The tunnel leading from the sanctuary beneath the library was a winding, claustrophobic passage that seemed to shift and breathe around them. Kaelen followed Roland's broad back, the former guard moving with practiced efficiency despite the uncertain terrain. The crystallized fragments in the pouch at Kaelen's hip pulsed with entropic energy, a constant reminder of the hunger that lurked within him, temporarily sated but never truly gone.
"How did you become an Anomaly?" Kaelen asked, breaking the tense silence that had accompanied them since leaving the others behind. The question had been gnawing at him, almost as persistent as the hunger itself. Understanding the others' transformations might provide insight into his own.
Roland didn't slow his pace or turn around. "Was part of the first response team," he said, his deep voice echoing in the narrow tunnel. "Not Mercer's squad. We were sent to evacuate civilians from the Old Quarter when the Tower first appeared. Saw things... changing. People dissolving. Buildings twisting into shapes that hurt to look at." He paused, ducking beneath a low-hanging pipe. "Then the hunger hit. Like being hollowed out from the inside. Most of my squad turned on each other, started... feeding. I ran. Found Thorne and Voss already holed up in the library. They'd been studying the phenomenon since before the military even acknowledged it."
"And Vex?" Kaelen pressed.
"Showed up later. Never talks about before." Roland's tone made it clear that line of questioning was closed. "We should conserve energy. The surface is... worse than when you last saw it."
They continued in silence, the tunnel gradually sloping upward. The air grew thinner, charged with a strange electricity that made the hairs on Kaelen's arms stand on end. The hunger stirred within him, responding to the proximity of entropic energy. He reached into the pouch, fingers closing around one of the crystallized fragments. The mere touch was enough to dull the craving, though he knew from Dr. Voss's instructions that he would need to consume it fully if the hunger became overwhelming.
After what felt like hours but could have been minutes—time was increasingly subjective in this unmade world—they reached a heavy metal door. Roland paused, his green eyes glowing more intensely in the darkness.
"Remember," he said, turning to face Kaelen for the first time since they'd entered the tunnel, "what you're about to see isn't reality as you knew it. The unmaking has accelerated. The laws of physics, of perception... they're suggestions at best out there now. Trust nothing. Not your eyes, not your ears, not even your thoughts. The only constant is the hunger. Use it as an anchor if you must, but don't let it control you."
Kaelen nodded, tightening his grip on the revolver he'd recovered from the plaza. It felt inadequate against the horrors that awaited, but its weight was reassuring nonetheless.
Roland pushed open the door, and the crimson light of the alien moon flooded in, along with a cacophony of sounds that defied description—whispers that seemed to emanate from the air itself, the groaning of buildings as they twisted into impossible geometries, and underneath it all, a low, pulsing hum that Kaelen recognized as the Tower's heartbeat.
They emerged into what had once been an alleyway but was now a twisting corridor of melted brick and flowing stone. The buildings on either side had merged and transformed, their facades rippling like liquid, windows becoming eyes that blinked and tracked their movement. The sky above was a churning sea of crimson and black, the moon a bloated, watching presence that seemed to have grown larger since Kaelen had last seen it.
And there, dominating the horizon, was the Tower. It had changed too. No longer a simple obsidian silhouette, it now pulsed with veins of crimson light that ran up its surface like arteries, pumping some unknown substance into the sky. Its form seemed more organic now, less architectural, as if it were growing rather than built.
"It's evolving," Kaelen whispered, the scholar in him momentarily overriding his fear. "Adapting."
"Like us," Roland agreed grimly. "Come on. The museum is this way. Stay close. The twisted ones hunt in packs now."
They moved through the transformed cityscape, Roland leading them along what he called "stable paths"—routes where reality remained somewhat consistent, where the unmaking had settled into new, albeit alien, patterns. Kaelen's enhanced perception, further sharpened by his consumption of Marcus, allowed him to see these paths as faint, shimmering threads in the fabric of the distorted reality around them.
The journey was a nightmare of surreal horror. They passed a plaza where gravity had reversed, debris and the dissolved remains of citizens floating upward into the crimson sky. They skirted a building that had become a massive, pulsating organ, its windows transformed into mouths that whispered equations and theorems in languages Kaelen almost recognized. At one point, they were forced to cross a street where time itself had fractured, different segments moving at different speeds—Roland appeared to age decades and then revert to youth in the span of seconds as they sprinted across.
Throughout it all, the hunger within Kaelen grew stronger, more insistent. The crystallized fragments helped, but they were a poor substitute for the raw, chaotic energy that surrounded them. He found himself eyeing the pulsating veins of entropic power that ran through the transformed buildings, the shimmering motes of dissolved reality that drifted through the air like spores. Roland seemed to notice his distraction.
"Focus," the former guard growled. "We're getting close."
