Mogrim’s details regarding the tower were scant in so much that Rowan managed to track it down, but there was little for him to go off of beyond that.

  “Find the tower, find the treasure, bring it back.”

  Rowan repeated the trader’s words to himself. The vile place hadn’t exactly been bustling with life thus far, so encountering another person was quite the discovery for Rowan. Better still, the rotund man told him that the key to piercing the veil would be found at the tower. Knowing serendipity still persisted, even in a place as harsh as this, was comforting. So away Rowan went to locate the tower. Had the journey been dangerous? Of course: Rowan had been within death’s grasp multiple times. Was there any way to verify the well-fed man’s claims? Not at all. Did Rowan have anything better to go off regarding this whole ‘pierce the veil’ nonsense? Nope. Rowan fancied himself an optimist—without being able to recall all of his memories, he decided he was—and figured he’d give it a shot. Besides, the trader promised him a meal whether he found it or not, so long as Rowan came back safely. He figured such opportunities were rare in this lifeless land, so Rowan decided he’d weigh his options after he filled his belly.

  Yet Law smiled down upon him: the tower, about a stone’s throw away now, was real. Rowan leaned over the hillock he was on, scoping the sight out. It was close enough for Rowan to notice the next hitch in his journey. Usually, one might designate a tall, freestanding structure as a tower. He wasn’t sure if a tower was defined as a structure one could enter or not, but he doubted the validity of using the word as he looked at the sight before him. Someone clearly began strapping bibelots and baubles together so they wouldn’t lose them. What started as a convenient way to keep track of such frippery became a hoarding issue. That’s what he was staring at: a hoarding issue to an inhuman degree. Though staring was an optimistic way to put it—Rowan craned his neck trying to spy the top of the shifted and jostling pile to no avail; the stack of curiosities merely stretched into the wispy miasma overhead. Though it appeared to be ready to topple over at any moment, it was all tied together with thick chains, nothing ever falling to the crag below. This was easy to confirm as the path behind the tower was free of any trifles.

  And how was the tower moving, one might ask. The answer was somehow equal parts fantastical and mundane. After all, how does any inanimate object tend to get around? Someone moves it. Yes, the Tower of Zchēve was more of a consignment being hauled about by a bipedal figure clad in black. The figure, no more than a head taller than Rowan himself, slogged along the crag like they were partaking in nothing but a difficult hike.

  “How…”

  Rowan’s thoughts trailed off as he watched the phenomenon before his eyes. The bundle of parcels threatening to escape the atmosphere creaked and groaned with each slow step the ‘human’ beneath it made. The person was more of a machine than a person: they were completely silent in their steps without so much as an exhale of exertion in their movement. Even Rowan’s knapsack rapped against his back when he tried to be quiet; the purposeful steps were almost artistic, in a way, without a drop of excess effort.

  The sight was enough to keep Rowan lurching forward off the hillock, desperate to inspect it closer. Yet, of the many natural expectations this land seemed to operate outside of, gravity was not one of them. Rowan did his best to steady his descent as he slid down the side of the rock, right towards the tower. Save a few scrapes and the crag nipping at his extremities once again, he was no worse for wear. As he gathered himself to his feet once more, he he figured there was no way the humanoid wasn’t aware of his presence, now. He had to be the one to act first, so he did.

  “I’m sorry,” Rowan whimpered, arms raised in surrender.

  The hooded humanoid didn’t react at all, continuing its assumedly eternal march. Rowan’s heart ceased tackling against his chest, though he was a bit offended by the lack of reaction. Being ignored was preferable to getting attacked, he supposed. He could practically reach out and touch the figure’s cloak, he was so close. Cloak was a bit of an overstatement: the garment was more like a collection of tattered cloth refusing to separate. The only other thing he could see on their person were their boots, at least Rowan assumed they were boots at one point. He decided being a tower was a full-time gig that left little time to change footwear. In such close proximity, Rowan’s ears finally picked up a sound beyond the creaks of the knickknacks overhead. The tower’s movement was accompanied by the clank and clink of chains rattling. Rowan’s eyes widened as he spied the connection of the chains to the figure: the chains bound them to the tower assuredly so, but it was more accurate to state the chains were impaling the figure’s back.

