I've seen the Severance Tower every day of my life—a distant white needle against the sky. Now, standing at its base with my father's hand heavy on my shoulder, I understand its true nature: not a symbol, but a suppression. A heavenly monument built to cage a sinister force that thrums through the stones, waiting to be seen again.
It rises from the center of the city like a blade driven into stone—white spires veined with darker lines, as if something inside it has tried to claw its way out and failed. That impossible spire of white stone—smooth as polished bone—reaches up like a finger pointing to the heavens, or maybe pressing down on the world beneath it. Viewed from the periphery of my village, the Tower appears a mere sliver needle against the firmament, yet it is the linchpin that anchors the reality caged by the Taint below. I rarely see it up this close. Today is my first.
From a different perspective, I see the weathered defiance of its base. Up close, the spire reveals a tectonic grit; the stone is not merely old, but older than memory, worn by time yet fundamentally unchanged.
The flagstones surrounding the foot of the Tower are warped and buckled, rippling outward like frozen waves in a stone sea, as if the earth itself has spent centuries trying to heave the structure off its back and finally succumbed to the weight. There is a resonant stillness here, a pressurized silence that vibrates in the marrow of my teeth. This is no mere building; it is a monolith of suppression, a needle of such immense density that it pins the very fabric of Valdrence to the bedrock, keeping the Taint beneath from devouring the world.
The structure is fenced by endless palisades of wooden guard corroded by nature, overgrown with mosses and vines. Paradoxical to the tower, the gardens seem untended and grubby. Directly connected with Sacridor Street, an arch with an unguarded entrance lies invitingly towards the crowds that venerate with a glance inside.
But no one dares step in.
At the top of the arch, a wooden sign with faded letters in an ancient language stands strong, unyielding to the passage of time. The history textbooks call it The Sanctuary—the last haven during a time of chaos and disaster.
By the arch, my father walks beside me, his stride steady, his shoulders squared the way they always are when he's forcing himself not to look back. His hands are rough and scarred from years at the forge. I've watched those hands shape steel, fold it, quench it, bring order to heat and chaos. Today they hang useless at his sides.
My sister, Lira, trails half a step behind us. She keeps close enough that the hem of her sleeve brushes my arm every few steps, like she's afraid I'll vanish if she lets go. She hasn't spoken since we left the house.
Uncle Finn walks on my other side, eyes scanning the crowd. He's pretending this is just another day, but I know better. He only watches crowds when he expects something to go wrong. I can see him place his right hand in his right pocket, intent and wary of his surroundings.
The square before the Tower is already full. Boys and girls my age stand in loose clusters with their families, some crying openly, others wearing expressions of practiced pride. Deliberately placed flags just for this occasion hang from the outer walls—deep blue cloth stitched with gold thread, the sigil of the Wardens gleaming in the morning light. The gardens beyond seem untended and grubby—strange, considering the ceremony today.
HONOR IN SERVICE. SAFETY IN SACRIFICE.
I've read those words my whole life. Today they feel heavier.
A bell tolls from somewhere high above us. The sound vibrates through my chest, low and resonant, like it's ringing inside my bones.
Lira tugs my sleeve. She doesn't say anything, but I can see the reluctance in her eyes.
I turn to her and manage a smile. "I'll be fine."
She doesn't respond, but holds onto my sleeve even tighter. She stares at me with eyes wide, as if trying to engrave this moment into her memory.
Father stops walking. The crowd parts ahead of us, forming lines that lead toward the Tower's open doors. Wardens stand at attention on either side—white and silver uniforms polished with lines of blue and gold. They look exactly like they do in the stained-glass windows: noble, calm, unafraid.
I straighten without meaning to.
Father reaches into his coat and pulls something free. It's wrapped in cloth darkened with age and oil. He presses it into my hands before I can say anything.
"For luck," he says.
I unwrap it slowly. It's a small metal locket, no longer than my palm, its edges worn smooth by use. A silver locket with an excessively long chain. I recognize this. Dad would take it out and stare at it for hours, lost in some memory I was never part of.
"But dad, this is mom's—"
"It was your grandfather's. It's about time I give it to you." he says, quickly.
That makes me pause. He never talks about his parents, only about my grandfather on my mother's side. But even though, I only have fragmented glimpses of him from my childhood.
"You don't need luck," Finn says, clapping a hand on my shoulder. "But it doesn't hurt to bring a piece of home with you."
I close my fingers around the locket. The metal is warm from Father's hand.
Lira is crying now, silently, tears sliding down her face as she moves her head down.
"Stay." She speaks for the first time.
"I'll write," I promise. "Every week."
Finn shifts his weight, moving toward Lira with a softening expression. "Listen to me, Lira," he says, his voice dropping to a gentle murmur, "One in a hundred. The odds are he'll be home by nightfall." However calmly he said this, I could sense the haunting inevitability hidden in his eyes. I didn't take it into too much thought. Everyone knew that having talent to become a Hollow was rare, and uncle Finn always erred on the side of caution.
Father doesn't look at me. His jaw is tight, his eyes fixed on the open doors.
"Kieran," he says. "Listen to me."
I do.
"No matter what they tell you," he continues, voice low, "remember who you are."
A strange flicker of reproach rises in my chest. The Wardens aren't just soldiers; they are the paragons of the city, the men and women who keep the darkness at bay so we can sleep in peace. They represent a sacred duty—a calling of pure, unyielding virtue.
"They're the Wardens, Dad," I say, my voice sharp with something close to offense. "They're the reason this city still exists."
He flinches. It's so small I almost miss it. His jaw tightens. For a moment, I think he won't answer.
"I know what they are," he says finally. "I also know what they take."
That stops me.
"They take volunteers," I say. "People who choose to serve."