The museum loomed before them, a once-grand neoclassical structure that had been warped by the unmaking into something that defied architectural logic. Its columns had twisted into spirals that seemed to drill into the sky, its dome had inverted and now plunged into the building like a massive funnel. The stone itself had taken on a translucent quality, revealing shadowy movements within—whether artifacts coming to life or twisted ones seeking shelter, Kaelen couldn't tell.
"There's something you should know," Roland said as they crouched behind a fallen statue, studying the museum's entrance. "Thorne didn't tell you everything about this place."
Kaelen felt a chill that had nothing to do with the entropic energies swirling around them. "What do you mean?"
"The museum isn't just a repository of ancient texts. It was also the site of Thorne's early experiments. Before the Tower appeared." Roland's green eyes were hard, unreadable. "He was studying dimensional boundaries, trying to pierce the veil between realities. Some of us think he might have succeeded. That he might have... invited something through."
The implication hung in the air between them. "You think Thorne caused this? The Tower? The unmaking?"
"I don't know," Roland admitted. "But Vex believes it. That's why there's tension between them. Vex was... connected to someone who worked with Thorne. Someone who disappeared during one of the experiments."
Kaelen processed this, his scholar's mind racing. If Thorne had indeed pierced the dimensional boundary, if he had somehow facilitated the Tower's emergence... "Why are you telling me this now?"
"Because you need to understand what you're walking into. The museum might contain answers, yes. But it might also contain evidence. And I'm not sure which Thorne wants more—understanding the Tower, or erasing his connection to its appearance." Roland checked his makeshift weapon, a metal pipe that had been sharpened to a wicked point. "Just keep your eyes open. And remember, Thorne might be an ally, but that doesn't make him a friend."
Before Kaelen could respond, a keening wail split the air—the hunting cry of the twisted ones. Roland tensed, his eyes scanning the distorted landscape. "They've caught our scent. We need to move. Now."
They abandoned their cover, sprinting toward the museum's entrance. The massive doors, once solid bronze, had melted and reformed into a pulsating membrane that rippled like water. Roland didn't hesitate, plunging through the surface with Kaelen close behind. The sensation was nauseating—like passing through warm, viscous liquid that clung to every inch of his body before releasing him.
They emerged into what had once been the museum's grand foyer. The space had been transformed beyond recognition. The floor undulated in gentle waves, as if they stood on the surface of a calm sea. The ceiling had dissolved entirely, opening to a void that was neither the crimson sky outside nor any recognizable space—a swirling abyss of colors and shapes that defied comprehension. Display cases lined the walls, their glass fronts intact but the contents within shifting and changing, artifacts transforming from one form to another in a continuous cycle of unmaking and remaking.
"The texts we need would be in the Pre-Imperial wing," Roland said, his voice hushed. "East side of the building. If it still exists."
They moved cautiously through the transformed museum, each gallery presenting new horrors and wonders. In one room, statues had come to life, locked in eternal, slow-motion combat, their stone limbs moving with glacial inevitability. In another, a collection of ancient weapons floated in the air, occasionally firing or swinging at invisible opponents. The hunger within Kaelen grew with each step, the entropic energies here more concentrated, more refined than in the chaotic streets outside.
"Roland," he said, his voice strained, "I need to... the hunger..."
The former guard glanced back, understanding in his green eyes. "Use a fragment. Quickly. We can't afford to have you lose control in here."
Kaelen fumbled with the pouch, extracting a crystallized fragment. Unlike the first time, when Dr. Voss had handed him one in the sanctuary, he now knew what to expect. He pressed the fragment against his palm, feeling the initial resistance before it dissolved into his being. The rush of entropic energy was immediate, a cool wave that temporarily quenched the burning hunger within. His perception sharpened further, the patterns of unmaking and remaking around them becoming more distinct, more comprehensible.
"Better?" Roland asked.
Kaelen nodded, though "better" wasn't quite the right word. The fragment had sated the hunger, yes, but it had also heightened his awareness of the Tower's presence. He could feel it now, not just as a distant, watching entity, but as a pervasive consciousness that permeated every molecule of the unmade reality around them. And it was aware of him, too. Aware and... interested.
They continued through the transformed museum, following Roland's memory of the layout, though the unmaking had rendered much of it unrecognizable. Corridors twisted back on themselves, rooms expanded into impossible dimensions or contracted to claustrophobic proportions. Time seemed to stutter and jump, moments repeating or skipping entirely.
Finally, they reached what Roland identified as the Pre-Imperial wing. The transformation here was different, more controlled. The room had expanded into a vast, circular chamber that hadn't existed in the original museum. At its center stood a pedestal, and on that pedestal, a single artifact—a tablet of black stone, covered in glyphs that shifted and moved as if alive.