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  “Law,” Rowan shuddered.

  He saw no blood where the cloak opened at the base of the spine, revealing where the chains met flesh—he posited this was all by design.

  “Well, I can’t leave you like this.”

  Rowan rifled through his knapsack, the bulwark of his confidence, once again as he considered solutions. It was true that he didn’t know what this creature was doing here. Mayhap it was locked up like this for everyone’s safety? Still, it didn’t attack him. Besides, perhaps it’d be willing to help him find the treasure on its back if he freed it.

  “I don’t have a way to pry those chains from you, I’m afraid,” Rowan said, continuing his search through his bag for something of use. “I’m not strong enough to break them, an explosion would damage you, but maybe–ah, yes.”

  Rowan grinned as he found something presumably capable of freeing the captive. He carefully pulled a vial of jade-like pebbles from his bag, popped it open, tapped one free until it fell into his palm, and returned the rest.

  “This is rot rock. It’s a highly dangerous substance that creates an exceptionally corrosive gas upon fracture. It can be used for a lot of things but, in this case, we’re going to be using it to break down those chains. Hopefully–”

  Rowan stopped and looked up at the figure who still didn’t acknowledge his existence.

  “Sorry, I’m rambling,” he said. “You’re very easy to talk to.”

  He closed his eyes and focused on the energy humming throughout the world, even in desolate places like this one. Vi twinkled all around if one cared to look for it. Rowan reached out at the globules lightly bouncing off each other around with a quivering hand. For most people, casting gates was as simple as knowing the necessary equation and lining up the vi appropriately. Vi didn’t like Rowan, though, it seemed to always drift away from him and—unrelated, though he always suspected otherwise—his capacity to draw vi in was quite low comparatively. A competent Scholar could guide the vi wherever they needed it, letting it wash over them like water running across their skin. But if vi was like water, Rowan was oil, and the globules refused to touch him; so much so that Rowan could only push vi out and not draw it in. Nonetheless, even a talentless whelp such as he could set up the Messelfi equation. Rowan waved his arms around, shepherding the vi into the proper formation, and linked the globules accordingly. The vi lit up and fizzled away as a pocket of air swirled around a link in the thick chains.

  “Thank you for your contribution,” Rowan said to the vi in prayer as he gripped the rot rock.

  He covered his nose, closed his mouth, and extended his other hand until the rot rock entered the air pocket. He applied a bit of pressure on the rock and snapped a chunk off, leaving both pieces suspended. The once-translucent air pocket grew opaque with a sickly green hue as Rowan took a few steps back. He smiled with childlike fascination as he watched the taut chain loosen before snapping entirely. The air pocket burst and the green gas dissipated into the sky as the prisoner fell forward. Rowan hadn’t thought about how the sudden release of the chain would cause the fall; he’d apologize to the captive later. Another thing he hadn’t considered quickly reminded him of its presence: the tower of curiosities leaned in the opposite direction, groaning thunderously as Rowan observed the mountain pitch toward the ground at a steady pace.

  One ought to have some regard for their safety in such a circumstance, but Rowan was more so impressed at how tightly the tower was cinched together. It was only when the clutter met the crag and kicked up a dust storm that Rowan raised an arm to shield himself. The worn, currant cloak he was wrapped in protected him well enough from the elements; considering the dust initially sat atop the crag, it was cold enough to cut through just the same. When the dust settled and Rowan’s ears ceased ringing, he shook off the remnants of the dust, shivering as he turned his attention to the recently-freed prisoner.

  “Hey, are you–”

  The prisoner shot up from the ground and grasped Rowan’s throat. It turned out that someone carrying a tower on their back wasn’t exactly weak: Rowan considered this potentially obvious conclusion as his vision blurred.