MAZE TOOK rest for about a night, and when daylight broke, he was led out of the infirmary to the dining hall on the ground floor of the west wing by a Child, who could not even introduce himself, and was rushing somewhere after he was done tending Maze.

  As he stepped through the double doors, he was slightly stiffed. There were no signs of plants or dirt, only a luxurious and grand expanse of burnished masonry. While the manor he once knew possessed its own grandeur, this hall existed on a scale he could not have imagined, perhaps, having the capacity to accommodate roughly a thousand.

  The ceiling rose into massive, exposed timber trusses that crisscrossed. He traced the way those heavy beams supported the weight of the roof, marveling at the craftsmanship. Unlit iron candelabras, each as wide as a wagon wheel, had thick rusted chains, their many-pointed candle-spikes casting needle-like entirety across the vaulted heights.

  Maze began to walk forward, staying at the perfect center of the hall, his eyes wandering from right to left.

  Indeed, the pillars were what held his view.

  They were massive, fluted trunks of midnight-black marble spaced evenly along the walls. Fixed to the dark mineral were heavy iron holders gripping thick torches and lanterns that cast a flickering orange glow. Heavy velvet drapes in deep crimson were draped between the pillars.

  On the walls, taxidermied heads of great stags and mountain lions watched him with glass eyes, while sculptures of wolves and eagles stood in the corners. Crossed bladed weapons and shields were mounted high on the vertical surfaces, their metal faces glinting.

  To his side, the windows were filled with mosaic glass. Each pane depicted the phases of the moon in silver and white. He followed the glass, noticing a sliver of a crescent, then a half-moon, then a bulging gibbous, until a full silver orb dominated the center.

  My curiosity is getting the best of me. Does each phase represent something? he wondered, his mind spinning with the architectural logic. Or is it just a reminder of the eclipse that brought me to this place? Which is the same with everyone here.

  He continued walking, passing three long rows of trestle tables. They flanked a wide central aisle. Most had long benches tucked beneath them, but at the far end, a raised platform — a dais — held a high table where ten high-backed chairs were placed. Maze deduced that these seats were not for lords, but perhaps for those with high status or ranking in between the Children in this tower.

  He could be mistaken.

  At the opposite end, behind him now, a wood-carved screens passage separated the hall from the kitchens, where the smell of woodsmoke drifted from a massive central hearth. Above the passage, he could see the railing of a minstrel's gallery.

  Maze looked down at his own white tunic and draped cloak. He felt the simple leather of his girdle against his waist. He did not have the strange, refined suit that the Children of the towers wore, and the realization made him feel like he did not belong.

  But then, the scent hit him.

  The steam rising from a roasted chicken at the center table filled his nostrils, mingled with the aroma of honeyed bread and savory stews. His stomach gave a violent growl.

  Who prepared such a feast? he questioned, peering toward the high table. Is there a staff of cooks hidden back there, or does one of the Children have to labor over the hearth? He should not have cared, yet the thought persisted. I wonder if this is free, or will they demand a price I cannot pay for such grandeur?

  The plates were not the simple wooden trenchers. They were heavy pewter and glazed ceramic, painted with deep blues and golds. A grand spread for two sat there, the golden-brown skin of the chicken glistening. Maze's gaze swept from the timber heights down to the polished silver goblets. It was ecstatic, an awestruck beauty that made his heart hammer against his ribs.

  Amidst the vast, empty rows of a thousand seats, only one person was found inside, sitting as if waiting for him.

  A wiry, willow-framed young man sat at the table, he had this slumped posture that seemed fatigue. His hair was a charcoal thicket of spiky strands, trimmed just long enough to obscure the tops of his ears, and his nose tip was a curious, flushed red against skin as pale as unbaked dough. He looked up with dull, bored eyes that appeared to find the very act of existing a chore.

  "There is nothing good in morning, but good morning . . ."

  His voice was a cold, husky rasp.

  Huh, this man seems lifeless. Maze wondered. Is he always seemingly bored?

  "You see the food is getting cold, now hurry up."

  The man reached out, gently slicing a portion of the roasted chicken. As he ate, Maze noticed his lips were a stark, ink-black. He never think it was unnatural at first, but then he wondered if the man had applied some sort of dark cosmetic. It was hard to look away from his face, especially the albino shade of his skin which made his thick, dark eyebrows and incredibly long lashes stand out even more.

  "And stop staring."

  The husky command made Maze flinch. As he approached nearer, the dullness in the man's eyes was even more apparent, framed by those heavy lashes.

  Maze took a seat across the man. "Pardon me."

  "Don't mind." The man looked at Maze properly for the first time, raising a thick brow. "Name's Vaelstrom, and you?"

  He sensed a prickle of attitude to the way Vaelstrom carried himself.

  "Mizmaze."

  "District?"

  "Fifth."

  "Oh." Vaelstrom's black-painted lips twitched, perhaps in a ghost of a smirk. "I'm from the third district. Your age?"

  "Twenty-five."

  "Well, I am as well."

  "You are?"

