Growing unseen

Leyton Hightower was hungry again.

Beneath his aged skin, his swollen belly still felt as though it were burning.

Standing at the highest point of the Hightower, the old man's dull eyes showed a bewilderment he had not noticed himself.

Yes... why was that?

When he was young, it had seemed he could never eat his fill.

Yet after he grew old and shut himself away at the top of this tower, he had rarely taken any interest in the food brought up to him.

It had merely kept hunger at bay.

What truly interested him were the magical manuscripts and books passed down to him by his father.

His house believed that the magic lost to history would surely return.

And as the master of the Hightower, he had to lead his house in preparing for it.

Every successive head of House Hightower had thought the same.

This was also the responsibility they passed down by word of mouth.

But... once again, he felt hungry, as though he could never eat enough.

His palm, bearing strange marks, rested on his belly, and his sense of touch told him that plenty had already been stuffed inside.

Yet... Leyton Hightower could not remember what he had eaten at all.

He only felt hungry.

His gaze fell on an exquisite meal left by the door.

Hmm?

There was another portion here?

Instinct told him this portion did not seem to belong to him, but Leyton Hightower's muddled mind could not tell him who truly owned this thoroughly cold lunch.

After thinking for a long time, the old man finally remembered that he was the master of the Hightower.

That being so, everything here belonged to him.

It was only a lunch. Who would dare fight him for it?

At that thought, the eyes threaded with black blood vessels finally locked onto her target.

His body displayed an agility utterly at odds with his age.

He covered the distance in a few quick strides, pouncing on it like a starving tiger.

Soon, bout after bout of teeth-grating chewing sounded through the dim space.

But after two mouthfuls, Leyton Hightower stopped eating.

Because he realized this was not what he truly wanted to eat.

Hunger still tormented him, and his stomach was nearly on fire.

He slowly walked back to his place at the top of the tower.

His withered body curled into a chair drenched in dark red stains.

Closing his eyes, Leyton Hightower fell asleep.

"My lord, please follow me."

The maid led Ser Baelor through the encircling corridors high in the Hightower.

Sunlight filtered through the clouds and past the stone pillars, scattering dappled patterns over them.

The howling sea wind lifted their hems. Neither spoke; only the wind's howl remained in their ears.

Baelor Hightower felt a vague unease.

A few days earlier, the maid responsible for managing his father Lord Leyton's meals had come to him to report something strange:

Of the two meals sent up, for some reason, only one would be left.

And sometimes both would be left.

The maid had called inside to ask whether the food was not to their liking.

Yet she had received no response.

At first, Baelor had thought the old man and Moroia were researching some "spell," forgetting to eat or sleep.

He had paid it no mind at all.

After all, it was not as though this had never happened over the long years of the past decade and more.

People were not stones. They had to eat eventually.

As master of the Hightower, the old man never gambled with his own life.

So he had told the maid now leading him onward not to worry.

But now, things were different.

It was already the tenth day.

Unable to bear the pressure any longer, the maid had reported the matter to Baelor once again.

Over the past ten days, two living, breathing people had eaten, at most, seven or eight days' worth of food for one person.

It would have been downright bizarre if nothing were wrong!

Realizing something was amiss, Baelor had set aside the records he was reviewing and followed the maid all the way to the foot of the spiral staircase leading to the highest point of the Hightower.

Only by climbing it could one appreciate the view from the Hightower's summit.

Yet for a very long time, that view had belonged exclusively to his father, Lord Leyton.

Oh, right. And my sister, Moroia.

Baelor thought.

"Lord Baelor, we're here."

The maid spoke softly, then slowly stepped back.

Her responsibility was merely to report this matter to the man who handled the Hightower's daily affairs.

As for what had happened and how it should be resolved, even lying in Baelor's bed every day would not qualify her to have a say.

Blood reigned supreme. Within this tallest building in Westeros, only those who bore the Hightower bloodline had the right to decide.

Unfortunately, she was merely the daughter of a down-on-his-luck knight and possessed no such honor.

"All right, I understand. Go about your work."

Nodding, Baelor waved to indicate that the maid could leave.

When the corridor was finally empty, Baelor looked at the steps that seemed to lead to heaven and fell silent.

He could see twelve steps.

Nine of them had been swept spotless.

The three above those, along with the ones hidden behind the wall, were already covered in dust.

Like a sharply defined boundary between two rivers, it created a sense of dislocation, as though the two sides belonged to different times and spaces.

Here, no one could set foot on the tenth step without his father's permission.

Without exception, anyone who broke that rule would be thrown straight from the heights of the Hightower.

From such a height, the soft surface of the water became hard rock.

The unfortunate souls who struck the water often did not even leave an intact corpse.

After hesitating for a long time, Baelor chose to speak from where he stood first.

So he raised his voice and called:

"Father!"

His low baritone echoed through the passage worn by time.

It shook loose a fine layer of dust that clung lightly to the surfaces.

A long time passed, but Baelor heard no answer.

Had the old man fallen asleep?

Had Moroia, too?

Baelor did not believe either of them would fail to recognize his voice.

A trace of doubt surfaced in his eyes, and Baelor called again.

This time, he raised his voice even further, to the point of being somewhat disrespectful.

Yet the corridor remained empty, and the sea wind still tugged at his hair.

There was no answer.

The unease in his heart deepened, and Baelor could not work out what was going on inside.

If something really had happened, why hadn't the old man called for help?

Besides, I saw him just half a month ago. He was perfectly fine then.

The heir to the Hightower felt a chill along his back.

Instinctively, he wanted to go downstairs and find some guards to accompany him up.

He kept feeling that something in this deserted place was watching him.

But he knew very well how much his father hated being disturbed.

Even his own son was no exception.

In the end, he gritted his teeth, made up his mind, and stepped onto the dust-covered tenth step.

Yet before he could continue upward, an aged voice abruptly sounded as though right beside his ear, making him shudder and freeze in place.

"Baelor... who gave you permission to come up?"

His pupils contracted slightly. He smelled blood.