As the doors groaned open, a thin shaft of light bled into the black expanse of the tower. The air within was stale, heavy with dust and something far older.
The moment Felix stepped across the threshold, pale-blue lanterns guttered to life one by one, circling the chamber like silent sentinels. Their ghostly glow revealed a vast, circular hall. A colossal staircase clung to the tower's inner wall, spiraling upward into a dizzying height, each tier lit by the same otherworldly flames. As Felix tilted his head back, the sheer immensity of the space pressed down on him. The tower seemed endless, stretching far beyond what the eye should see—so vast it felt more like staring into the heavens than at stone and mortar.
But awe didn't hold him for long. His gaze fell, and what lay across the floor turned his breath sharp.
Bones. Dozens of them. Scores.
The skeletal remains of beasts sprawled in grotesque heaps, some towering in size even as husks. Ribcages the length of wagons, tusked skulls slumped against the walls, claws curled lifeless in the dust. Among them were human shapes—or close enough. Some bore curling horns jutting from cracked skulls, while others wore only the faded echo of rust-eaten armor. They lay where they had fallen, weapons still clenched in skeletal hands, jaws frozen wide in silent screams.
And then there were the puppets.
They were everywhere. Shattered husks of wood and metal, limbs torn free, gears strewn across the floor like spilled entrails. Many still bore the evidence of their destruction: blades impaled through broken frames, splintered shafts jutting like mock gravestones. Others lay in tangled heaps with the skeletons, as if they had died locked together in the same desperate struggle.
Now that Felix truly looked, it was impossible not to see the violence that had unfolded here. Splintered ribs, shattered skulls, armor caved in as if struck by titanic force. The chamber floor was a graveyard—one that told a single story, clear and terrible.
A last stand of some sort…
A shadow of gloom passed over Felix's face as he took in the sight before him. This was the second graveyard he had stumbled across since entering the Cradle, but this one dwarfed the first. Bones sprawled across the chamber floor in a tangled web of ruin—monstrous ribcages collapsed beside shattered helms, broken jaws frozen wide in silent screams. The pale-blue lanterns above bathed it all in a cold, spectral light, making every twisted shape look less like a corpse and more like some nightmare frozen in stone.
He stepped carefully among the dead, his boot nudging a splintered rib that cracked apart with a dry snap. His gaze drifted to one figure propped against the wall—a humanoid skeleton slumped forward as though it had died mid-charge. Rust consumed the armor it wore, flaking away in patches, but the shape of the blade in its hand remained.
Felix crouched low, eyeing it carefully. The weapon was mottled with corrosion, but not wholly ruined. Its edges, though dulled, still caught a faint glint from the lantern-light. Perhaps it could be cleaned, sharpened—used. With delicate fingers, he pried it free from the bony grip. The skeleton resisted as though reluctant to release its weapon, but with a brittle crack, the fingers snapped away, and the blade came loose.
He had just begun to examine it when the chamber stirred.
A sound rose—soft at first, almost indistinguishable from the groan of stone. Then came the scrape. Metal against stone, halting, uneven. A clamor echoed through the hall like the dragging of chains or the stumbling of something wounded. Felix froze, every muscle tense.
Slowly, he lifted his head, eyes narrowing toward the source. Beyond the pale fringe of the lantern glow, a silhouette began to form. At first it was just a suggestion—something vaguely humanoid, wavering in the half-dark. But as it lurched forward, the shadows peeled back, revealing more with each agonized step.
The figure staggered into the light.
It was not beast nor man. It was… a puppet.
Felix's grip tightened on the sword, his stance lowering as the thing shambled nearer. The puppet was clad in what remained of plate mail, though the armor was shattered, barely clinging to its warped frame. Spearheads jutted from its chest like obscene trophies, jagged blades and broken hafts embedded deep into its torso. Each step made the metal quiver and rattle, the weapons shifting within its body as if lodged too deep to ever be removed.
Its right arm ended abruptly at the elbow, the forearm shattered away, leaving only jagged remnants of steel and wood splinters jutting from the ruined joint. Its left leg was twisted, dragging behind it in an awkward half-step, half-stumble. Every motion looked as though it might collapse under its own weight, yet still it advanced, implacable.
The helmet it wore was no less unsettling. Forged of heavy steel, battered and split in places, it bore no visor. Instead, the front was an empty slit of shadow where a face should have been. The pale light caught on its edges, but nothing lay within—no glow of eyes, no spark of life. Just emptiness.
