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."
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
It was a ladder made of degradation. The first rung: kiss the dust her shoe had touched. You did it. The taste was iron and ancient sweat. A flicker of something—respect
You pushed open the Gilded Gate. It was not gold. It was bronze, worn slick by countless desperate hands. The inscription above read: Abandon all stature, ye who enter here. Or revenge
"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."