Father lets out a short, humorless breath. "Is that what you think this is? A choice?"
Finn shifts beside us. "Gareth—"
"No," Father snaps, the word cutting sharper than any blade he's ever forged. He doesn't raise his voice, but there's iron in it now, something unyielding. "He deserves to hear this."
He steps closer to me, lowering his voice as if the Tower itself might be listening.
"They won't hurt you," he says. "Not at first. They'll praise you. Tell you you're strong. Tell you the weight you feel is proof you're doing good."
My stomach twists. "You don't know that."
"I know," he says, and for the first time, his certainty scares me, "that no one who truly leaves that Tower ever comes home the same."
I shake my head. "You're wrong. You're letting fear talk."
"Fear keeps people alive," he says. "Faith is what gets them buried."
The words hit harder than I expect.
"You sound like you don't trust them at all," I say.
His eyes flick, briefly, toward the Tower's doors—dark, waiting.
"I trust stone and fire," he says quietly. "I trust things that show you what they are when you put pressure on them."
He looks back at me.
"I don't trust anything that asks a boy to disappear inside it and calls that salvation."
Silence stretches between us, thick and suffocating. The air becomes brittle.
Just as father is about to speak, the bell tolls again.
"It's time," Finn says gently.
Father closes his eyes for a heartbeat. When he opens them, whatever he was about to say is gone.
"Just remember," he says, pressing the locket harder into my palm, "you are not what they name you."
I pull my hand back, anger flaring hot and bright in my chest.
"I know who I am!" I shout.
And I step toward the Tower, convinced—absolutely—that he's wrong.
The doors of the Severance Tower swallow me whole.
The noise of the square vanishes—no crying, no bells, no voices—cut off so completely it feels like stepping underwater. Cool air brushes my face, scented faintly with stone and something clean, almost medicinal.
Stone arches rise overhead, carved with scenes of battle and sacrifice—Wardens standing against shadowed shapes, light driving back darkness. Torches line the walls, their flames steady and pale, making the ominous environment feel less sullen.
The floor beneath my boots is smooth marble, etched with concentric patterns that draw the eye inward, toward the heart of the Tower. Every line is deliberate. Every angle measured.
Nothing here is warped. Nothing resists.
There are hundreds of us now, standing in a wide hall of polished marble. Some whisper to each other. Others stare straight ahead.
Wardens move among us without urgency, their robes whispering softly against the floor. Up close, their expressions are calm to the point of serenity. Not cold. Reassuring.
A Warden in deep blue robes steps forward. His hair is silvered at the temples, his expression kind but distant.
"Welcome," he says. "You are here because you may have the strength to protect this world."
My chest tightens with pride.
"The Taint destroyed civilization once," he continues. "It will do so again if we fail. Today, we learn who among you can stand against it."
Dozens of Hollows with a uniform similar to that of the Wardens, only missing the etched golden lines, walk into the room guide us into smaller chambers. My group is led down a corridor that curves gently inward, deeper into the Tower. With every step, I feel more aware of the stone beneath my feet, the walls pressing close, the sense that something vast is sleeping just out of reach.
We stop before a circular room.
I look up at a man with silver threaded through his dark hair, his eyes clear and assessing. Not unkind.
"You're safe here," he continues, as if reading the tension in my posture. "Everything that happens today is for the good of Valdrence."
I nod, though my pulse is still racing.
As we're guided further into the Tower, I realize something that unsettles me more than the silence ever could:
The oppressive weight I felt outside is gone.
The air here does not press down. It lifts.
For the first time since stepping into the square, my breathing slows.
And I hate myself, just a little, for how relieved I feel.
I take a second to analyze my surroundings. The walls are not stone, but a translucent, vitreous ivory that seems to drink the light. There are no torches here, only a phosphorescent hum that emanates from the floor beneath my boots. It feels less like a building and more like the inside of a great, bleached skull, pristine and terrifyingly silent.
At its center is a glass vessel mounted in iron braces. Inside it swirls darkness—thick, slow, alive. Not black exactly. Deeper than that. Like night given shape.
The Taint.
My mouth goes dry.
I've been told my whole life that it's evil. Corrupting. Poison to the soul.
So why does my heart ache when I look at it?
"Do not be afraid," the Warden says gently. "It will try to deceive you. It may feel… other than you expect. That is how it tests weakness."
One by one, candidates step forward. Some recoil instantly, collapsing in sobs. Others last longer before the Wardens shake their heads and lead them away. The Taint appears to affect their emotions, some laughing, some crying, others attacking the air in fury.
When it's my turn, I place my hand against the vessel.
The glass is warm and comfortable.
The moment I touch it, the darkness surges toward me—and instead of revulsion, I feel wonder.
Not hunger. Not malice.
Recognition.
Heat blooms in my chest—not burning, but like stepping into sunlight after a long winter. My fingers tingle. The whispers aren't words, but they press against my mind like a hand trying to push through a door. Urgent. Desperate.
Not empty.
Alive.
The Warden's hand clamps down on my shoulder.
"Focus," he says sharply. "Sense the evil. Do not listen."
The warmth intensifies. The whispers grow quieter, smothered.
When it's over, I'm shaking, breathless, my heart racing.
The Warden studies me for a long moment.
Then he smiles.
"You will serve," he says.
The words echo through me, heavy and final.
As I'm led away, pride wars with a strange, aching grief I can't explain.
The other Wardens are around me, congratulating me, leading me away from the other candidates—who look at me with awe and pity—toward a side door. I am a chosen one. A future Warden. A Hollow.
As I pass through the doorway, I clutch the locket in my pocket. The world is suddenly, unbearably loud with the silence of the new presence inside me. The Tower's shadow feels less like protection now. More like a cage closing shut.
And I can still feel the Taint pressing against my ribs—warm, patient, alive.