Tower Of Trample -

A flicker of something—respect? boredom?—crossed her face. "Most come for gold. Or revenge. Or to prove they are 'worthy.' You came to be nothing so that others could be something."

You closed your eyes.

The weight of every failure you had ever hidden. The weight of every fear you had refused to name. It settled on your shoulders, your chest, your throat. You gasped, your knees buckling. The sword clattered to the mosaic floor. Tower Of Trample

"The Orb," you whispered. "My village. The plague."

"One last step," she said softly. "The final trample. It will not hurt. It will simply… erase. Every scar, every failure, every desperate gasp you made in my tower. I will grind them all into dust. And in that hollow, clean space, you will find the cure. Not a potion. A perspective." A flicker of something—respect

The staircase ended in a vast, circular chamber. The floor was a mosaic of crushed velvet and crushed bone—a pattern of boots, sandals, and bare feet overlapping in eternal, violent dominance. In the center stood a dais, and on the dais, a woman.

"The Orb is not an object," she said. "It is an act." Or revenge

You nodded.

"Another stray," she said, her voice a low, bored contralto. "You reek of desperation. It is my least favorite perfume."

She did not kill you. That was the horror of it.