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“Correct. I can’t pass through the doorway. My body stops at the threshold.” I gesture to the arched entrance opposite me. “Imagine an invisible wall. That’s how it feels to me.”

“How do I know you’re telling the truth?”

“Would you like a demonstration?” I approach the archway and attempt to step through it. As always, my body halts at the threshold, unable to move. I lift a hand and push at the invisible barrier.

Her eyes narrow. “You could be faking it.”

“I assure you, I am not.” I step back. “Now approach me. Stop when I tell you.”

She hesitates for a second, then moves toward me.

“Not close enough.” She takes two more steps. “Stop there.”

I test the threshold again, attempting to push through with one hand. This time, I manage to move it partway into the barrier. It’s barely perceptible, but it’s there. I can reach perhaps a finger’s width beyond a previously impassible line, but I can still feel the pressure stopping me from going any further.

“Can you see the difference? It’s minimal, but …”

“How close would I need to be for you to step right through?”

An excellent question, and one I’d dearly like to find out the answer to myself. “If you will, that’s what we’re going to determine next. Move closer, please.”

She takes another step, then another, and with each one, my hand reaches further through the barrier.

“Try moving to different positions in the room.” I step back from the threshold. “Let’s see if direction matters, or only distance.”

She walks to the farthest point away from me, and I test the doorway again. The barrier holds firm. When she returns to stand near me, the restriction weakens once more.

“Distance is clearly the key factor. Not merely your presence in the chamber.”

She studies me, and I can almost hear the thoughts ticking over in her head. “If I help you cross the threshold, what will happen? Will you be able to leave the tower?”

“I don’t know.” It’s not a lie. I have no idea what will happen. “But it seems like our best chance of finding a way forward.”

She considers my words for a moment, then steps forward until she’s standing beside me. “Let’s try it.”

I reach toward the threshold again, but the binding still resists, even with her standing this close. Something more is needed.

“There is one more thing we can try.” I keep my voice clinical. “I would like to see if physical contact strengthens the effect. Stand on the other side, reach through, and take my hand.”

She moves forward then turns to face me. There’s a clear hint of reluctance in the way she pauses. But then she lifts her hand and reaches out through the doorway.

The moment our fingers touch, something jolts through me.

Not magic, or at least, not entirely. It’s the shock of another person’s touch after so long without it. The warmth of her skin against mine sends a cascade of sensation through my nerve endings, a rush so intense I almost pull away. The simple contact is overwhelming after years of isolation. It’s been so long since I’ve touched another person that I’d forgotten how it feels. The texture of skin, the subtle pulse of blood beneath the surface, the inherent vitality that no magical construct could ever replicate.

I didn’t consider this. The physicality of another being. The weight of presence translated through something as slight as a hand in mine. It has been—no, I don’t need to calculate how many years it’sbeen since I last touched someone. The measure of time is irrelevant. What matters is that the memory of human contact has eroded, not by force, but by disuse.

I struggle to conceal my reaction, to maintain the appearance of calm control. Part of my mind registers that the boundary has indeed loosened at our point of contact, but this clinical observation drowns beneath the flood of awareness centered on our clasped hands. The contrast between her soft, warm fingers, and mine is almost disorienting.

Her skin is not merely warm, it isliving. Responsive. And the strangeness of that realization unsettles me more than it should.

I have grown accustomed to silence. To surfaces that do not yield. To existence without feedback.

I center myself with effort, slamming down mental barriers against the sensations threatening to overwhelm me. Focusing on the experiment rather than the person. The barrier around the archway feels like wading through viscous water, resistance pushing against every inch of my body, but with our hands still joined, I manage to step through to the other side.

For the first time since I was forced into the chamber at the top of the tower, I stand outside of it.

“Let go.” I’m surprised at how steady my voice remains, despite the turmoil beneath.