Sometimes, in Darkspire, there are moments so rare they feel almost impossible—moments when you find yourself isolated and alone, left with nothing but your own thoughts, uninterrupted by the relentless march of progress. In those pockets of stillness, each new idea becomes a way to carve out your existence, to resist the consuming machinery of the society that sprawls across the dark of this pitiless city.
And sometimes—just sometimes—there are those who gain the privilege, or the curse, of becoming a Riser. They leave the dregs at the bottom and climb a tier, shedding everything they once were in the process. They ascend, yes, but the ascent demands a price: the slow erosion of the self that once anchored them. To forge a new identity at the higher levels is to let the old one decay in the shadows below.
But the climb is never clean. To rise, you do things you once swore you’d never do. You compromise pieces of yourself in the name of survival, or ambition, or the simple refusal to be crushed by the weight of the city. You tell yourself it’s temporary, necessary, justified. Yet each act leaves a mark, a small subtraction from the person you thought you were. And eventually, you start to wonder whether the climb is lifting you upward—or hollowing you out. Whether you’re rising through the tiers, or simply descending into a version of yourself you no longer recognise.
Is that truly progress? To lose your old self in the name of survival? To let the relentless machinery of decay strip away the origin that shaped you?
I have to wonder. Our beginnings matter. They forge the contours of who we can become, the fractures and strengths that define our trajectory. When that origin is taken away—erased, overwritten, or abandoned—are we still the same being who began the climb? Or do we become something else entirely, a stranger wearing the memory of a former life like a discarded skin?
Perhaps becoming a Riser is not just an ascent but a metamorphosis. Perhaps the climb is not about rising above the city, but about surviving the loss of the person you once were. And perhaps the true question is not whether we change, but whether anything of us remains unchanged at all. - Martin Gravesend
Every time I climb, I think back to the Laterists and their mantra of the Rise. And every time, the same sinking feeling gathers in my stomach, loosening my balance and making my feet feel slippery with each step up the ladder toward the surface of Rightview. It’s as if the ascent itself remembers me—tests me—measures whether I still believe laterism or if that creed evolved.
They used to recite a line during assembly, a line that still echoes in the back of my skull whenever the rungs begin to tremble beneath me:
“From the lowly caterpilla to the mightiest lion, all are tamed by the wildness of the Rise. Evolution grants form, but never equality; skill, bloodline, and beauty carve the ledgers by which every life is weighed.”
The Laterists claimed it wasn’t cruelty, only recognition—an admission that the world sorts itself long before any doctrine arrives to explain it. But knowing that doesn’t steady my feet. If anything, it sharpens the drop beneath me, reminding me that even the climb is a kind of evaluation, and every step upward is another line written in whatever ledger they believe governs us. When I finally grabbed the last step and hauled my head above the grate, I was greeted by the safari that passes for life up here. Cars whipped past in a blur, their exhausts churning out smoke as thick and desperate as a condemned man’s last drag before the electric chair steals his breath. The tri‑barrelled pipes on the nearest machine throbbed with motion, each pulse a mechanical heartbeat hammering against the street.
Most of the vehicles weren’t cars anymore, not really. They were iron‑skinned beasts, stitched together from riveted plates and exposed pistons, their engines growling like something half‑alive. One rumbled by on tank‑tread rear wheels and spiked front tyres, its chassis braced with copper struts that hissed steam every time it shifted lanes. Another sleeker designed only in the way a shark is sleek—carried a prow of reinforced steel and a row of amber headlamps that glowed like predatory eyes scanning for weakness.
Even the smaller runners had attitude: squat, boxy frames with overclocked engines that rattled like pocket-sized thunder, their vents coughing out soot in rhythmic bursts. Every machine seemed built for a world that expected violence at any moment—diesel hearts, iron lungs, and armour thick enough to shrug off whatever the city decided to throw at them.
And there I was, clinging to the grate, blinking into the fumes, feeling the whole surface world roar past as if daring me to step fully into its path. I was barely half a click from climbing out of the sewers when an eerie quiet settled over the street, the kind that makes your skin tighten before your mind catches up. It felt as if the cars that had been roaring past only moments ago had left a vacuum in their wake, a hollowed‑out silence that didn’t belong in a city like this. That’s when I realised a Redemptor sweep was coming.
Instinct kicked in before thought. I knew I had to move and fast. I jogged toward the nearest alley, boots slipping on the damp concrete as I ducked behind a mound of trash bags piled high against a rust‑eaten dumpster. The heap reeked of sour oil and rotting food, but it was cover, and cover was all that mattered.
Broken crates lay scattered across the ground, their splintered edges jutting out like makeshift caltrops. A toppled shopping trolley lay on its side, half‑buried under newspapers that fluttered weakly in the stale breeze. Somewhere deeper in the alley, a bottle rolled, clinking softly as if warning me to stay low.
I pressed myself into the shadow between the dumpster and a stack of discarded metal piping, trying to steady my breathing. The air tasted of rust and old rain. Above the rooftops, I could already hear the distant hum the Redemptors patrolling and pacing their sweep, methodical and merciless. The black plate of Floor Two curved subtly downward, and the far‑off Silver City seemed to sink with it. Yet the rooftops of the sheet‑metal buildings still looked as if they had room to grow, rising in uneven tiers. Bolts protruded from the structures like the broken joints of a Frankenstein city, half‑assembled and half‑remembered.
Redemptor Knights moved through the conversation at the edge of my vision, their black‑framed armour catching the low light. The gas masks gave their presence away with each measured breath, and their visors swept the horizon in slow, deliberate arcs, scanning for threats no one else could see. The Redemptor slouched low against the wall, unclasped the gas‑mask seal on his helmet, and cupped a lighter to the cigarette between his teeth. His partner drifted over, boots scraping softly on the metal plating.
“Those things will kill you,” he muttered. “You know that. If Serana doesn’t first. Look, Irvine—it’s the last patrol of the night. I’d sooner we get it done. We’ve got no idea how many hours we’ll be working once the Precentor‑General arrives for the parade next week.”
Irvine exhaled a thin ribbon of smoke and pushed the butt of his sniper rifle into the floor, using the leverage to haul himself upright. He leaned lazily on the weapon, shoulders rolling forward as if gravity itself annoyed him.
“There are still a few pleasures left in life I haven’t let anyone take from me,” he said. “You wanna patrol, knock yourself out. But like you said—it’s the last one of the night. The longer we take, the bigger the radius we’ll have to cover. So chill.” While the two argued in low, tired voices, Martin eased himself backward down the alley. Each step was measured, heel sliding silently over the grit. He kept his eyes on the Redemptors as he felt for the backroom door behind him. When his fingers brushed the cold metal handle, he slipped through the gap and let the darkness swallow him.