The sky over Oceanforge was doing its usual thing—looking like it had been pissed on by a volcano and then painted over by a drunk gnome with a love for oranges and regrets. Ridlee adjusted his pack, lowered his hood, and stepped off the gangplank.
He took a long breath of Oceanforge air—wet, electric, spicy with coal dust and fish piss—and grinned.
“Ah,” he said, “home of degenerates, alchemists, and at least two ex-lovers who want me dead.”
The dock swayed underfoot as he made his way through the crowd, past spice carts and shouting sailors, toward a familiar stench from the alley behind The Spitting Coin. There was only one man in the world who could summon him with a blood missive and still expect a hug for it.
And sure enough, leaning against the back wall, slurping noodles and covered in more sauce than was natural for a man his size, was Mermoz.
“Oi!” Ridlee shouted.
Mermoz turned, blinked, and beamed. “No fuckin’ way.”
They met in a thud of armor and wool and back-slapping and hearty swearing that could have peeled barnacles off a hull. Ridlee smelled like herbs and travel. Mermoz smelled like spice wine and crab oil. It was perfect.
“You ugly bastard,” Ridlee said, grinning.
“You stringy twig,” Mermoz growled affectionately. “Thought you were dead!”
“Everyone thinks that.”
“This time I hoped you weren’t.”
They hugged again. Man hug. Strong. Unapologetic. Sincere.
“Alright,” Ridlee said, stepping back. “You sent a blood missive, Merm. I thought you were dying.”
“Worse,” Mermoz said, eyes gleaming. “I found it.”
Ridlee blinked. “No.”
“Oh yes.”
“You mean—”
“Yes.”
“The real one?”
“Ridlee,” Mermoz said, lowering his voice with reverence, “The Tower of Vices is real.”
They’d first heard the tale in a barfight in Prism Reef, between a talking crab and a man claiming to be half-monk, half-chicken. The Tower of Vices: an ancient structure that appeared when fate aligned, holding the sins of the world on six impossible floors. No one knew who built it, or why, only that those who entered came out changed—if they came out at all.
It had become a myth. A running joke. A whispered dream for glory-drunk adventurers.
And now, it stood in the shadow of Oceanforge.
Mermoz led them through winding alleys and canal paths. The deeper they went, the quieter the city became, until even the gulls gave up squawking. Finally, they turned a corner, and there it was:
Black stone. Impossibly smooth. Narrow as a dagger, tall as a cathedral. No windows. One arched door.
Etched in silver above it:
“THE VICE WITHIN.”
“I can’t believe it,” Ridlee whispered. “It’s real.”
Mermoz’s voice trembled. “And it called to us.”
Ridlee nodded. “Like moths to a very, very ominous lantern.”
“Shall we?”
Ridlee unslung his staff. “After you.”
FLOOR ONE: GREED
Gold. Gold everywhere. Loose, piled, spinning in the air. Rings floated in lazy spirals. Gems blinked like eyes. A voice echoed:
“Take what is yours.”
Ridlee crossed his arms. “It’s never that easy.”
Mermoz, meanwhile, was halfway to a pile of rubies. “It might be this easy.”
He reached for a necklace—only for the pile to scream and snap at his hand like a hungry dog.
Mermoz yelped. “Shit! It bit me!”
Ridlee hurled a warding sigil into the pile. “Everything here’s bait.”
“Even the velvet pouch?”
“Especially the velvet pouch.”
They moved on, Mermoz sucking on his finger. “Didn’t even get a jewel.”
FLOOR TWO: LUST
Oh, gods.
A colonnade of beautiful figures lounged on silken cushions, their eyes glimmering, their words honeyed with promise.
Mermoz blinked. “Rid... that’s Adela. The one with the—”
“It’s not Adela.”
“It’s exactly Adela.”
“No one with self-respect looks at you like that.”
A voice purred: “Come closer, my warrior. I missed your scars.”
Mermoz took a step.
Ridlee smacked him upside the head. “She’s a succubus, you lemon.”
“I like succubi!”
“No touching the illusions!”
They sprinted out, chased by the smell of perfume and shame.
FLOOR THREE: GLUTTONY
A feast that stretched for miles.
Boars roasted in their own dreams. Soup stirred itself. Cheese wheels spun through fountains of wine.
They sat. They ate.
They wept.
Hours later, Mermoz groaned, belly distended. “I think I ate a goose. Whole.”
Ridlee leaned against a gravy-covered pillar. “We can’t stay here. If we die, it’s going to be from cholesterol.”
“Drag me.”
“You’re too fat.”
Mermoz paused. “Say it again.”
“You’re too—”
Mermoz stood up, vengeance in his eyes. “Let’s get to floor four.”
FLOOR FOUR: SLOTH
They immediately laid down.
A cloud-bed welcomed them. A voice whispered lullabies. Their bones melted into the plush.
“…’m not gettin’ up,” Mermoz murmured.
“…mmfine here,” Ridlee replied.
A sharp jolt of memory struck him—this floor steals time. He forced his eyes open, reached into his pouch, pulled out a lightning charm and zapped Mermoz with it.
“GAH!”
“We’ve been here five hours,” Ridlee said, sitting up. “We have to move.”
Mermoz winced. “Didn’t even dream about anything good.”
FLOOR FIVE: PRIDE
This one nearly killed them.
Portraits lined the walls—of them. Larger than life. Ridlee defeating dragons. Mermoz on a throne of skulls. Voices whispered of greatness. Of destiny.
Mermoz flexed. “I do look good in red.”
Ridlee shook his head. “No. No, this is all flattery. It's... propaganda.”
The room grew warmer, thicker. The voices became pleading, angry, worshipful.
“You are gods.”
Ridlee stepped forward, slammed the butt of his staff into the floor. “We are men. And we’ve made our own messes!”
The room collapsed in on itself, revealing a spiral stairwell.
Mermoz wiped sweat from his brow. “Do all towers like this suck, or just the legendary ones?”
“Just the legendary ones,” Ridlee muttered. “We’re lucky bastards.”
FLOOR SIX: THE MIRROR
The final floor was quiet. Empty.
At its center stood a single mirror, as tall as a doorway. And behind the mirror, a small pedestal.
They approached.
Ridlee squinted. “That’s... not me.”
Mermoz peered in. “That is me. Sort of. Less hair.”
The figures in the mirror spoke with their voices—but the words were different.
“You failed your family,” Mirror Ridlee said. “You ran. You always run.”
“You will never be strong enough,” Mirror Mermoz said. “You hide behind jokes and food and fists.”
They stood in silence.
And then Mermoz flipped the mirror off.
Ridlee smirked and added: “You forgot to mention our incredible thighs.”
The mirror cracked.
The pedestal revealed a small silver box. Inside:
A single card.
Etched upon it:
“You have faced your vices. You may now wield them.”
They looked at each other.
“I don’t know what that means,” Mermoz said.
“Neither do I,” Ridlee replied. “But I’m taking the card.”
They exited not through the door they came from—but through a side alley, now damp with mist. The Tower vanished behind them, like it had never been.
They stood there, wet, hungry, victorious.
Ridlee looked over. “That was the stupidest thing we’ve ever done.”
Mermoz grinned, holding up the card. “And the best.”
They walked off into the steam-lit haze of Oceanforge.
Epilogue:
Somewhere, far across the sea, a red-robed figure dipped a quill into blood and etched two names on a parchment older than time:
Ridlee the Mage. Mermoz the Rogue.
Below it, in scratchy ink:
Returned. The Tower has chosen.