Mira stood on the third attempt.

  Her legs trembled beneath her, muscles weakened by fever and blood loss, but she stayed upright through sheer force of will. Elias watched from nearby, ready to catch her if she fell, his medical instincts cataloging every sign of strain—the pallor of her skin, the slight hitch in her breathing, the way she favored her uninjured side.

  "I can walk," she said through gritted teeth. "Stop looking at me like I'm about to break."

  "You almost died two days ago."

  "Almost doesn't count in the Tower." She took a careful step, then another. Her movements were slower than before, more deliberate, but functional. "We can't stay here any longer. The supplies are running low, and that warm presence Lira sensed hasn't moved. If it's Siphoners, they're watching the area. Waiting for us to make a mistake."

  She was right. They'd been hiding in the alcove for nearly three days, rationing their food and water, watching Mira's fever slowly break. The infection hadn't killed her—her body had fought it off with a resilience that impressed Elias—but the delay had cost them. Time they didn't have, not with Lira's Soul Integrity continuing its inexorable decline.

  Soul Integrity: 94.9%

  The number haunted him. Every hour that passed brought Lira closer to whatever threshold awaited below—the point where the connection would fail, where her ghost would fade completely, where he would lose her for the second and final time.

  "Can you fight if we need to?" Elias asked.

  Mira's hand went to her knife, drawing it smoothly. The motion was slower than usual, but steady. "I can fight. Just don't expect me to run any marathons."

  "Noted."

  They gathered their supplies—the meager collection of food, water, medical equipment, and the dead Climber's journal that now resided in Elias's pack. Lira drifted near the shelter entrance, her translucent form flickering with nervous energy.

  "The warm things are still there, Papa," she said quietly. "In the same place. But there are more of them now. Moving around."

  "How many?"

  "I can't tell exactly. At least... ten? Fifteen?" Her form wavered. "They feel wrong. Different from regular warm things. Like their warmth is being... pulled somewhere else."

  Elias didn't fully understand what Lira's new ability was telling her, but he trusted her perceptions. If she said something felt wrong, it was wrong.

  "We'll go the other direction," he decided. "Toward the transition to Floor 13. According to Old Tom's maps, there's a secondary passage that bypasses the main thoroughfare."

  "A longer route?"

  "A safer one. Supposedly."

  They left the shelter behind, emerging into the gray light of the Scab Fields. The hardened plateaus stretched around them, their surfaces crusted and uneven, the deep crevices between them like wounds that had never fully healed. The air was dry and still, carrying the faint metallic taste of old blood.

  Elias moved first, Blood-Sight active, scanning the terrain for threats. The Scab Stalkers had taught him caution—their camouflage was nearly perfect, visible only through the diffuse pattern of their blood flow when they flattened against the surface. He checked every suspicious patch of ground before allowing Mira and Lira to follow.

  They made slow progress across the Fields, the open terrain offering little cover. Every step felt exposed, vulnerable, watched by unseen eyes. The warm presence Lira had detected remained stationary in the distance, but Elias couldn't shake the feeling that they were being observed.

  An hour into their journey, his suspicion was confirmed.

  "Down," he hissed, dropping into a crouch behind a ridge of accumulated scar tissue. Mira followed immediately, pressing herself against the hardened surface despite the protest of her wounds. Lira simply faded, her translucent form becoming nearly invisible against the dim background.

  Through Blood-Sight, Elias could see them—five figures moving across a distant plateau, their blood signatures bright and human-shaped. They were heading perpendicular to Elias's group, following a path that would take them within a hundred meters of the ridge.

  Siphoners. Had to be.

  "Patrol," Elias whispered. "Five of them. Coming from the northeast."

  Mira pressed closer to the ridge, peering through a gap in the tissue. Her expression hardened as she observed the approaching figures.

  "Capillaries," she confirmed. "Low-ranking Siphoners. See the red cloaks? That's their standard uniform. The full members wear darker colors—crimson, almost black."

  Elias studied the patrol through his enhanced vision. The five figures moved with practiced coordination, spread out enough to cover a wide area but close enough to support each other if attacked. They were armed—blades mostly, with one carrying what looked like a crude crossbow.

  "They're searching for something," he said. "Look at the pattern. They're not just patrolling—they're hunting."

  "Us?"

  "Maybe." The warm presence Lira had detected. The three days they'd spent in the alcove, sitting in one place while the Siphoners had time to narrow their search area. "We need to stay quiet until they pass."

  The patrol drew closer. Elias could make out details now—young faces, hard eyes, the lean and hungry look of people who survived by taking from others. They moved through the Scab Fields like predators, alert to every sound, every movement.

