The sea hissed where the water met the obsidian roots of the new tower. Fog curled around its rising walls, woven with the scent of brine, ozone, and old death. From the cliffs of Orell’s Watch, one could see it looming—taller now than any lighthouse, its spiral frame stretching into the storm-choked sky.And it was still growing. Ships had turned away. Villages had gone silent. The tower gave off no light, no heat. But it sang.Low and endless. A note that vibrated in the bone more than the ear. A warning and a welcome, both at once, and in the frozen spray of dawn, Oliver watched it rise.The skiff he'd borrowed creaked as it struck the shallows. A storm rolled on the horizon, angry and gray, but Oliver didn’t flinch. His boots touched sand that hadn't seen sunlight in eons, and still he walked forward. Every part of him told him to run.His blood screamed. His heart thumped in erratic, arrhythmic pulses—sometimes syncing with the tower’s humming, sometimes not. Each misstep made