Espiree is in shambles.

  A city on the first floor, robbed of half the leadership of one of the most important organisations. The entire floor is in uproar. Other cities have their local churches rally, sending more healers and priests to Espiree, taking the dangerous trek through the tunnels.

  They take on more apprentices, passing on healing skills as much as possible, but the magics are complicated, and few people are suited to it. The church requires piety and kindness, and people who bow easily are rarely good enough.

  Snivelling cowards apply. Greedy scum applies. And, occasionally, someone who actually wants to help others applies.

  They all get accepted all the same, because, to some degree, they need to save face.

  Baron van Torin denies any involvement, and no one can call him out on the lie. He is, after all, powerful. The Keeper of the Tunnels, ruler of the city, refuses to intervene. After all, it did not happen in the city.

  All they can say is that their strongest paladin, along with dozens of priests and religious warriors went into the tunnels, chasing after some stupid rookie with a chunk of missing skin, and not a single one of them has come back.

  Bishop Ilyus slams his fists on the table once more. Dozens of letters are sprawled about the table. Dozens of requests for difficult healing procedures that they don’t have mana or manpower for. Climbers are dropping by the minute, and he can’t do jack about it. “That worthless swine,” he curses, thinking of the rookie.

  Ion. That little monster. Crawling up from a newly integrated world with a party of rookies. It had been three weeks since they ran from the city.

  Three weeks.

  That’s how long it took them to kill someone over the third threshold. Someone with an epitaph and a shroud. Their strongest paladin stationed in Espiree, now dead in the tunnels. By the hands of some third rate nobody!

  He slams his fists on the table, furiously answering letters. Ion, the monster rookie, was already in everyone’s mouths. Respitia had denounced the human, after all. The bishop’s wings, made of fragmented obsidian shards, shake in rage.

  Ion had to die. That much is certain, and he knows it. The question is just who to send on the hunt? The church isn’t exactly known for trackers.

  Except… there is one. And wasn’t he on the second floor recently? Called down for a crime, almost banished, made to serve time in a lower floor than suitable. Slowly, a smile creeps across his lips. Yes, that’ll do nicely.

  - - -

  Harry has been an innkeep for the last twenty years. Him and his husband, Michael, a zoof, were damn good at it, too. Mike cooked, Harry served and took care of beds and rooms. They could do with someone to clean, but as an [Archon of the Bathtub] he did a fine job at that.

  The most fun part, by far, was listening to rumors, though. Climbers are a gossipy sort, after all. It all runs on fame, y’see. Credit. Word of mouth. Anyone who’s known as being tough gets met with no trouble. Anyone known to stir things up is kept out of cities. True as the tower.

  And so, when there is the third conversation that day about a rookie who stayed at his tavern, he smiles. Word of mouth spreads fast. “Tough one,” he mutters, more to himself than anyone else. And he knows it’s true.

  Innkeeping is a lot of things. It’s about serving decent food, about keeping things clean, about providing respite and comfort and taking care of people. It’s, in a lot of ways, the opposite of climbing. But there are similarities, otherwise, not nearly as many climbers would retire to be innkeeps.

  One of those similarities is interactions. It’s talking with people, it keeps ya sharp, it means you needa be a good judge of character. And Harry was a damn good judge.

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  He spreads his wings, stretching them. They clink and chime in the faint breeze coming through the window, the stale air of the tunnels being kept in circulation by a terribly minor application of a class skill.

  Ahhhh, hearing those stories is nice. Listening about how Ion got revenge on the paladin from the church. He grins behind a bushy beard. Hearing of those exploits, the chase, the tricks, the trapped tunnels, the one-on-one, and the embellishments… It all takes him back to better days.

  When he was younger, more ambitious. When he wanted to see the top.

  With a wet rag, he wipes down the counter, and his husband, all grey fur and dark eyes, comes from the kitchen. He places down a few plates, expertly balanced on his hands - and a few more floating in the air around him, then looks to Harry.

  Beneath that fur, a smile sprouts. “My, my,” he teases with a rumbly voice. “Someone seems to have lit that fire in you again.”

  Harry smiles, running a hand through his mane of hair, over his leathery skin. “You might say so,” he muses, quietly.

  Michael wraps an arm around him. “What say you, husband. Shall we try to conquer the heights of the tower once more?!” the zoof proposes, loudly enough for the entire tavern to go quiet.

  The innkeep’s cheeks turn a shade darker, and he gives the chef a quick kiss. “Not today,” he says, loudly enough for everyone to hear. Then, in a whisper, he adds, “but… maybe.” He looks up. “Maybe.”

  Only one person in the tavern hears it, but the smile blooming on Harry’s furry face is all it takes. More rumors spread, his reputation well known. Perhaps it was time for this [Worldcarver] to walk up the stairs one more time?

  He kisses the chef again, for good measure, feeling that flame in his chest. Perhaps. Perhaps.

  - - -

  The Keeper of the Tunnels is one of the most well-known Eyes of the tower. They are, after all, the ruler of the first floor. This means that almost everyone who passes through it will come into contact with them in some variety.

  Cities are their bastion, held together by guards and avatars.

  One such avatar of them, the ruler of Espiree, rubs their face. “Damn it,” they say, running a hand over their hairless head, overworked. They haven’t slept in two days, fighting to keep the city stable as new hunters flood in and old blood floods out.

  Usually, the tunnels of the first floor are stale things. They don’t change much. Every integration, that balance is upset.

  New species flood upward from new extensions to the outside of the tower. Something that’s not even a floor, barely has any mana, and usually only features mana-based towerspawn during integration. And yet, there are always rising stars.

  They look at a list, scratching at an unwashed, blank face, set with six holes. Sumeen.

  In front of them, there is a set of names. People who came up from below, accepted leaders of noteworthy parties, those who have made a stir. Ion, the monster rookie, who killed someone past the third threshold.

  Maximillian, a broad shouldered man with a strong sense for justice, who single handedly pummelled a thief to smithereens, earning a fierce reputation for his iron fists. Clone, a short girl with short, dark hair, and the ability to create copies of herself, having used her own body as a distraction to steal things. Caster, a tall, scrawny human with a grimoire, who, greedy for knowledge, spent all their given money on magic lessons, then plied that trade to earn more.

  The hive-champion of the hiy’ht, Terror, and their ever growing army. There are three noteworthy wulven in the city, too, the warrior-siblings. Blood, Sweat, and Tears, who swiftly joined expeditions into the tunnels, returning triumphantly.

  Once more, the avatar rubs at their face. Luckily, the rising stars were doing what rising stars usually did - they climbed. There was only so much for them to do on the first floor, but that meant their attention shifted.

  With a twist of their mind, the Keeper’s avatar sees the golden pillars that indicate ascension wells. They would be hotly contested, now, the outposts there needing reinforcements. Jobbers, ready to provide food, healing and shelter for those who failed to move up. Jobbers that the city could not spare.

  They let out a long, melodically humming, suffering sigh. “I fricking hate rookies.”

  So much to do. So few people to put in the work. It was time to ask some favours then, shore up the tunnels, make sure the wells were accessible enough, make sure no one tried to monopolise them. Sometimes rookies did that, and drew the Tower’s Wrath.

  It never ended well.

  Another sigh, and then, they start drafting letters, casting an ability to have the thin strips of mushroom-paper fold itself and flap origami wings in search of their recipients. Allocating personnel, requesting that the leaders of guilds get off their butts and start putting in actual work, and doing their best to make sure the tunnels return to stability soon.

  Tower knows they settled on the first floor because they liked the calm, stale air.

  “Stupid rookies.”

  Already, they were infamous.

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