Chapter 1101: To whom Great Power is Offered.
Cain moved with the weight of too many choices pressing his shoulders. The spire’s skin was cold iron beneath his boots, and every step up through its bones was another decision he would not get back. Susan kept pace at his side, her breathing steady, though the cut across her arm had stiffened into something that resisted movement. Roselle lingered at the rear, sharp eyes flicking between shadows, catching details the others would miss. Hunter said nothing. He walked in silence, a man under judgment.
The city below churned in muted rhythm. Markets rose with voices, smoke crawled from vents, and the slow grind of turbines sent a heartbeat through steel. Cain could hear the hum of it. He could hear the city arguing with itself, and somewhere above, the Daelmonts watching with the patience of predators.
Susan broke the quiet. "You know this isn’t just about one family. They’re a face, sure. A powerful one. But cut the Daelmonts, and another will take their place."
Cain did not slow. "Then we keep cutting."
Hunter finally spoke, voice measured. "That’s a war without an end. You’ll build nothing but corpses stacked into monuments no one will live to see."
Roselle’s laugh was sharp. "Better monuments than cages."
Cain didn’t answer. He thought of Steve still at the edge of the market, patching signals, rigging equipment to bleed misinformation into the Grid. Steve had no blade, but his war cut just as deep. They were all making scars, visible or not.
A new stairwell wound upward, narrower than before, lit by long-dead bulbs. Cain climbed without hesitation, but halfway through, he paused. The air was wrong. Stale, thick with something that wasn’t dust. He raised a hand and the others froze.
From the shadows above came a slow mechanical groan, followed by the clatter of shifting weight. A carrier drone, smaller than the ones they had broken in the harbor, but still armored, still dangerous, hung in the stairwell like a spider in its web. Its optics flared red as it scanned the shaft.
Roselle drew in a sharp breath. "How the hell did it get this high?"
Susan’s hand went to her pistol. "Doesn’t matter. If it calls, they’ll know exactly where we are."
Cain gripped his blade tighter. His body coiled, not for speed, but for certainty. He saw the drone as more than machine—it was a message. Someone had placed it here, knowing they would climb this path. The Daelmonts were not blind.
Hunter stepped forward, slow. "Wait. If it hasn’t triggered yet, maybe it’s not just a guard. Maybe it’s listening."
Roselle hissed. "And you’d talk to it? Negotiate with metal like you negotiate with men?"
Hunter’s jaw tightened. "If someone’s on the other side of that lens, then yes."
The drone whirred, optic beam sweeping across their faces one by one. Cain felt the air between heartbeats stretch thin. He had a choice: silence it before it spoke, or let it live long enough to deliver a message—one that might twist the climb into something else entirely.
Susan whispered, "Decide."
Cain raised his blade.
And then—
The drone spoke. Not in machine code, not in static, but in a human voice, filtered, layered. "Cain Veynar. The Daelmonts expected you."
The stairwell seemed smaller than breath.
Hunter’s face flickered between vindication and fear. Roselle lifted her pistol higher. Susan muttered something under her breath Cain did not catch.
He kept his blade steady, though his pulse beat fast. They were not ghosts in this climb anymore. They were announced.
"Keep moving," Cain said, voice low, final. "But be ready. Every step from here is walked under their eye."
They climbed again, each step heavier than the one before.
The stairwell wound higher, every echo of their boots now a declaration instead of a whisper. Cain could feel the weight of the drone’s voice still clinging to him, like oil on skin. The Daelmonts knew their names. They knew the climb.
Susan leaned in close as they moved, whispering through grit. "That wasn’t chance. They planted that thing to test us. To see if we’d flinch."
Roselle gave her a hard look. "Then we failed. We didn’t cut it. We let it talk."
"Not failed," Cain said, voice quiet, unshaken. "Announced."
Hunter almost smiled, but the sharpness of it bent bitter. "Sometimes announcement is power. It means they’re watching us because they’re worried."
"Or," Roselle countered, "because they want to reel us in."
The higher they went, the more the spire shifted around them. The air lost its stink of rust and smoke, replaced by filtered currents, faint traces of chemical sterility. The walls were cleaner, reinforced, scarred less by time and more by control. Cain realized they were moving from the bones of the city into its lungs. Here, life wasn’t lived—it was manufactured.
He felt the silence break before he heard it. A vibration in the iron. A thrum in the rail. Then a voice—different, deeper than the drone’s—slid from hidden speakers tucked into the walls.
"Climbers. You wear the old world on your shoulders. You drag rust and ruin into a tower of order. Why?"
They froze. Cain’s blade didn’t lower. He recognized it for what it was: a performance. Someone high, sitting in a clean room, trying to shape them with words.
"Because order is a cage," Cain said flatly.
A pause. Then the voice again. "Cages keep people alive."
Hunter’s face flickered—recognition? Guilt? Cain caught it, but didn’t call him on it. Not yet.
Susan spat onto the stair. "Alive isn’t the same as living."
Roselle raised her pistol to the nearest wall, as though she could aim at sound. "Talk all you want. We’re still climbing."
Cain pushed forward, forcing the others to follow. "Keep moving. Let them waste their words."
The speakers fell silent, but the air had changed. The Daelmonts weren’t just aware—they were invested. That meant more traps, more tests, more eyes waiting above.
And Cain knew: each step higher wasn’t just defiance. It was invitation.