The clamor grew louder as the puppet closed in—an orchestra of metal grinding against stone, loose plates rattling, blades scraping with every awkward movement. Dust rose from the floor in its wake, disturbed by its dragging limb.
Felix tightened his grip on the sword, muscles coiling as he fixed his eyes on the broken figure before him.
"It's just one puppet," he muttered under his breath, trying to convince himself more than anything. "Just an old hunk of wood…"
The words felt hollow the moment they left his mouth.
The puppet's limp scrape against stone had been jarring enough, but then—another sound joined it. A shrill screech of metal against stone, piercing and sharp, like nails raked down a chalkboard. Felix winced, instinctively raising a hand to cover one ear. The noise clawed at him, setting his teeth on edge.
His gaze darted upward—and his stomach dropped.
From the shadowed edges of the chamber, shapes emerged. One by one, more figures staggered into the pale-blue glow. Puppets. All battered, all broken in different ways, yet each moving with the same awful persistence. Armor cracked and hanging, limbs splintered and dragging, they shuffled forward in uneven steps. Their combined racket filled the chamber, a chorus of grinding, creaking, shrieking metal that echoed off the stone until it was almost deafening.
Felix's breath hitched as he turned, realizing with a growing dread that they weren't just in front of him. They were stepping out from every corner, every darkened passage, the glow of the lanterns only serving to reveal how many there were. A small horde, advancing slow but relentless, closing in with every stuttering step.
His knuckles whitened around the hilt of his blade.
"…I just had to open my stupid mouth," he whispered, voice bitter as the circle tightened around him.
Felix's mind raced, searching for a way out—any way out—when a deep groan rumbled through the chamber. The sound was followed by a heavy slam that shook the floor beneath his boots. He spun toward the noise just in time to see the great doors behind him shudder closed, sealing him inside with the swarm.
His stomach dropped.
"…Oh, that's just perfect," he spat, voice sharp with panic. A bitter laugh cracked out of him. "Just fucking perfect!"
One of the staggering puppets lurched closer, its ruined armor screeching as it swung a jagged blade in a wild arc aimed at his throat. Felix threw himself back, the weapon whistling past close enough that he felt the air shift against his neck.
"Really—no, I mean it!" he barked, sarcasm bleeding through his fear as he regained his footing. "This is just great!"
His pulse hammered as the first puppet staggered closer, its ruined helmet rattling with every jerky step. He slashed out, the scavenged blade hissing through the air and biting deep into its chest. Wood splintered, shards of rotted padding spilling out, but the thing didn't stop. It lurched forward, mandibles of rusted metal grinding as it raised its jagged stump of an arm to swing again.
He shoved hard, the impact sending the puppet clattering to the floor—but even as it fell, two more closed in. Their shattered armor screeched against the stone, broken spears jutting from their torsos like grotesque trophies. One dragged its blade across the ground, the screech setting his teeth on edge, before it snapped its head up and lunged.
Felix barely managed to parry, sparks spitting as the clash rang through the chamber. The force rattled his arm to the elbow, his muscles screaming with strain. He kicked out, boot crunching into a puppet's knee. The joint buckled with a splintering crack, but the thing still clawed forward, dragging itself closer on its broken leg.
"Stubborn sacks of sawdust!" Felix snarled, twisting away as another blade carved a shallow line across his sleeve. He slashed back in panic, the tip of his sword catching one puppet across the jaw. Its head snapped sideways with a crack, half its face dangling loose on frayed strings, but still it pressed forward.
The circle was tightening.
Felix backed toward the stairs without thinking, every breath coming in ragged gasps. He lashed out again, cutting deep into a puppet's shoulder, but for every one he damaged, two more shuffled into the pale lantern light. Their armor glinted faintly, pitted and cracked, their wooden joints creaking with every unnatural twitch.
"This isn't a fight," he panted. "This is a—"
A blade whistled past his cheek, close enough to shear a lock of his hair. Felix stumbled back, nearly losing his balance, before driving his sword upward into the puppet's gut. The impact lifted the thing off its feet, its broken frame dangling on the blade like a gutted animal. He wrenched the sword free with a grunt, but his arms were trembling now, sweat stinging his eyes.
"—this is a fucking nightmare!"
The puppets surged all at once, their clattering steps and scraping weapons echoing like a storm. Felix's boot hit the first step of the great stairway, and something in him snapped. He couldn't keep holding ground. He'd drown here in rust and splinters if he didn't move.
His eyes darted up the winding staircase, pale-blue lanterns flickering like distant stars. A desperate idea took hold.
"Break through," he muttered, jaw tight. "Just break through."