  One of them raised a hand, signaling the group to stop.

  Elias held his breath.

  The Capillary who had signaled, a tall man with a shaved head and ritual scars across his cheeks, pointed toward the ridge where Elias and Mira were hiding. He said something, too quiet to hear at this distance, and two of his companions began moving in that direction.

  They've seen us.

  Elias's hand tightened on his spear, preparing to fight. Beside him, Mira's knife appeared in her grip, her body tensing despite her injuries.

  Then another Capillary stepped forward, speaking rapidly, gesturing in a different direction. Elias couldn't hear the words, but he could see the body language—disagreement, persuasion, a different theory about where their quarry had gone.

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  The scarred man hesitated, then nodded. He gestured for his companions to fall back, redirecting the patrol away from the ridge.

  Elias allowed himself a slow breath of relief.

  The patrol moved past, their path taking them over a rise and out of sight. Elias counted to a hundred before allowing himself to relax, his enhanced vision tracking their blood signatures until they faded beyond his range.

  "That was close," Mira murmured.

  "Too close." Elias was about to signal that they could move when he noticed something. One of the Capillaries had lagged behind the others, pausing at the edge of the rise to look back. The man's face was partially visible in profile, young and sharp-featured, with a familiar cast to his expression.

  Elias's blood ran cold.

  Kael.

  The young man he'd rescued on Floor 9. The wounded Climber who'd claimed to be separated from his group, who'd accepted Elias's medical treatment with gratitude and wonder, who'd disappeared in the night without a word.

  He was wearing a red cloak.

  The realization hit Elias like a physical blow. Kael hadn't been a victim of the Siphoners—he'd been one of them all along. The wounds, the story, the desperate vulnerability—all of it had been an act. A performance designed to gather information, to assess the threat Elias posed, to report their position to his superiors.

  "Something was off about him."

  Mira's words from that morning echoed in his memory. She'd sensed it. The wrongness, the hollow performance of gratitude. And Elias had ignored her instincts, choosing instead to trust his own judgment, to believe that his medical care had earned genuine appreciation.

  He'd been played.

  Kael turned away, following his patrol over the rise, disappearing from view. But the damage was already done. The Siphoners knew about Elias—knew about his medical skills, his abilities, his route. Everything he'd revealed during those hours of treatment, every piece of information he'd carelessly shared, was now in enemy hands.

  "What is it?" Mira asked, noting his expression. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

  "Worse." Elias's voice was flat, controlled. "One of those Capillaries. The one who lagged behind."

  "What about him?"

  "It was Kael."

  Mira's eyes widened, then narrowed with understanding. "The wounded boy from Floor 9. The one you patched up."

  "Yes."

  "The one who disappeared in the middle of the night."

  "Yes."

  "Son of a bitch." Mira's hand clenched around her knife. "He was a plant. A spy. They sent him to scout us, and you—"

  "I saved his life." The words tasted bitter. "I used supplies we couldn't spare, shared information about our route, told him about the Scab Fields and our destination. And he took it all back to them."

  The implications cascaded through his mind. The warm presence Lira had sensed—the one that had stopped moving and waited—that had been the Siphoners, positioning themselves based on Kael's intelligence. They'd known where to look because Elias had told them. He'd practically drawn them a map.

  "This is my fault," he said quietly.

  "Yes. It is." Mira's voice was harsh, unforgiving. "You should have let him die. Out here, you don't save strangers. You don't trust anyone who shows up conveniently wounded and desperate. They're either bait or they're threats, and either way, caring for them gets you killed."

  "I know."

  "Do you? Because from where I'm standing, it looks like your doctor's instincts almost got us captured. Or worse."

  Elias didn't argue. She was right. In the Tower, compassion was a vulnerability, and he'd let it compromise their position. He'd looked at Kael and seen a patient in need, not a potential threat. He'd let his training override his survival instincts.

  But even now, knowing what he knew, he couldn't bring himself to regret saving the boy's life.

  "I don't regret helping him," Elias said finally. "What I regret is trusting him. There's a difference."

  Mira stared at him. "Is there? Because the result is the same. They know where we are. They know what you can do. And now they're hunting us."

  "I know." Elias met her gaze steadily. "But I became a doctor because I believe in helping people who are hurt. The moment I stop doing that, the moment I start calculating who deserves care and who doesn't, I become something else. Something I won't recognize."

  "You become a survivor."

  "Maybe. But survivors who lose their humanity aren't really surviving. They're just dying more slowly."

  Mira was silent for a long moment. When she spoke, her voice had lost some of its edge.

  "Fine. Keep your principles. But next time someone shows up wounded and alone, at least pretend to be suspicious. For my sake, if not your own."