  "Yes, so we can call each other casually. Don't care really." Vaelstrom shrugged his shoulders, the movement revealing the same refined suit Maze had seen on the lady and Sir Azaniel. "However, as a Child, I am tasked to take care of you today."

  His tone carried a bitter weight, as if the assignment were a personal grievance.

  "Then where are the others?"

  "Trials."

  Maze was confused but interested. "Trials, what for?"

  If the lady was in these trials too, it meant something significant was happening within the towers. No wonder that the Child who led him to the dining hall was rushing. They probably were busy.

  "You should not probe about them, though they are important later on," Vaelstrom said, his voice flat and dismissing the curiosity. "You better eat now, and let's talk after you finish."

  That would be a great idea, Maze thought, as he finally reached for the platter.

  The hall fell into a heavy silence as they ate. Vaelstrom remained hunched over his plate, his dull eyes fixed on the grain of the oak table as if the air between them were a wall. Eventually, Maze did not mind. He shifted his focus entirely to the roasted chicken, tearing a piece away with fingers.

  The skin was a crisp, salty shell that crackled under his teeth, yielding to meat so tender it practically dissolved. A rush of rosemary and garlic flooded his senses, followed by a smoky richness he had never encountered in the simple boiled fare of the manor. It was his first taste of something truly decadent. For a moment, the worry of debt or the mystery of the tower vanished. Whether this was a free gift or a feast he would have to pay for with his very soul, he did not care.

  He simply needed to eat.

  The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

  He savored the succulent warmth, the savory juices coating his tongue and settling the hollow ache in his stomach. Each bite felt like a small spark of life returning to his weary frame.

  "Look at you eating like a maniac," Vaelstrom commented. He raised a silver cup to his black-painted lips, sipping the dark wine while his eyes tracked the way Maze tore at the meat with his bare hands.

  Maze did not mind. In the sheep-cote, he was more fond of bread and milk, and he simply was not used to the weight of a spoon, fork, or the sharp glint of knives. His fingers were slick with savory oil as he reached for another piece.

  "Pardon me."

  "For the love of the gods, stop saying pardon." Vaelstrom sighed, then set the cup down on the dark oak with a hollow thud. "I did not mean it to offend, honestly."

  Maze continued to eat. He could feel that he was being watched. It was uncomfortable to be observed so closely by someone with such an icy, detached presence, but the hunger in his stomach was his priority.

  Maze finished the last of the meal and reached for a cup of water, let the cool liquid settle the salt in his throat. He picked up a piece of tissue to clean the savory oil from his hands. Alas, he finished.

  "There is some matter that you need to understand first."

  Maze listened as Vaelstrom spoke with evidence of dullness.

  "But," Vaelstrom stood, the legs of his chair scraping, "this is not the place for that."

  Maze looked up, and for a moment, their eyes interlocked.

  "I am tasked to guide you toward something, so please stand and follow me."

  Vaelstrom tilted his head.

  Maze assumed a look of interest toward this certain something.

  He pushed himself up from the heavy oak chair and stood.

  It seemed this was finally the day to figure things out.

  PASSING THROUGH the ground floor and wandering around the north wing, finally entering a new chamber, Maze was almost exhausted from walking alone. The entire level felt like a massive landscape where he toured every other attraction like a lost youth. Perhaps he would have felt that way if he were a boy, but he was a man who now envied such a pleasurable view.

  Indubitably, this new chamber was by far a peculiar one, and thus, was something that Maze wanted to know the function of.

  It was a vast, circular chamber with four pillars near the center, possibly a bit smaller than the hall, but capable of occupying about a hundred souls. They encircled what was deemed to be an elevated circular platform. There were torches in all corners, and no windows for other radiance to seep in, which was the very reason that the room was only being lit by the flames themselves.

  Standing at the passageway was Maze, and Vaelstrom, who had his hand slid in his pocket, was in front of him to lead him in.

  "This is called the Chamber of Sanctum. It is one of the chambers here on the ground floor that bear much significance to us Children." Vaelstrom glanced at Maze before they went in, but he seemed not to make an effort explaining things the best way, though it was still understandable. "This chamber helps us in ways that are necessary for our advancement, and you can think of such growth as a determining factor to the development of our special abilities. Which is, the generalized idea, although vague, of what really matters."

  Maze realized that there was a grand sight inside, only that it felt like an altar, some kind of place that seemed peculiar and cultic. Though he understood that Vaelstrom was giving him general information to better understand what specifics were to be given next, he took note of them with due diligence.

  "Now, Mizmaze—" He then became stiff. "Wait, what should I address you as?"

  "Anything," Maze almost shrugged, "but most call me Maze, not that it matters to you, right?"

  "Then, Maze it is."

  Vaelstrom brushed his hair as they stood in front of the elevated platform. "Maze, may I know what you were told? I merely assumed you were aware of the Children."

  "Truly, that is the only thing that I know." The idea that Children were those awakened individuals who obtained special abilities felt like a scratch on the surface, a dust that held no absolute answer. "Apart from that, I have come to know nothing in a profound manner."