With a raw cry, Felix charged forward, slashing wildly to carve open a path. His blade caught one puppet across the neck, sending its head tumbling into the dark, while his shoulder slammed into another, knocking it aside. Wooden ribs cracked under the impact, but pain jolted up Felix's arm from the blow. He didn't stop. Couldn't stop.
He shoved, cut, kicked—anything to force a gap. The puppets screeched as splinters flew, their broken bodies clawing at him even as he staggered upward onto the stairs.
Felix's lungs burned, each step a battle as his boots scraped against worn stone. Behind him, the horde surged, dragging themselves up the spiral like a tide of shattered knights. Their scraping, grinding ascent echoed up the tower, relentless, unending.
Felix stumbled, caught himself on the rail, then looked up toward the spiraling climb that stretched into the pale glow above.
"Yeah," he rasped, his mouth twisting into a grimace that was half-smile, half-snarl.
"Perfect plan. Just run straight up into the creepy death tower. What could possibly go wrong?"
He tore up the steps, the horde clattering in pursuit, their broken blades scraping sparks as they dragged along the stone walls.
And still, they climbed after him.
The stairs wound higher, and Felix forced his aching legs to climb, every breath ripping from his chest like broken glass. Behind him, the puppets clattered in pursuit, their jerking limbs clanging against the stone as they swarmed up the spiral.
One lurched close, blade scraping toward his back. Felix ripped a lantern from the wall and hurled it down with a desperate shout. Glass shattered, pale-blue fire licking across the puppet's chest. It screeched in a voice like grinding metal, its limbs flailing as flames ate through its rotted padding. For a heartbeat, the blaze lit the stairwell in eerie light, painting the puppets as a grotesque army of shadows.
Felix didn't wait to watch it burn. He staggered higher, each step heavier than the last, his free hand clutching the railing for balance. The puppets weren't slowing—they were multiplying.
He passed a side passage, a broken arch yawning into darkness. From it, more figures lurched out, their ruined armor clattering as they joined the chase. Felix cursed, half-gasp, half-snarl. "Of course… why not add more friends to the party?"
He pushed harder, shoving his shoulder against another lantern, sending it spinning into the mob below. It shattered on the steps, fire blooming and clinging to their armor. Puppets shrieked and fell, others crawling over them with unflinching determination, blades scraping stone as they clawed their way up.
Another floor, another outpouring. Puppets dragged themselves from alcoves, their eyes hollow, armor riddled with cracks and splinters. They joined the tide, swelling the swarm until it filled the staircase wall-to-wall.
Felix's arms and legs burned. His chest heaved, ragged and raw. Every time he looked down, the sight nearly broke him: a churning sea of broken knights, reaching, scraping, clattering, always climbing.
"Gotta move—faster, Felix. Just… move!"
He stumbled, nearly lost his balance, but then—finally—he crested the last curve. The stair ended in a vast landing, and before him loomed a door unlike any he had ever seen.
It stretched nearly to the tower's vault, an intricate slab of blackened metal etched with twisting runes and designs that seemed to shift in the pale light. Carvings sprawled across its surface like living veins, arcs of geometric patterns framing a central spiral that drew his eye again and again, dizzying.
Felix threw himself against it, hammering his fist on the runes.
"Open! Come on, open, damn it!"
He shoved, pulled, kicked. Nothing. The runes stayed dark, the door unyielding.
Behind him, the tide was nearly at his back. Puppets clawed over one another, their screeches rattling the air as the first of them dragged its blade high, ready to strike.
Panic flooded Felix's veins, but then—sudden and sharp—something struck him. A flicker of déjà vu. He froze, breath hitching. His hand rose, trembling, until his palm pressed against the cold surface of the door.
His threads answered.
They surged from him, instinctive, weaving into the etched patterns, seeping like ink through cracks. The runes flared to life, pale-blue light coursing outward in veins that pulsed beneath his hand. Symbols blazed across the surface, burning brighter, shifting like clockwork gears until the spiral at the center whirled with impossible depth.
The door groaned, then split open.
Felix didn't think—he shoved himself through the gap, the light searing his vision as he stumbled into whatever lay beyond. He whirled, teeth bared, and slammed the door shut with all his weight just as a puppet's blade slashed through the gap. The steel shrieked against the closing seam, sparks spitting before the door sealed with a thunderous boom.
The chamber fell silent.
Felix collapsed back against the door, chest heaving, sweat dripping from his brow. His grip on the scavenged blade finally loosened, the steel clattering to the floor at his feet.
"…Never," he gasped between breaths, "ever—doing stairs again."