory of her. He unclasped it carefully, lifting it free.Up close, it looked like nothing special. A simple chain. A small stone. No gold. No gems. No craftsmanship that would fetch a single coin in any market. Rayz turned it over in his hand, watching the faint reflection of the lantern light dance across its surface. “Beautiful,” he murmured.

Not because of what it was. But because of what it had done. Because it had given her a voice. A will. A chance to choose. Because it had allowed her to be something more than what she was made to be. He closed his fist around it, feeling the weight settle into his palm. He didn’t know what he would do with it. He didn’t know why he kept it. But he knew he would not leave it behind. Some things didn’t need value to matter. Rayz slipped the necklace into his pocket, stood slowly, and looked down at the wooden figure on the floor. He bowed his head once. Silent, steady, respectful.

The sorcerer’s ragged breaths grew shorter, sharper. He clutched at the tool in his side, blood pooling beneath him in a dark, spreading stain. For a moment he tried to rise, fingers scraping weakly against the floor. Then he went still. No final curse. No last gasp of magic. Just silence. Rayz watched him for a long moment, waiting for movement that never came. The tower, which had hummed and whispered since the moment he entered, seemed to be losing its power. The oppressive presence thinning, loosening, as though the death of its master had severed something deep within its walls. There was nothing left to do here.

Rayz turned away from the workshop. The tower’s corridors felt different now. Emptier, Quieter. The wooden figures he passed did not move. The small creatures tending the giant below had gone still, their pails resting at their sides. Even the giant’s groaning breaths had fallen silent. Outside, the air hit him like a cleansing wind. His horse waited where he had left it, ears flicking as he approached. Rayz placed a hand on its neck, grounding himself in the familiar warmth. He mounted slowly, and for a moment, he simply sat there, staring at the twisted silhouette of the tower against the gray sky. He felt the heaviness of loss, of anger, of questions he would never have answers to. He left the tower behind him, its shadow shrinking with every step of his horse. The wind carried the scent of open fields, distant roads, and a world still waiting, Rayz rode on with purpose.

The Tower of Life

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