"That's it," Roland breathed. "The Entropic Codex. Thorne mentioned it, but I didn't think... I didn't think it would still be intact."
Kaelen approached the pedestal cautiously, drawn by an inexplicable familiarity. The glyphs on the tablet seemed to respond to his presence, their movements becoming more agitated, more purposeful. As he drew closer, he realized with a shock that he could read them. Not through any knowledge of ancient languages, but through a direct, intuitive understanding that bypassed conventional comprehension.
"It's a record," he said, his voice distant to his own ears. "A record of previous unmakings. Previous Towers. This has happened before. Many times."
Roland joined him at the pedestal, his expression wary. "What does it say? About how to stop it?"
Kaelen's fingers hovered over the tablet's surface, not quite touching. The glyphs rearranged themselves continuously, telling different parts of the same ancient story. "It says... the Tower is a bridge. A conduit between our reality and... something else. Something that exists in the spaces between universes. It calls it 'The Crimson Court.' A collective entity that feeds on dying realities."
"Feeds?" Roland's voice was tight. "Like we feed on entropic energy?"
"Yes. No. It's more complex." Kaelen struggled to translate the alien concepts. "The Court doesn't just consume. It... transforms. Elevates. It selects certain beings from the dying reality—Anomalies—to join its ranks. To become part of the Court."
"The becoming," Roland muttered. "That's what Vex keeps talking about."
Kaelen nodded, the pieces falling into place. "The hunger, the consumption... they're tests. Ways for the Court to identify suitable candidates. Those who can control the hunger, who can harness entropic energy without losing themselves entirely... they're offered ascension."
"And the rest?" Roland asked, though his tone suggested he already knew the answer.
"Consumed. Along with the reality itself." Kaelen's fingers finally made contact with the tablet, and a jolt of energy surged through him. Images flooded his mind—other worlds, other Towers, other unmakings. And faces. Countless faces of beings who had stood where he now stood, reading the same record, making the same discovery. Some had accepted the Court's offer. Others had fought against it. All had been transformed, one way or another.
And then, cutting through the visions, a voice. Not spoken aloud, but resonating directly in his mind. A voice he recognized from the courtyard, from his dreams. The Tower's voice.
Harbinger. Seed of change. You walk the path of many before you. But your journey is unique. Your choice will reshape the Court itself.
Kaelen jerked his hand away from the tablet, gasping. Roland steadied him, concern evident in his green eyes.
"What happened? What did you see?"
Before Kaelen could answer, a new sound reached them—the wet, slithering movement of multiple bodies. The twisted ones had found them. Roland cursed, readying his weapon.
"We need to go. Now. Did you learn enough? Did it say how to stop the unmaking?"
Kaelen stared at the tablet, the glyphs still shifting, still telling their ancient story. "It doesn't work that way," he said slowly. "The unmaking can't be stopped. It can only be... directed. Shaped. Through the choices of the Anomalies. Through our choices."
The sounds of the twisted ones grew closer, their keening wails echoing through the transformed museum. Roland grabbed Kaelen's arm. "Philosophical debates later. Survival now. We need to get this information back to the others."
Kaelen nodded, but as they turned to flee, he hesitated. The tablet... he couldn't leave it. Not when it contained so much knowledge, so many answers. Without conscious thought, his hand reached out again, touching the black stone. And this time, something impossible happened. The tablet dissolved, not into the multi-colored particles of the unmaking, but into a stream of dark energy that flowed directly into Kaelen's palm, absorbed into his being just as he had absorbed Marcus's essence.
Roland stared in shock. "What did you just do?"
Kaelen looked at his hand, feeling the tablet's knowledge integrating with his consciousness, becoming part of him. "I don't know. I just... needed it. And it responded."
The former guard's expression hardened. "We definitely need to get you back to Thorne and the others now. Come on."
They ran, retracing their path through the transformed museum as the sounds of pursuit grew louder behind them. The twisted ones were closing in, drawn by the concentrated entropic energy they both carried. As they reached the foyer, the membrane that had replaced the entrance rippled violently, bulging inward as something massive pressed against it from the outside.
"Another exit," Roland growled, pulling Kaelen toward a side corridor. "Service entrance. This way."
They sprinted down the corridor, which twisted and elongated as they ran, the unmaking actively working against their escape. Behind them, the sounds of the twisted ones grew louder, closer. The hunger within Kaelen surged, responding to the threat, urging him to turn and fight, to consume rather than flee.
He resisted, focusing on following Roland, on escaping with the knowledge they'd gained. But as they rounded a corner, they found their path blocked. A twisted one stood before them, but unlike the others Kaelen had encountered, this one retained a horrifying semblance of humanity. It wore the tattered remains of an Imperial Guard uniform, a captain's insignia still visible on the collar. Its face, though distorted and elongated, bore recognizable features—strong jaw, cropped hair, eyes that still held a spark of intelligence beneath the hunger."Mercer," Roland whispered, shock evident in his voice.
