She was not large, but she occupied space as a black hole occupies a galaxy. Valdris the Imperious. Her hair was a cascade of silver chains, her gown a simple, severe black dress. She wore no crown; her glare was coronation enough.

She stood. Her shadow engulfed you.

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.

"I will remember your insignificance," she said. "You will remember nothing but the clarity."

You woke at the Gilded Gate, face-down in the cinders. The plague in your lungs was gone. In your hand was a smooth, warm stone—the Orb. But you did not remember the tower. You remembered only a feeling: the absolute, undeniable certainty that some forces are not to be fought, only survived.

High above, in the Onyx Tower, Valdris the Imperious polished her shoes and smiled. Another soul, properly trampled. Another hero, properly flattened into something useful.