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Disbelief wars with a wild, desperate hope, both fighting for dominance across his face. He steps toward the archway leading to the staircase, each movement cautious, like he’s bracing for the world to snap back into place.

This threshold has been his prison’s edge since before I arrived. The invisible line he couldn’t cross without my touch.

He extends his hand through the doorway with excruciating slowness. His fingers tremble slightly, the first physical sign of uncertainty I’ve seen from him. They pass through where the barrier should be. No resistance stops him. No invisible force pushes him back.

He takes one step across the threshold. Then a second. His movements are tentative at first, like someone expecting pain with each breath. Then his back straightens, shoulders squaring as realization dawns. Freedom, at least within the tower, is suddenly, unexpectedly his.

“It worked,” he breathes, turning back to me.

For one unguarded moment, emotion transforms his face—wonder, stunned relief, and something that might almost be gratitude. It’s gone in an instant, but I’ve seen it now, a glimpse of the man beneath the controlled exterior.

“The binding has changed. I can leave this chamber.”

“But we’re still trapped in the tower.” I hate myself a little for saying it, for dimming that rare moment of triumph with reality.

“Maybe not.” His expression changes back to that familiar focus, but not fully. Underneath it, there’s a spark, a fire long banked but now rekindled. “If we can alter the binding, we might affect the tower itself. They’re connected, the same magic that holds me holds this place apart from the world.”

He moves toward the staircase with new purpose in his stride. “The lower chamber where you entered. That’s where we should try to break through.” He pauses, and looks back at me. “That’s where you changed everything the first time.”

I follow him down the stairs, watching the way he moves with his newfound freedom. His strides are fluid now. Unchecked. It’s unsettling how different he already seems to be. More dangerous. The careful movements I’d thought were natural grace were just anothercage. Without it, he moves like a predator, economical and precise, every gesture loaded with purpose and power.

The lower chamber appears unchanged, a circular room with smooth, featureless walls. No sign of the door I entered through. The blue light is dimmer here, casting everything in murky shadows. The air feels different too, more charged, a little like how it feels after a storm.

“Now what?” I look at the seamless metal.

“What were you doing when you got in?” He scans the chamber. “You opened the tower once before. Try again, now that the magic has been altered.”

I approach the wall, pressing my palm against the cold surface. Nothing happens, nothing changes. The wall stays solid, blank beneath my touch. I push harder, willing something to change, but the stone remains obstinately solid beneath my hand.

“It’s not working.”

“You’re not channeling your emotions into it. Try the same approach you used with the binding. Use what you’re feeling right now.”

I close my eyes, focusing on my desperate need to escape, to go home. I picture my apartment. The sound of rain against the window. The blur of headlights. The taste of coffee in the morning. The life I’ve lost. But the wall stays cold and unresponsive beneath my palm.

“It’s not enough. What were you feeling when you first found the tower? When the door opened for you?”

“I was dying. Dehydrated. Sunburned. Terrified.”

“Survival is a powerful motivator. But there are other emotions just as strong. Fear. Rage. Desperation.”

I think about the past three days. The confusion. The helplessness. The slow realization that I might never see my home again. Anger builds inside me, hot and fierce. I think of Christmas, the celebrations I’m missing, and the people who might be wondering where I am ... or not. I think about being trapped in this tower forever with a man I don’t trust, in a world that doesn’t make sense.

And something breaks. A dam that’s held back all the panic I’ve swallowed since the desert.

“That’s it.” Sacha’s voice is soft. “Focus on that. Channel everything you’re feeling.”

I press harder against the wall, pouring everything into that one point of contact. Rage. Fear. My absoluterefusalto remain trapped here. The wall chills under my hand. Frost forms around my fingers. The sensation shoots up my arm like ice water in my veins, making my heart race and my breath catch.

It’s exhilarating and terrifying, this sudden connection to something larger than myself. Power flows through me, alive and untamed.

It answers emotion, not thought, and I can barely hold it.

The patterns spreading from my fingers remind me of frost on windows in winter—delicate, shifting veins that seem to breathe. But this is more than frost. It’s magic. Real and tangible. And it’s flowing out of me and into the tower itself.

The realization is dizzying. I’m doing this.Me. Not just feelingthe magic, but shaping it. Commanding forces I didn’t know I could touch.

“Yes,” Sacha whispers. “It’s responding. Good.”