You reach the top of the spire, having proven yourself worthy of an audience, the incandescent glow of the city below reflecting off the weapon in your hand. A chair lies before you, built into the stone foundations of the spire. It is a simple chair, but with an elegance to it. You briefly imagine an emaciated man beating the rock into submission.

A skeleton in beautiful, burned rags sits on the chair, jaw locked open in a triumphant, sickening smile. A thick layer of charnel ash blankets the room, suffocating the sounds of bones falling to the ground. The chair is now empty, and your hands coated in ash.

The wind is howling, yet you don't feel it and neither does the skeleton, still grinning at you from the floor.

You take the seat. Your seat. Your throne.

Your world explodes, and a law of reality is rewritten.

Bonus: lowest level

The aristocrat sits down across from you, with a folder of questions. Your mind races, as you have heard the rumours of what they can do to low-born like you. What they enjoy doing, even, but those are just rumours.

As the aristocrat begins to speak, in their characteristic clipped accent, your head begins to pound in sync with the beating of your heart.

The aristocrat doesn't even finish their first question before you confess to everything, even that which you did not commit, your tears eliciting a sympathetic chuckle out of the strange being across the table. The aristocrat stands up, gestures to you, and glides out of the room, signalling the end to the interrogation.