Of Trample - Tower

And in the village, as you brewed the cure from the stone's light, you found you could no longer walk with a warrior's swagger. You walked softly. Deliberately. As if the ground beneath you had every right to push back.

You had heard the stories. Every village idiot and drunken sellsword had. The Tower was a test. A humiliation. A place where the brave were broken, not killed. The enchantments within didn't strike with fire or frost; they pressed, they crushed, they trampled the spirit. Tower Of Trample

"There," she cooed, looking down at you. The toe of her shoe was inches from your lowered face. "This is your natural posture. On your hands and knees, trembling. Below my gaze." And in the village, as you brewed the

Valdris sat upon a throne of broken shields. You crawled the last few feet. Your voice was a rasp. As if the ground beneath you had every right to push back

The second rung: crawl beneath an archway shaped like her other foot, held suspended just inches above the ground. You squeezed underneath, feeling the cold sole brush your back like a brand.

The third rung: the Gauntlet of Boots. A corridor lined with spectral soldiers—their bodies mist, their boots solid, hobnailed steel. They marched in place, a churning, thunderous rhythm. You had to walk through. They did not kick. They simply… stepped. Each footfall landed near you, on you, over you. A heel ground into your hand. A sole pressed your face flat. You crawled, weeping, as the boots trampled your pride into the cracks of the floor.

"First, you will kneel," she said, taking a single, deliberate step closer. The pressure doubled. Your spine screamed. Your palms hit the cold, cruel stone.