  "Agreed."

  They waited until the patrol was well beyond Blood-Sight range, then moved again—faster this time, acutely aware that their position had been compromised. The route Elias had planned was no longer safe; the Siphoners knew they were heading for Floor 13, knew the general direction they were traveling. They needed an alternative.

  "Old Tom's maps show another path," Elias said, pulling out the crumpled notes. "A deeper route. It goes through a series of crevices that cut beneath the main scab layer, into the living tissue below."

  Mira looked at the map, her expression skeptical. "That sounds like a terrible idea. We'd be blind down there, surrounded by organic walls, limited escape routes."

  "But it's unmarked. Tom's notes say the Siphoners avoid it—too dangerous, too unpredictable. The tissue shifts sometimes, passages opening and closing. It's not reliable."

  "So we trade one danger for another."

  "We trade predictable danger for unpredictable danger." Elias traced the route with his finger. "The Siphoners know the Scab Fields. They've hunted here for months, maybe years. But they don't know the deep passages. That's our advantage."

  Mira considered this, her jaw tight. "How long to reach Floor 13 through the deep route?"

  "Twice as long. Maybe longer if the passages have shifted."

  "And if they've shifted to block our path entirely?"

  "Then we find another way. Or we turn back and take our chances with the patrols."

  Neither option was good. But Elias had learned that the Tower rarely offered good options—only less terrible ones.

  "The deep path," Mira decided. "I'd rather face unknown dangers than known enemies. At least the Tower doesn't hold grudges."

  They changed course, heading toward a wide crevice that Old Tom's notes marked as the entrance to the deeper passages. The opening was partially concealed by a fold of scar tissue, easy to miss if you didn't know to look for it.

  Lira drifted close as they approached, her form flickering with agitation.

  "Papa, I don't like this."

  Elias paused. "What's wrong?"

  "The Siphoners." Her voice was small, frightened. "I could feel them when they passed. Their warmth. But it wasn't... it wasn't right. It felt like their warmth was being pulled somewhere else. Like something was drinking it while they were still alive."

  Elias felt a chill run down his spine. "Drinking it?"

  "I don't know how to explain it." Lira's translucent hands twisted together. "They felt empty inside. Hollow. Like the warm part of them—the alive part—was being taken away slowly."

  The journal's warning echoed in his memory. Brother Sero healed a wounded Siphoner. Just touched him, and the wounds closed. But the man he healed changed afterward. His eyes went empty. He follows Sero now, like he's not a person anymore.

  "Brother Sero," Elias murmured. "He's doing something to them. Draining something essential."

  "Their souls?" Mira asked darkly.

  "Maybe. Or something like it." Elias looked at the crevice ahead, at the darkness that led down into the Tower's living depths. "All the more reason to avoid them. Come on."

  They descended into the deeper passage, leaving the exposed plateaus of the Scab Fields behind. The walls here were different—wetter, warmer, pulsing faintly with the rhythm of distant circulation. The scab layer gave way to living tissue, red and glistening in the light of their bioluminescent fuel capsule.

  The passage twisted and turned, sometimes widening into small chambers, sometimes narrowing until they had to squeeze through single file. Elias kept Blood-Sight active constantly, watching for threats, tracking the blood vessels in the walls to ensure they weren't walking into a dead end.

  Behind them, growing fainter with distance but never quite disappearing, he could hear sounds from the surface—voices, footsteps, the organized noise of a search party.

  The Siphoners were looking for them. And they wouldn't stop.

  They were perhaps an hour into the deep passage when Lira suddenly froze.

  "Papa."

  Her voice was barely a whisper, but the fear in it stopped Elias cold.

  "What is it?"

  "They're coming. The wrong-feeling ones. They found the passage."

  Elias listened. At first, he heard nothing—just the distant pulse of the Tower's biology, the drip of fluid from the walls. Then, faint but growing clearer, voices.

  Human voices.

  "—went this way. I'm sure of it."

  Elias recognized the voice. Young, confident, eager to prove himself.

  Kael.

  "The medic went this way! I can see marks on the walls—they passed through recently!"

  The voices were getting closer. Multiple sets of footsteps echoed through the narrow passage, the sound carrying further than it should in the organic tunnels.

  Mira's hand found Elias's arm, her grip tight with urgency. "We need to move. Now."

  They ran.

  The passage ahead was dark, unknown, potentially dangerous. But behind them, Kael's voice echoed like a death sentence, guiding the hunters to their prey.

  Vitality: 88/100

  Blood: 2.9 L

  Soul Integrity: 94.9%

  And the chase was on.