As he departed Madam Vex's office, the world seemed to have grown a fraction heavier.
Kaelen was led by his black-vested guide—a man named Vark, whose face bore a deep scar—down into the lower levels of the arena, to the region known as the Wells. These were nothing more than damp cells where fighters slept, ate, and prepared to kill one another.
The air here was denser. The scent of burnt oil, sweat, and the hiss of rusted steam pipes saturated the atmosphere. With every step, hot, foul air rose from the floor grates, leaving a cloying film upon Kaelen's skin.
This is your hole, Vark said, gesturing toward a set of rusted bars. There is no leaving until the tournament begins. If you need something, strike the bars. But be warned, the guards are usually in a foul mood.
Kaelen entered. The room consisted only of a stone bench and a water bucket in the corner. When Vark locked the door, the sound of metal striking metal echoed through the tunnel.
Kaelen unslung GRIEF from his back and leaned it against the wall. The sword had been restless since the moment he entered the room. The runes upon it pulsed with a faint, violet-tinged glow, like dying embers.
It is not yet sated, Kaelen thought. Madam Vex's meat only fed my belly; what GRIEF craves is far heavier.
He sat on the stone bench and closed his eyes. Instantly, the sensation returned.
In the dead center of his ribcage, it felt as though an invisible chain were hooked to his heart, someone winding the reel relentlessly upward. It was not a pain; it was a deprivation. High above, at the summit of that Silver Tower, there was a piece of him, something without which he remained incomplete. Every second he failed to reach it, his body slowly decayed.
Do not look there.
Kaelen opened his eyes. Through the bars of the adjacent cell, a pair of yellow eyes stared at him.
His neighbor was a massive man, half his body encased in mechanical brass armor. The steam boiler in his chest wheezed softly, huffing a cloud of grey smoke with every breath.
Where? Kaelen asked, his voice creaking like a rusted door hinge.
Upward, the metal man said. He ran a massive hydraulic claw, which served as his right hand, along the bars. All the newcomers look to the tower first. They believe salvation lies there. But it is merely a cleaner graveyard.
Kaelen stood and approached the bars. I must go there.
The metal man let out a muffled laugh. Will you win the tournament and become a Perfect Knight? One of Lord Arthus's carefree, painless, soulless dolls? Look at me, lad... The man gestured to the boiler in his chest. I was once like you. Now, I am merely a steam engine left to rust. They do not use you; they dismantle you and make you a gear in a larger machine.
Kaelen did not answer. The pitch-black void of his right eye perceived the weak, flickering life energy within the metal man. The man's boiler was leaking; his life was vanishing into the air with every breath.
Even so, Kaelen said, his voice cold with resolve. I will go.
The following morning, he was taken to a massive pit known as the training grounds.
It was covered in sand and surrounded by high iron walls. Vex's other investments were there—dozens of mutants, former soldiers, and smugglers. They all eyed one another with hatred, hoping for a chance in the tournament.
Today, Vark shouted from a balcony above. You will not fight. Today, you will survive.
Massive valves in the corners of the pit screeched open.
Suddenly, a thick, greenish fluid began to pour from the pipes. It was alchemical waste; the toxic mixture pumped down from the upper levels of Nihil, which burned like acid upon contact with skin.
At the same time, cages in the center of the pit opened, releasing Metal-Rats driven mad by hunger. These creatures were ordinary rats enlarged by alchemy, with rusted metal shards sewn onto their bodies. Their teeth were strong enough to tear through steel.
Kaelen gripped GRIEF's hilt.
His right eye snapped open. The world darkened; colors bled away. Only the lethal aura of the green fluid and the weak sparks radiating from the nervous systems of the approaching rats remained.
When the first rat lunged, Kaelen did not draw the sword. He met the creature with the weight of the blade and sent it flying against the wall like a baseball.
CRACK.
The creature's metallic shell shattered, its black blood spilling into the sand.
But the rats were not the problem. The problem was the sand beneath his feet slowly filling with that acidic fluid. If his skin touched that liquid, the bandages Silas had made would be useless.
Kaelen felt that strange agility born of Groth's memory. He was no Witcher, yet the speed of one coursed through his veins. He swatted another rat aside, then leaped onto a piece of rock amidst the sands.
At that moment, the runes on GRIEF began to vibrate frantically.
Kaelen realized the sword was pointing at something. The rats were not just aggressive; they were being directed.
He narrowed his eyes. Through the Eye of the Void, he looked beyond the crowd.
In a dark corner of the training grounds, a figure stood hidden in the shadows. This one was different. Motionless. Merely watching. In their hand, they held a runic lantern that pulsed in sync with the movements of the rats.
Kaelen made a decision.
This was not merely training. Someone was testing him.
As the rock beneath his feet began to dissolve, Kaelen finally tightened his grip on GRIEF's hilt. He nudged the guard slightly with his thumb. The sound of steel parting from steel drowned out even the hiss of the acidic fluid.
GRIEF emerged from its scabbard by no more than a finger's width.
Suddenly, a dense, violet-and-black smoke leaked from that small gap. The black veins in Kaelen's right arm glowed as if they would tear through his skin.
Today is not the day, Kaelen snarled.
He took a step. But it was not a step. It was as if he tore through reality for a second, flying over that acidic sea to appear directly in front of the shadowed figure.
Shadow Step.
It was an instinct Kaelen himself did not know, something imposed upon him by the Void and GRIEF.
The shadowed figure started. They dropped the lantern. As the light died, the rats stopped abruptly, looking around in confusion.
Kaelen did not draw the blade fully. He merely pressed it, still sheathed, against the figure's throat.
The game is over, Kaelen said.
The figure slowly pulled back their hood. It was a young woman. Her face was covered in intricate tattoos, and her eyes were entirely silver.
Impressive, the woman said, her voice light as the wind. You are faster than I expected, Error.
The woman dissolved like a cloud of smoke and vanished. She left behind only the cold scent of metal.
Kaelen was left breathless. His right eye was weeping blood. A violet tear traced a path down his cheek. As the black veins in his arm slowly receded, he collapsed to his knees.
The tournament had not yet begun, but the war had already seeped into his soul.
He looked upward. The tower blinked at him from through the clouds. He understood now that the path leading there was paved not only with sand and blood, but with these sinister games.
As GRIEF grew cold upon his back, Kaelen realized something for the first time.
He would not merely climb that tower. He would tear it down.