Chapter 147 – Towers (6)
(Erynd)
In truth, the prize had stopped mattering to me the moment I saw her cry.
Not because the Crystal Heart of Zotal wasn't useful.
It was.
It was power made portable, stability shaped into a gemstone, the kind of artifact you could build an advantage around and never regret. In a world that ate the slow, I had learned to treat "modest boosts" like lifelines.
But watching Goldwynn stand in that ring with tears on her cheeks and Tier Five in her bones… it twisted the entire premise.
This wasn't sport.
This wasn't ambition.
This was a girl trying to outrun a grave.
The Tower infirmary was quieter now, after the crowds had drifted back to the courtyard and the demonstration booths and the bright, idiot laughter of people who thought this was entertainment.
Goldwynn lay on a narrow bed with a thin blanket pulled up to her chest. Her lashes were still clumped from tears, and even unconscious she looked tense, as if she was bracing for the world to hit her again.
A healer hovered nearby, hands glowing faintly as they coaxed her body back into something stable.
I stood at the foot of the bed for a long moment, feeling oddly… out of place.
Because I knew the shape of this moment too well.
Not the infirmary. Not the healer.
The feeling of being too late to stop someone from turning themselves into a weapon.
I reached into my cloak.
The security staff at the Tower had insisted on "holding my equipment" after the match, as if polite custody could prevent me from being dangerous. They had meant well, which in my experience meant they had no understanding of what they were dealing with.
I'd taken my things back with minimal effort.
A glance. A word. A certain tone that made men with keys remember they had families.
I set two items beside Goldwynn's bed.
One was a spear, wrapped and quiet, the sort of weapon that looked inert right up until you remembered it had been built to hurt gods.
The other was a sword that didn't like being ignored.
I placed them carefully, aligned like offerings, then slipped a small note beside them.
No explanation.
No speeches.
Just enough that, when she woke, she would know someone had been here.
Someone had seen her.
Someone had left something that mattered.
The healer watched me, wary.
"You're leaving weapons next to an unconscious patient," she said.
"Yes," I replied.
"That's… unconventional."
"Goldwynn is unconventional," I said, eyes still on the girl's face. "And she's safer with my things beside her than with the Tower's patrons circling her like vultures."
The healer's mouth tightened, but they didn't argue further. Perhaps they could sense the difference between "noble stubborn" and "man who has killed an Old God and is still irritated about paperwork."
I shifted my gaze and let mage-sight open.
I had been avoiding it. It felt invasive.
But curiosity and fear had a way of making excuses.
Goldwynn's mana core glowed like a lantern under her ribs, and her channel pathways… were wrong.
Not corrupted.
Not wild in the obvious way the green wards were.
Just… abused.
They were thick, expanded beyond what her body should have supported at her age, and threaded through with tiny fractures. Micro-cracks, everywhere, like someone had taken a hammer to glass and then insisted it still function as a window.
Yet the cracks weren't spreading.
They were healing.
Constantly.
Not divine healing. Not someone's spellwork. Not a miracle.
Her own body, her own mana, repairing the damage as quickly as it formed.
A brutal loop.
Overpressure, fracture, heal, repeat.
Mana overtraining taken past the line where it was "dedication" and into the territory where it was self-harm disguised as discipline.
I swallowed, hard.
To think she had been Tier Three… and now she was a Tier Five monster in a body that still looked like a girl.
It shouldn't have been possible.
Not safely.
Not sanely.
My mind offered theories anyway, because my mind did that when it didn't want to feel.
A tragedy. A vow. A guilt so sharp it became fuel. A dead name she carried like a stone in her mouth.
But I didn't ask.
Not because I didn't care.
Because it wasn't my place to pry into someone's grave.
All I needed was the Heart.
All I needed was to win the bracket.
She would reach Tier Seven one day, if she didn't kill herself first.
Right now, she was just… a sleeping girl with tear-stains on her cheeks, while a healer tried to stitch her back into the world.
I turned away before my expression did something inconvenient.
***
I made it to my assigned quarters as the evening bell rang.
The Tower gave "guest rooms" the way nobles gave favors: with an air of generosity that was really a leash. The room was clean, the windows warded, and the bed was too soft in a way that made my back suspicious.
My next match would be tomorrow.
Finals the day after.
