The desert had changed while they slept.

The air wasn’t thick anymore. It bit. The heat had drained away, leaving behind cold that crept into joints and turned sweat into a chill film against skin.

The sky above was darker than it should’ve been, stars sharp like glass, and the beacon shadow had twisted with the angle of moonlight.

Kael spotted the old man, who had stood up and was standing next to Garron.

The old man’s silhouette was hunched over Garron, his hand too close to the bag strap, his other arm angled wrong, like he was trying to hide what he held. Garron’s head lolled, still asleep, one hand on the bag like a child clutching a toy.

"What’s going on there?" Kael asked, loud enough to wake everyone.

His voice cracked through the cold like a whip. He didn’t ask quietly because quiet questions got ignored. Loud ones forced action.

Immediately, the first to wake up was the man who never spoke, the calm one with a cowl over his face, dagger drawn, attention up like a startled cat.

The dagger was out before his eyes were even fully open, pure instinct, practiced paranoia. He shifted to his feet in one smooth motion, weight centered, ready to lunge.

Garron stood up second, to see the old man next to him.

Confusion flashed across his face for half a heartbeat, then anger. His hand tightened around the bag.

The old man grabbed Garron by the neck, "You motherfucker!" and held a sword in his other hand.

The blade caught a sliver of moonlight. Not a big weapon, but sharp enough. Desperation didn’t need size.

"The fuck is wrong with you! Get off me, you bastard!" Garron howled.

Garron’s hands shot up to the old man’s wrist, trying to pry him off. Sand kicked up under their feet as they staggered. Garron wasn’t weak, but the old man had that frantic strength people got when hunger and fear fused into one ugly purpose.

Christy woke up, and in her hands, two curved daggers immediately showed up.

She moved faster than her injury should’ve allowed, blades appearing like they’d been waiting under her skin. Her eyes weren’t sleepy anymore. They were cold.

Everyone was ready for blood.

The skinny guy scrambled backward. The cowl man angled his dagger, tracking throats, not caring whose. The air turned tight, like a single cut would rip everything open.

"What is going on!" Kael stood up, threateningly; his mere presence was enough to make anyone cower, but now he was pressing with internal energy, not even a fraction of what his master was capable of, but just enough to make everyone know who was boss here.

The pressure wasn’t visible. It didn’t need to be. It sat on their chests like a hand, making breaths catch, making spines straighten. Kael didn’t even have to raise his fists; his stance alone told them violence would not go the way they hoped if they tried something stupid.

"This fucker! He ate all the food, and we’re almost out of water!"

The old man spat the accusation like it was proof of murder. His eyes were wild, glossed with something feverish. He wasn’t just angry, he was terrified of dying and needed someone to blame.

"No, I fucking didn’t!" Garron howled.

Garron’s face had gone red, not from guilt, but from being choked and accused at the same time. His hands still clawed at the old man’s grip, feet digging into sand for leverage.

"Calm down now, let’s hear what he got to say, and you better drop that sword, I don’t want to see any blood right now," Kael said.

He didn’t sound gentle. He sounded like a wall. Like the kind of wall you only hit once before you learned.

"It isn’t your blood I’m about to spill."

The old man hissed it through clenched teeth, like a promise.

"But if you do, I’ll be spilling yours, so calm the fuck down."

Kael’s voice lowered, and the threat sharpened. Not theatrical. Not emotional. Just fact.

The old man hesitated for a second, then his fingers loosened reluctantly, like he hated releasing control. Garron stumbled forward, coughing, rubbing his throat, breathing hard.

"Son of a bitch."

The old man muttered it like he’d swallowed poison.

"So," Kael crouched down, "What’s up with the food and water situation?" he asked.

He dropped into a squat near the bag, close enough to see inside if Garron opened it, close enough to react if someone lunged. His eyes flicked across faces as he spoke, measuring reactions, measuring lies.

Garron exhaled, "We didn’t get enough, the tower only gave us enough for probably one or two beacons if we stretch it..."

The admission came out bitter. Garron’s pride didn’t like saying it. Leaders were supposed to have solutions, not problems.

"I see... how can you prove that? Who said that you didn’t just drink that water when we were all asleep? And Jerky, are you trying to kill us! There were crackers there! Why not give us that!"

The old man’s words spilled out in a rush, jumping from accusation to accusation like he needed to keep momentum or he’d lose the crowd. His eyes darted, searching for support, searching for someone else to fear Garron more than him.

"Those are even more dangerous," Kael said. "Unless you have water to digest stuff, eating anything in a desert is a one-way ticket to hell. So calm down for now."

Kael didn’t raise his voice, but the correction cut cleanly. Crackers, bread, anything dry, without water, it wasn’t nourishment. It was sand in your throat, a slow choke you paid for with your own stupidity.

Kael turned to Garron, "How much water left?"

"One round, one for each."

Garron didn’t sugarcoat it. He didn’t try to soften the blow. The truth was ugly enough without dressing.

Kael clicked his tongue. "We’ll need to move then." He said.

The decision came instantly, like he’d already made it the moment he saw the old man near the bag. Rest was a luxury they’d already spent.

"Where to? The old man said, "It’s all sand and monsters out there! We’ll die if we try and reach the next beacon with one mouthful of water..."

The old man’s voice wavered now, fear creeping back in as soon as violence didn’t give him comfort. He wanted certainty. He wanted someone else to promise survival.

Kael hesitated a bit. He checked his mini-map, "You’re right, this trial wasn’t meant to be completed with six people. If half dies, the other three will get two rounds of drinks, that’s probably enough to reach the next beacon, and maybe encounter a water source along the way...this tower is cruel," Kael stood up.

He didn’t say it like a suggestion. He said it like an observation. The tower wasn’t designed for fairness. It is designed for attrition. And Kael could feel the group flinch at the implication, even if he hadn’t explicitly demanded it.

"Are you suggesting we kill off the useless?" the skinny kid frowned.

His voice was sharp, offended, like he wasn’t sure if he was defending morals or defending himself.

"Don’t say cursed shit like that." Kael looked at Christy; she was injured, and looked at Garron; his lips were chapped and cracked, and he never drank water. And looked at the rest of the group.

He scanned them all, slow, deliberate. Not judging by size. Judging by posture, breathing, hands, and eyes. Who was already thinking of betrayal. Who would break first? Who would stab someone for a sip?

Then at his map again.

He made a decision that was neither mercy nor cruelty. It was a strategy.

"I’ll take you to water..." Kael said.

"What?"

The single word carried everything: disbelief, hope, suspicion. The group leaned toward it without realizing, like thirsty plants turning toward light.

"You heard me, I’ll take you to where water is, I can smell it..."

After all, he can see it via his mini map, unlike theirs, which only shows sand, his can zoom in, out, move, and give direction and location of water and treasure.

It’s an expensive mini map.

"But there is a catch," Kael said.

He let the words hang long enough to remind them that nothing in the tower came free.

"And what’s that?" Garron asked.

Garron’s voice was careful now. Less leader, more negotiator. Like he suddenly remembered Kael wasn’t just muscle, he was leverage.

"We’ll have to head... that way," Kael pointed, not to the north where the compass was pointing, but to the east... further away from their destination."

Everyone looked at each other.

Hesitate and die.

Move forward and die.

Trust Kael... but if he is wrong, you still die.

And in the silence that followed, Kael could practically hear the tower laughing, because it loved moments like this, moments where the only thing keeping you alive was the gamble that the stranger beside you wasn’t leading you into a grave.