"Will you remember?" you asked.
The second rung: crawl beneath an archway shaped like her other foot, held suspended just inches above the ground. You squeezed underneath, feeling the cold sole brush your back like a brand.
A flicker of something—respect? boredom?—crossed her face. "Most come for gold. Or revenge. Or to prove they are 'worthy.' You came to be nothing so that others could be something." Tower Of Trample
The sky above the Cinder Flats was the color of a bruised plum. At its center, impossibly tall and thin, rose the Onyx Tower. For a century, it had stood as a monument to arrogance, a needle of dark glass and sharp-edged obsidian. They said a mage-queen, Valdris the Imperious, had sealed herself inside, growing fat on forbidden power and contempt for the mortal world below.
"I will remember your insignificance," she said. "You will remember nothing but the clarity." "Will you remember
And in the village, as you brewed the cure from the stone's light, you found you could no longer walk with a warrior's swagger. You walked softly. Deliberately. As if the ground beneath you had every right to push back.
"Another stray," she said, her voice a low, bored contralto. "You reek of desperation. It is my least favorite perfume." A flicker of something—respect
You drew your sword. It felt suddenly, absurdly heavy.
By the time you reached the fourth landing, you were not a warrior. You were a creature. Bruised, tear-streaked, and hollow.