Hector needs no sweet siren voice to lure him across the sands to the base of the tower. With no hesitation, he makes his way across, ankles sinking with each muttered curse. Even if the armour weighs close to nothing on him, walking on sand is not an easy feat in any dimension.

He can see the structure is strong enough to withstand the tests of nature and time. Waves beat against its dark rock, the howling wind circling its crowned top. Up high is a single arched window, a flickering candle sitting on its sill.

Thick vines wind around the tower’s wide base, barbed with thorns and unadorned by flowers. Hector leans to inspect them once he’s close enough but refrains from touching them. Dangerous, he thinks. 

There’s no way to scale the towers. Though the vines are hefty, they don’t reach the window, climbing only four or five metres up. Running a hand over what stone he can reach through the thorns reveals no cracks or handholds. The walls of the tower are seamless as if carved from a single rock. 

Hector sighs and lifts the visor of his helmet. Other than the window, there isn’t any other visible entrance. He had not expected this sort of obstruction to his goal, and he feels stupid standing in the rain, scratching his head. Should he have dug around for a hook and rope back at the bone piles?

But as Hector stares up at the window, a solution presents itself. Or rather, a clue to one. 

The shape behind the candle on the sill is little more than a dark blob at first. He hadn’t even seen it. But as it comes closer, the small flame flares in reaction. Standing there, in shocking clarity, is not a fair maiden. 

It’s Damien Frisk.

Or a vision of him, at least. He looks exactly as Hector remembers him. From before. Everything from the paper-white skin to the blonde of his hair. Always more wheat than gold, and bright mercury eyes.

Damien doesn’t seem to notice Hector. Not even when the latter raises a hand to his mouth and shouts over the storm’s raging light show. Damien touches a hand to his hair, brushing through the strands with his long fingers.

Only when he inclines his head towards the foot of the tower does Hector get any sort of intimation that Damien knows he’s there. Hector follows his gaze. There—a cluster of brambles. They’re only a few steps away from where he’s standing, and they look as severe as the thorny vines. When he turns his eyes back to Damien, his dear friend is already moving away from the light, back into obscurity. 

A deep uneasiness settles in Hector’s gut. He’s not sure why. 

Somehow, that makes it even worse.