The heat of sleep drifted from my body like a slow mist as I opened my eyes, allowing reality to gradually filter into my consciousness. I felt the rough brush of the sheets against my skin as I nodded slightly, confirming to myself that I was finally waking up. I remained lying down for a few moments, staring at the ceiling above my head, where the grains of ancient wood traced silent stories that only time had written.
My consciousness wandered to the image of the Tartaros guild as I contemplated my new home. The building stood as an architectural defiance to any conventional notion, a colossus formed by houses stacked in apparent disorder yet harboring an inexplicable harmony.
The guild's base consisted of several rural-style homes layered atop one another, with slanted roofs in deep greens, earthy browns, and rusty reds, arranged at impossible angles that defied gravity itself. They seemed to have grown over each other as if they were part of a living organism, twisting toward the sky in a constant quest for height. The walls, built with aged wood and time-worn stone, displayed frameworks of dark beams that sharply contrasted with lighter surfaces of plaster and polished stone.
The windows —small, irregular, with hand-carved frames— were covered by splintered planks, others by tattered curtains that danced ghostlike with each gust of wind. And up there, crowning that impossible structure, hung a weathered sign with the word «Tartaros» etched in gothic letters. That name stirred in me a contradictory mix of feelings: curiosity, unease, and above all, a strange sense of belonging I couldn't fully grasp.
The dormitories were distributed between the upper and middle floors, connected by wooden stairs that groaned under each step with creaks that sounded like laments. We, the newcomers, occupied austere spaces with bare stone walls, uncoated, where dampness had painted enigmatic maps of nonexistent territories. My room —if I could call it that— was a cubicle barely larger than the cell I had left behind, with a dark wooden bed and a thin mattress that offered no comfort whatsoever.
The sheets and blankets gave off that unmistakable smell of dust and years of use, a scent I was beginning to associate with my new life. The small window with fogged glass barely let in enough light to make out the outlines of my few belongings, and the worn curtains swayed gently with each draft of air, producing a constant whisper that accompanied me through my sleepless nights.
All the children who had escaped with me lived on the third floor, a territory exclusively reserved for them. Meanwhile, the first and second floors belonged to the official guild members, those with combat responsibilities. Only Reinhardt, Cassie, and I, as Enlightened, had the privilege —or burden— of sleeping on the second floor, closer to the action and danger. Mica had been inflexible with her rules: the other children were forbidden from leaving the third floor during the mornings, when training sessions and discussions among experienced members could turn dangerously volatile.
The guild had taken us in, yes, but not out of charity. It had adopted us as one adopts a useful tool. In exchange for shelter and food, we became diligent hands that kept order in that organized chaos. We cleaned, tidied, and served in a place where manpower was always insufficient to contain the perpetual disorder generated by its occupants.
My mind inevitably turned to Cassie. The irony of her situation filled me with a bitterness that rose in my throat like bile. She, a priestess, lay unconscious, unable to use her own power to heal herself. The sacrifice she had made to save us had left her in a state of extreme weakness.
She still hadn't woken up, and though she showed improvement with each passing day, the progress was painfully slow. Like a river advancing drop by drop. Each day her skin seemed to regain a bit of color, her breathing gradually steadied, but the vital spark in her eyes remained absent.
I now understood that the cost to her vitality wasn't permanent. Her energy would restore itself with time, rest, and proper nourishment. Yet, the uncertainty gnawed at my apparent calm. How long would Mica allow Cassie to remain in the infirmary? The guild's Captain was still absent, unaware of our presence, and his eventual return could mean our expulsion if we didn't prove our immediate usefulness. I couldn't afford the luxury of passivity while time slipped through my fingers like fine sand.
The answer was as clear as it was unsettling: I had to ascend the Paradise Tower. I had no certainty of whether healing potions existed in the guild, but even if they did, their price would be prohibitive. The monthly rent we had to pay for the lodging of fifteen children already weighed on my shoulders like a granite slab.
I couldn't blame Mica for her lack of charity. No one, no matter how kind, would feed and house fifteen hungry mouths without expecting compensation. In this cruel world I knew all too well, compassion always came with a price, and it was usually higher than one was willing to pay.
My reflections were abruptly interrupted by a commotion rising from the floor below. Shouts and metallic clashes echoed like thunder, growing more intense, unmistakably signaling that a confrontation was escalating in the main hall.
I pushed the sheets aside with a decisive movement and felt the cold air caress my skin, a harsh reminder of the reality awaiting me. My bare feet found the rough floor, and I headed toward the wooden door, which groaned with a creak as I opened it. The noise flooded my ears like an unstoppable tide: dozens of voices interwoven in chaotic conversations, shrill laughter, and shouts of encouragement forming the discordant symphony that was life in the Tartaros guild.
I descended to the first floor and immersed myself in that ocean of sound and movement. The great hall vibrated with an almost tangible energy, a controlled chaos of concentrated humanity. To my left stretched the meeting room, an austere but functional space of about twenty-five square meters, dominated by a long, solid wooden table.
Ten mismatched chairs surrounded the table, each bearing its own story etched into its structure: some of carved wood with ornate but cracked backs; others of rusted metal with tattered cushions that barely offered comfort. One in particular stood out, made of a more durable material than the rest, with arcane runes engraved on its backrest—the Captain's chair, I presumed.
The walls combined stone and wood in a precarious balance, nearly all covered with hand-drawn maps where red and blue lines traced enemy and allied territories. Rusted pins held these maps to the wood, while yellowed papers with hurriedly scribbled notes, names, and dates hung in an organized chaos. An imposing mission board dominated one of the walls, offering challenges written on parchments or tablets, each with rewards ranging from coins to magical items of incalculable value.