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Chapter One

ELLIE

“Not all doors open outward.”

Inscription found in Stonehaven’s oldest chamber

The puddle is deeper than it looks. Ice-cold water floods my boots, drenching my socks in a single punishing step. I mutter a curse and walk faster, trying to beat the light before it changes.

There are two days until Christmas, and downtown Chicago is a tangle of blinking lights and short tempers.

I’ve just finished my last-minute shopping and elbowed through crowds of people who forget how sidewalks work the second fairy lights go up.

The city’s in full festive mode—twinkling window displays, carolers outside department stores, and that thin layer of chaos under everything.

I usually love everything about the holiday season. The lights, the noise, the magic of Christmas, but this year, none of it is working. Everything feels forced, like everyone is smiling too hard, and trying not to snap.

I just want to go home.

I want to get back to my apartment, strip off these wet clothes, crawl into my pajamas, and stay there until New Year. I have coffee, a mountain of books waiting, and a week off work.

No more crowds. No more wet socks. No more fake cheer from people who think yelling “Merry Christmas” is an acceptable substitute for basic manners.

It’s cold. It’s wet. And I’m so done with people.

I sidestep a couple with matching gift bags, and switch the weight of my shopping to one hand so I can adjust my umbrella. A shoulder slams into mine, hard enough to knock me sideways.

“Asshole.” I mutter it beneath my breath, catching myself before I stumble. The guy doesn’t stop or look back, just keeps striding forward.

The rain is getting heavier by the second, turning into icy pellets that soak through my coat and hair. My fingers are going numb, and so is my nose. I try to ignore it by thinking about what I’ll do once I’m home.

Crank up the heat, make something hot with too much sugar, and curl up on the couch with a paperback I’ve read four times already.

The light changes again, and the flow of people takes me with them onto the crossing.

I step forward …

… and the world rips apart.

Between one breath and the next, the cold air in my lungs turns blisteringly hot. I gasp, and it burns.

Light blinds me, white-hot and wrong. The sounds of the city vanish, and my foot lands on something that isn’t the sidewalk …

… and the world gives way beneath me.

My balance tips forward, thrown by the sudden give of the ground. It’s no longer concrete but something loose. Unstable. Almost alive .

I land hard, knees first, on something hot and shifting.

It takes a second for my vision to clear. Blue sky bleeds through the black spots swimming across my eyes. Not Chicago’s steel-gray winter sky. This one is too bright, too clear. A dome of color with no clouds, no smog, no buildings.

The storefronts are gone. Sand dunes rise and fall like waves, in every direction.

Sand?

It clings to my palms and jeans, hot against my skin, and I stare at it.

Sand .

“What the hell?” My voice comes out thin, high-pitched—too small for the space around me.

I scramble upright and spin around. Once. Then again, searching for anything familiar.

Where is the street I was standing on?

Where is the rain?

Where is the Chicago winter?

There’s only sand. The kind that shouldn’t exist in the middle of downtown Chicago.

“Hello?” My voice vanishes into silence. No echo. No answer. “Is there anyone here?”

This has to be a mistake. A prank. Or I was hit by a car. Maybe I’m in a coma. There’s no way I’m alone. In a desert. With no memory of how I got here .

Only a second ago, I was just crossing the street, rain on my face and shopping bags in my hand.

Where is my shopping? It’s gone. So is my umbrella.

A slightly hysterical laugh bubbles up. Why the hell am I worrying about my shopping when I’m in the middle of a desert that shouldn’t exist?

My heart lurches, wild and frantic. Confusion is rapidly being smothered by fear. The kind that whispers this might actually be real. That I’m not going to wake up and find it was all a dream. Or I hit my head and am lying on the sidewalk.

“This isn’t right.” I say it again, louder now. “This isn’t right!”

The heat is suffocating. Sweat beads along my spine, under my arms, between my thighs. The layers I’m wearing—winter boots, jeans, and a wool-lined coat—trap heat like insulation sealed too tight, turning my clothes into a furnace.

I peel off the coat with shaking fingers and drop it. It lands with a soft thud in the sand, instantly dusted over as if the desert is already trying to claim it.

I bend forward, hands braced on my knees, and suck in a breath.

I can’t let panic take over. I have to stay calm.

Think.

Think.

You’re fine. This isn’t real .

But the heat is real.

The sting of salt on my lips is real.

The sound of wind sifting through dunes—also real .

“Oh my god.” The words fall from my lips in a horrified whisper. “What the hell is happening to me?”