  "Hmm, well, you have got so much to learn indeed." Vaelstrom nodded in understanding. "When I was out of the blue tasked to teach you the basics, Sir Azaniel did not deign to give me the specifics, so I was a confused maggot. But what could I do? I was the youngest, and probably the newest before you, though I joined a year ago. Others before you, and after me . . . Well, we shouldn't bother the dead, should we?"

  He is a bit talkative now. Maze almost scratched his nape. It was clear that he was trying his best not to make an awkward atmosphere, especially since Maze did not know anything else to say vocally.

  Vaelstrom yawned before he leaned on a pillar, his dull stare piercing at Maze. "I am granting you a chance to ask anything that you desire to know."

  What I want to know . . . ? Maze thought about it and tried to search deep within his mind. What was it that he wanted to know first? Something that was not big but could help his problem, and by doing so, he needed to go back to the root of it all.

  "Anything, right?" Maze had a reluctant look, such that Vaelstrom had to raise a brow.

  "As long as it is answerable, and not beyond my grasp, then I shall, by that logic, answer." He crossed his arms. "This way, we might clear some of the troubles that have been bugging you."

  The root.

  It was now his cue.

  "If there is anything that I'd ask . . . that is, how do you know that I am a Child?"

  Vaelstrom was slightly taken aback by the question, but then, he quickly recovered. "Other inquiries?"

  It seemed such was not something he could answer, then he must ask some shallow ones.

  "The beast, is it a property of the Towers?"

  "It is not generally of the Towers, but of our specific Tower. It is a griffin, which is a beast of half-lion and half-bird lineage, trained to observe, scout, and transport anything, including the likes of yourself."

  That somewhat explained why the creature seemed possessed of such keen intelligence, that Maze had found he could neither outwit nor evade it.

  "Each of the Towers possesses griffins, and by extension, so does our own, serving the Children of the Widower."

  "Children of the Widower?"

  "Indeed. The Towers Below formerly housed two lineages of Children; one was our own, while the other simply ceased to be. The Children of the Widower are an existence sustained by the God of Widows, the Widower Himself, which renders this bastion the Tower of the Widower. Consider it a foundation, a pseudo-church of sorts. It is not strictly a house of worship, nor are we compelled to offer devotion, but it is a necessity to establish our kind as Children of the Widower to eventually attain ascension."

  The Towers Below. Maze felt a lingering curiosity regarding the name — not out of spite, but because a certain logic must dictate why they were below. He felt he must press that point.

  "Then I am a Child of the Widower, an existence whose foundation relies upon the God of Widows in order to ascend."

  "Precisely."

  Something still troubled Maze.

  "But why is there a necessity to ascend? For myself, for you, or for any of us?"

  Vaelstrom's eyes flickered at the probing nature of the question. "That is the very reason we are supported by the God of Widows."

  The answer remained obscure to Maze.

  "Understand that a deity does not act without a price; there must always be a bargain. Should a higher power fail to sustain us, we would simply cease. We might even be treated as a corruption, for without an established communion to preserve our being, we would lose control of our entirety." Vaelstrom played with his fingers, staring deeply as if lost in thought, before he returned to reality. "I suspect this topic was one you should not have broached, nor I mentioned, as it is a profound and sensitive matter. Yet, that is the gist of it. Pray, dismiss it from your mind for now and refrain from taking notes, lest you become overwhelmed. You shall grasp the underlying nature of these things in due time. And so . . .

  "Do you have any other inquiries?"

  "About the Towers," Maze quickly replied, attempting to form the words despite his lingering confusion. "If we are below, then who resides above? What is the logic in that . . .?"

  He felt he must determine exactly where this place was situated, even if he did not yet know why he specifically had been brought here.

  Vaelstrom grinned at the question and spread his arms as if preparing a demonstration. "Because we are quite literally underneath, the inverted equivalent to the Towers Yonder."

  At that thought, Maze suddenly realized why the griffin had appeared in a topsy-turvy position as they neared the spires, and why the many towers had seemingly merged into three. Realizations began to click into place.

  I am standing upside down?

  He imagined the entire concept: these monuments were inverted, not merely facing the surface, but as if the world above were reflected and flipped. Such structures were called the Towers Yonder. Whatever Children dwelt within those heights, Maze decided not to mind them for the moment.

  Maze had other questions about his master, or the gift he had obtained, the blindfold itself, but he found he could not bring himself to ask. The secrets only seemed to grow, kept hidden in the dark. His current knowledge was like knots after knots, perhaps because Vaelstrom was ill-suited for the task, having been thrust into it unprepared.

  "So I am a Child, specifically a Child of the Widower, of the Towers Below." He tried to recall the details. "I am a subject of ascension so that I may continue to exist . . . and not fall to corruption."

  But why would he be corrupted in the first place? He hoped to learn that soon, but it was best not to shock his mind, or he might lose the fragments of knowledge he had gained.

  "That is indeed the core idea, but know that being a Child is merely the call for existence; there is a far deeper mantra that we rely upon." Vaelstrom gestured toward the elevated platform. "For now, you are prepared to face the platform and address a matter that requires your immediate attention."

  Maze followed the instruction and stepped onto the platform.

  "This certain something," Vaelstrom added, "is the path you are destined to tread."