She stood. Her shadow engulfed you.
The weight of every failure you had ever hidden. The weight of every fear you had refused to name. It settled on your shoulders, your chest, your throat. You gasped, your knees buckling. The sword clattered to the mosaic floor.
She did not kill you. That was the horror of it.
"Put that away, little worm," she sighed. "I do not fight. I judge . And I find you… insufficient." Tower Of Trample
"Another stray," she said, her voice a low, bored contralto. "You reek of desperation. It is my least favorite perfume."
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.
"First, you will kneel," she said, taking a single, deliberate step closer. The pressure doubled. Your spine screamed. Your palms hit the cold, cruel stone. She stood
Valdris sat upon a throne of broken shields. You crawled the last few feet. Your voice was a rasp.
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."
It was a ladder made of degradation. The first rung: kiss the dust her shoe had touched. You did it. The taste was iron and ancient sweat. The weight of every fear you had refused to name
It was not pain. It was weight .
You nodded.
"I will remember your insignificance," she said. "You will remember nothing but the clarity."