I press a hand against my chest, right over my heart. The frantic beat does nothing to calm me.

I’m not okay. Not even close.

A sob escapes me before I can stop it, and I slap a hand over my mouth, blinking through tears. Panic is constricting my airway, making it hard to breathe.

Wait.

My phone.

I dive for my coat, flip it over, and dig through the pockets. My fingers curl around my phone like it’s a lifeline. I tap the screen with a shaking finger.

Nothing happens.

“No. No, no, no.”

I hold the power button down. Still nothing.

I press it again. Harder .

The screen stays black, while the metal warms in my palm.

“Please. Just work.”

But it doesn’t. I let it fall from my hand to the sand.

I’m shaking. My clothes are already soaked with sweat. My stomach churns, nausea rising, while panic squeezes my lungs tight.

“Get it together!” I force the words out. “I’m not going to die here.”

Standing up, I sway, my legs unsteady, and vision swimming. My lips are already cracking from the heat, and when I lick them, I taste blood.

What am I supposed to do?

I don’t understand how I got here, but I need to move. I need to calm down. I need to find shade. Water. Help.

But which way do I go?

I turn in a slow circle, one hand covering my eyes, while I look around. Every direction looks the same. There are no roads, and no movement. Just golden sand, stretching as far as the eye can see.

It doesn’t matter. You have to move. You can’t stay here.

I choose the direction where the sun is at my back. East, maybe. Or west. Who knows if this place follows the same rules as Earth. I just know I can’t stay still. If I do, I will die here.

Each step swallows my feet, making forward progress harder than it should be. The dunes look easy like gentle hills from a distance, but when I get close, they're much steeper, and it’s like climbing a mountain made of molasses. My boots are full of sand, making every step sluggish and heavy.

The sun climbs higher as I walk. Sweat trickles down my spine, between my breasts, along my temples. It vanishes as fast as it forms, sucked away by the heat like the desert is drinking it. My sweater clings wet, then dry, then wet again.

I want to take it off, but if I do I’ll burn. Better to stay covered.

Everything rubs. Everything stings.

“Help!” I shout every few steps, hoping that someone is out there. “Anyone? Please ...”

But my words vanish into the dunes, swallowed whole by the vast emptiness of the desert. I don’t see any birds. There are no insects buzzing. There’s not even a breeze. Just silence. But I keep going .

Left foot. Right foot. Repeat.

Until thought narrows to just that—step, sand, burn, breath.

Time slips away. All I have left is thirst and exhaustion. My lips split when I try to wet them. The blood tastes metallic, almost sour. It’s the only moisture left inside me.

I try to convince myself that I’m dreaming or hallucinating. Or maybe I’m having a mental breakdown. But none of those things would include this much pain.

Or this much silence.

Or the way my skin feels like it’s peeling off my face.

This defies reality. It can’t be happening.

The throbbing in my skull, the burn of my face, and the sand grinding inside my boots tells me otherwise. They’re all far too real to deny.

I crest another dune, dragging my body up the slope with legs that barely respond. My thighs seize on the final push, and I collapse to my knees at the top, gasping for air.

I want to rip my boots off and throw them away. Sand has found every crevice—heel, arch, between my toes—and every step feels like walking on sandpaper. But if I take them off and leave them behind, I’ll burn. Even through socks, this heat could blister skin.

Instead, I take them off long enough to peel down the sweat-soaked socks and shake out small piles of sand. I debate with myself whether I want to put the socks back on, but decide to keep them. There’s no point in damaging my feet by having them rub against sand and leather.

I’m hauling myself back upright when I see it .. .

A glint on the horizon.

I freeze. My pulse falters. For a moment, I think it’s a mirage—light bouncing off heat and emptiness. But it doesn’t disappear.

Whatever it is, it’s tall. Needle-straight, rising from the desert.

I squint, and raise a hand against the glare. The structure gleams, metal or glass reflecting the light.

I don’t remember seeing it when I reached the top of the dune, and yet it’s there. A tower, standing in the middle of an empty desert. My heart jumps into my throat.

“Please. Be real.”

I move in shuffling steps at first, then running, sliding down the slope faster and faster, until I lose my balance. I slam into the ground, tumble down the dune, bouncing and rolling, sand scraping every exposed inch of skin. When I finally stop, I lie there, panting.

Then I get up, and keep stumbling forward, until I’m close enough to see the shimmer of light resolve into a smooth, round shape.