You pushed open the Gilded Gate. It was not gold. It was bronze, worn slick by countless desperate hands. The inscription above read: Abandon all stature, ye who enter here.
"You will climb," she commanded. "From my heel to my knee. From my knee to my hip. From my hip to my shoulder. And if you reach my eye level, you may state your request." Tower Of Trample
You woke at the Gilded Gate, face-down in the cinders. The plague in your lungs was gone. In your hand was a smooth, warm stone—the Orb. But you did not remember the tower. You remembered only a feeling: the absolute, undeniable certainty that some forces are not to be fought, only survived. You pushed open the Gilded Gate
By the time you reached the fourth landing, you were not a warrior. You were a creature. Bruised, tear-streaked, and hollow. The inscription above read: Abandon all stature, ye
She raised her foot one final time. The stiletto heel hovered directly over the back of your neck.
The heel descended.