The checkpoint gates swung wide just before midday, groaning under their own weight. The convoy pulled out in slow formation, heat shimmering on the path ahead. No one talked much—fatigue from the siege hung heavy in the air like smoke that refused to clear.

  Swift walked beside the last wagon, boots dragging a little more than usual. His limbs still felt tight from the long fight. Carlos trudged along beside him, the limp in his stride a bit worse today. Every few paces, he adjusted the wrap on his leg with a grunt.

  “Leg giving you trouble?” Swift asked.

  Carlos huffed. “Always does. Cold nights and hard ground don’t help.”

  Swift looked back once—not at the checkpoint, but at the tower where he’d worn the helmet in combat for the first time. It stood quiet now, its purpose had been fulfilled.

  After the checkpoint gates closed, they jumped into the last wagon.

  Carlos rested with his back against a stack of barrels on a flatbed while Swift leaned forward, elbows on knees.

  “You mind if I ask you something?” Swift said, eyes on the road.

  Carlos gave a slow nod.

  “Back when you talked about towers… You said the big ones spread corrosion faster. How does clearing one actually work?”

  Carlos sat quiet for a second, as if deciding how deep to go.

  “They’re alive, in a way,” he finally said. “Not like animals—but reactive. The longer a tower’s left standing, the more it spreads. Sometimes it calls things to it. Sometimes it makes things.”

  Swift frowned. “Makes things?”

  Carlos nodded. “Creatures. Environments. Traps, sometimes. They’re not just buildings. They're like... hosts.”

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  A pause. Then he added, “Clearing one means going floor by floor. No shortcuts. You purge the filth, root it out, and climb.”

  “And at the top?”

  “If you’re still alive,” Carlos said, “the tower collapses when the core is destroyed. Fast. Like it knows it’s been beaten.”

  Swift was quiet for a long moment.

  “You ever been in one?”

  Carlos’s expression darkened. “Once. A small one. Didn't feel small at the time.”

  He didn’t offer more, and Swift didn’t push.

  The day wore on. Camp was called just before sunset near a shallow ravine. They moved carefully, setting up minimal light and pulling wagons into a defensive crescent. Swift helped dig a small cooking trench, then sat beside the low flame and passed a dented canteen back to Carlos.

  “Ever think about stopping?” Swift asked after a while.

  Carlos took a swig and handed it back. “You mean for good?”

  Swift shrugged. “Yeah.”

  Carlos stretched out his bad leg and rubbed just above the knee.

  “After this one,” he said, “I might take a break. Not done-done. Just… maybe not another convoy for a while.”

  Swift nodded. “Makes sense.”

  Carlos smiled faintly. “Yeah. Doesn’t mean anything will change. World keeps rolling.”

  Later that evening, Swift spotted it: a low flicker of light on a distant ridge, just beyond the treeline. It didn’t move. It didn’t grow. It just… burned.

  “Carlos,” Swift said, tapping him gently on the shoulder.

  Carlos followed his gaze.

  “Could be a camp,” Carlos said.

  “Bandits?”

  “Maybe. Could be merchants. Could be something else.”

  They stood quietly, eyes on the glow.

  “Should we say something?” Swift asked.

  Carlos gave the fire a long look. “If it’s trouble, it’ll come to us.”

  Swift watched it for another minute, then turned away. Would the fire stay lit all night, never flinching?

  He rolled out his bivy sack under the half-formed stars, but he didn’t sleep right away. Carlos snored lightly nearby, leg twitching once in his rest.

  —a twig snapped, too close for comfort.

  He sat up slowly, hand resting near Excalibur. His ears strained, adjusting to the silence.

  A shadowed figure moved just beyond the inner ring of the wagons, slipping out toward the trees. Swift recognized the silhouette: a priest, long robes barely catching the moonlight, walking softly into the woods like he was out for an evening stroll.

  Swift didn’t move. Just watched.

  The priest had joined their convoy at the checkpoint. Not unheard of, but suspicious. He knelt at the edge of the woods, obscured by low brush. For several minutes, he remained there—doing something with his hands.

  Without glancing back, the priest stood and disappeared into the trees entirely.

  Swift exhaled through his nose, heart beating a little faster than it should have. He waited. Listened.

  No scream. No monsters.

  Eventually, the priest returned—alone—and walked casually back into camp, disappearing between the wagons without so much as a glance around.

  Was he burying something out there? Or just relieving himself?