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A pleasant haze clouds my mind. Warm is good. Warm is safe. I should follow the warmth through this place and not concern myself with anything else.

Everything else falls away as I trail the heat to a black door at the end of the hallway. I can almost hear someone shouting, but it’s an unintelligent warble.

I don’t need to worry about that.

Just follow the warmth wherever it leads.

My hands tingle as I reach for the door with a dreamy smile on my face.

Somewhere in the distance, a man yells my name. “Lark? Lark!”

I open my mouth to answer but instead suck in a hiss of breath as a tiny sting pricks my palm. A moment later, the door swings open. Without knowing why, I enter the room with my hand still attached to the handle.

As soon as I’m inside, the fog begins to lift. When I shake my head to clear it, pain knives through my palm. I glance down and notice blood dripping to the floor.

What the fuck?

I release the door like it bit me and suck on the wound, blinking around in confusion. How did I even get here? The last thing I remember, I was talking to Bastian near a wardrobe.

“Lark, stop! What are you doing?”

At the frantic note in Bastian’s voice, I spin. The instant I release the door, it slams shut.

Panic snakes down my spine. I twist the handle, throwing my weight into opening the unyielding wood.

Nothing happens.

No matter how hard I try, the handle refuses to budge. As improbable as it sounds, I’m pretty sure the door locked on its own, trapping me inside.

“Bastian!”

No answer.

Only the oppressive stillness of the room greets me.

With no discernable way out at the moment, I inspect the room, brushing aside the cobwebs that dangle in my path.

Why does it feel like there’s a fire I can’t see?

Moving cautiously, I step away from the door. The narrow entry to the room is only slightly wider than the door itself and once I walk out into the growing heat, I understand why.

I must be in one of the towers I saw outside, because the space stretches three stories high and forms a perfect circle. The windows are thin slits covered in curved glass, allowing for bright light no matter the season or time of day. A large metal chandelier hangs in the center of the room, dripping with clear crystals and cobwebs.

Thick bookshelves line the curved walls, each shelf crammed with tomes, scrolls, and artifacts resting in stands.

A miniature library?

I forget about being stuck here as I wander toward the first bookcase, bat the thick cobwebs out of the way, and pore over the tomes. Judging by the titles on the covers, these books cover several subjects.

Religion, biology, history, geography, herbology.

Going one shelf at a time, I wave my hand over the assembled documents, as if I’m playing the children’s game of hot and cold. But the heat that lured me here isn’t coming from the books or anything else on the shelves. Every now and then, as some of the thicker cobwebs break against my flesh or hair, I shiver involuntarily. But that’s all that happens. Nothing catches my eye or stands out.

Refusing to give up hope, I circle the room until I reach the locked door once more.

Okay, but what if what drew me here isn’t a book? What if it’s something else?

A round wooden table, cracked with age, sits in the middle of the room. The chairs that once sat around it have already succumbed to time and crumbled into tattered pieces.