Two more steps to the Crystal Heart of Zotal.
Two more steps through green wards that pulsed like a sick heartbeat.
I set the schedule in my mind like a map and then, because I wasn't a machine, I went looking for my daughter.
***
Nyxa insisted on seeing "everything."
Which meant she wandered through the Tower's event courtyard with the innocent, predatory curiosity of a cat in a bird market.
She stopped at every booth. She watched tool demonstrations with her head tilted. She sniffed at wards like she could taste them. She made vendors sweat by staring at them too long.
It was… almost normal.
Almost.
We passed a stall selling rings.
Simple metal bands, some with tiny gemstones, some with engraved runes that looked like they'd been carved by bored apprentices.
The vendor perked up when he saw my crest.
"My Lord," he began, reaching for his best smile. "Perhaps your lady companion would appreciate—"
Nyxa picked up a ring and held it between two fingers.
It was plain.
No real mana signature. No hidden ward. No meaningful enchantment. At best, it had a faint charm meant to keep the metal from tarnishing.
Nyxa stared at it like it was the most fascinating object she'd ever seen.
"This one," she said.
The vendor's smile twitched. "Excellent choice. That is a rare—"
"It is nothing," Nyxa added calmly, turning the ring over. "But I want it."
I stared at her.
She stared back.
Something about the way she said it, so casual and certain, stabbed me in a soft place I hadn't expected to have.
A child wanting a useless trinket.
A daughter wanting a ring because she liked it.
No ulterior motive. No cosmic horror.
Just want.
My fatherly instinct kicked in like a curse.
"How much," I asked the vendor.
"Twenty silver," he said immediately, the liar.
Nyxa looked pleased.
I looked pained.
Twenty silver was not pocket change. Twenty silver was the kind of money you could buy a small family's winter food with, if you bargained well. Twenty silver was an insult pretending to be a price.
But Nyxa was watching me with that bright expectation that made the world feel briefly… manageable.
I sighed, reached into my pouch, and counted it out.
The vendor's eyes glittered.
I ignored him.
Nyxa slid the ring onto her finger and held her hand up, admiring it as if it had become part of her identity.
"You like it," I said.
"Yes," she replied, simple.
"Why."
Nyxa shrugged. "It's round."
That was not an answer.
It was also the most honest thing she'd said all day.
I rubbed my forehead. "I just bought my eldritch daughter a very expensive circle."
Nyxa smiled. "Good father."
"Gullible father," I corrected.
"Same," she said.
We walked on, and I reached for Melody out of habit.
My hand met empty air.
Right.
Melody was beside Goldwynn's bed.
I stared at my own fingers for a moment, then huffed a quiet laugh.
Even my sword had decided to babysit someone else tonight.
***
Night settled over the Tower district with surprising gentleness.
We stayed at an inn a few streets away, close enough that I could reach the Tower quickly if something went wrong, far enough that the Tower's wards didn't press against my skin like a migraine.
Nyxa climbed into my bed as if it belonged to her, curled up on top of me like a cat claiming furniture. She tucked her head against my chest, one arm draped over my ribs, and sighed.
A long, content sigh.
I lay there staring at the ceiling, listening to her breathing even out.
The ring glinted faintly on her finger when moonlight hit it.
My hand hovered for a moment, then settled on her head.
A slow, gentle pat.
Nyxa made a soft sound, half pleased, half sleepy, and burrowed closer.
The room was quiet.
Too quiet.
My senses, trained by regression and paranoia, stretched outward anyway.
The Tower was only a few walks away. Not far. Not close.
And somewhere in that direction, something felt… off.
Not a clear threat.
Not the sharp edge of an ambush.
Just a wrongness at the edge of awareness, like a draft in a sealed room.
I listened.
Nyxa's breath warmed my shirt.
The inn creaked softly.
Outside, someone laughed in the street.
Maybe it was nothing.
Maybe it was just the wind.
I stared at the ceiling and let a smile touch my mouth despite myself.
"Yeah," I whispered into the dark, careful not to wake the girl sleeping on my chest. "Must be just the wind, right?"
Nyxa, half asleep, mumbled something incoherent and hugged me tighter.
And for one quiet moment, before tomorrow's duels and green wards and patrons with knives behind their smiles…
I let myself pretend I believed it.