The creature—Captain Mercer—tilted its head, studying them with predatory focus. When it spoke, its voice was a distorted parody of human speech, words forming around too many teeth in a mouth that had evolved for feeding rather than talking.
"Roland. Old friend. You've brought me something interesting." Its gaze shifted to Kaelen, nostrils flaring. "Something new. Something... potent."
Roland raised his weapon, positioning himself between Kaelen and the transformed captain. "We're leaving, Mercer. Stand aside."
The creature laughed, a wet, gurgling sound. "Always the loyal soldier. But loyal to whom? To Thorne? The man who caused all this?" It took a step forward, its movements unnaturally fluid. "Did he tell you why he sent you here? What he really wants from the museum?"
"Don't listen to it," Roland warned Kaelen. "The twisted ones lie. They manipulate. It's not Mercer anymore, just something wearing his face."
"Parts of me are still Mercer," the creature countered. "Enough to remember. Enough to know." It focused on Kaelen again. "Thorne opened the door. Before the Tower. His experiments. He touched the Crimson Court, made contact. Invited them in." Another step forward. "Ask him about the sacrifices. The missing assistants. Ask him about Vex's sister."
Roland lunged without warning, his sharpened pipe driving toward the creature's chest. But Mercer was faster, inhumanly so. It sidestepped the attack and struck Roland with a casual backhand that sent the former guard crashing into the wall with bone-crushing force.
"Roland!" Kaelen raised the revolver, firing at the advancing creature. The bullets struck true, tearing chunks from Mercer's transformed flesh, but the wounds closed almost instantly, entropic energy knitting the tissue back together.
"Conventional weapons are useless against us," Mercer said, now mere feet away. "But you... you have a different weapon, don't you? A hunger like mine. Embrace it. Use it. Or die."
The hunger within Kaelen surged in response, a tidal wave of need that threatened to overwhelm his control. He reached for another crystallized fragment, but the pouch was empty—he'd used the last one earlier. The hunger roared, demanding release, demanding consumption.
As Mercer lunged, Kaelen made his choice. Not out of desire, but necessity. He met the creature's attack head-on, his hands grasping Mercer's distorted face. And just as he had with Marcus, he began to consume.
The process was different this time. Mercer was stronger, more evolved, his essence more complex. The flow of energy was not one-way but contested, a battle of wills as much as a physical struggle. Kaelen felt Mercer's consciousness pushing against his own, trying to reverse the consumption, to feed on him instead.
For a moment, they were locked in stalemate, two predators grappling for dominance. Then Kaelen felt something else join the battle—the knowledge of the tablet, the ancient record of unmakings and becomings, lending him strength, showing him patterns in Mercer's entropic signature that he could exploit, weaknesses he could target.
With a final, desperate effort, Kaelen pushed through Mercer's defenses. The creature let out a howl of rage and fear as the consumption accelerated, its form growing translucent, then transparent, as Kaelen absorbed its essence. And with it came memories—Mercer's human life, his transformation, his service to the Tower as a hunter of other Anomalies, and fragments of knowledge about the Crimson Court that the captain had gleaned during his own becoming.
When it was over, Kaelen stood alone, gasping, his body humming with power. He felt different, more substantial somehow, as if the consumption of Mercer had solidified something within him that had previously been fluid, uncertain. The hunger was sated, more thoroughly than it had been by any crystallized fragment or lesser consumption.
He turned to Roland, who was struggling to his feet, watching Kaelen with a mixture of awe and wariness. "Are you alright?" Kaelen asked, surprised by the steadiness of his own voice.
"Broken ribs, maybe worse," Roland grunted. "But I'll live. You... what you just did..."
"I had no choice," Kaelen said, though he wasn't entirely sure that was true. Part of him—a growing part—had wanted to consume Mercer, had exulted in the power it brought.
"I know," Roland said, his tone unreadable. "Come on. We need to get back. The others need to hear what we've learned. About the Codex. About the Court." He hesitated. "About Thorne."
As they made their way out through the service entrance, emerging into the chaotic, unmade cityscape, Kaelen felt the Tower's attention on him, more focused than ever before. The consumption of Mercer, a high-ranking twisted one, had not gone unnoticed. He had passed another test, taken another step along the path of his becoming.
But toward what end? Ascension to the Crimson Court? Opposition to it? Or something else entirely, a third path that neither Thorne nor the Tower had anticipated?
The crimson moon watched from above, its bloated face impassive. The Tower pulsed in the distance, its veins pumping entropic energy into the dying world. And within Kaelen, the hunger waited, temporarily sated but eternal, a reminder of what he was becoming—and what he might yet choose to be.