He lifted the last stone, arms shaking. The tower loomed above, stretching into the sky, mocking him. His body ached, his fingers raw, his knees scraped down to bone. The sorcerer stood at the top, robes dark as the night, eyes burning like twin suns.
„Almost done,“ the old man whispered. „Just a little more.“
He had been building for years. Decades, maybe. Time blurred into pain. He had forgotten his name. Forgotten anything but stone, sweat, and the promise that once the tower was complete, he would fly.
The others were gone. They had collapsed, one by one, crushed beneath the weight of rock and broken hope. He had stepped over their bodies and kept going. Because he had to. Because the sky was waiting.
He set the last stone in place. Silence. The wind howled, twisting through the cracks in his skin. The sorcerer smiled, spreading his arms. „It is done. Now, you may take your wings.“
He staggered back, staring at the man above him. His breath hitched. His heart pounded. He had dreamed of this moment.
„Show me,“ he whispered.
The sorcerer laughed. A cruel sound, sharp as broken glass. „Fool. There are no wings. There never were.“
The truth crashed into him, heavier than any stone. He screamed. He leapt.
For a moment, he flew.
Then the ground rose up, and the sky swallowed him whole.
