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Chapter Six

SACHA

“Where names are lost, identity becomes shape, movement, silence.”

Reflections on Captivity—Sacha Torran’s Journals

I rise the instant the binding lifts, the familiar relief accompanied by something new—a current of anticipation threading through me unlike anything I’ve felt in all the time I’ve been here.

For the second morning in a row, I don’t clear the center of the room and practice forms.

I don’t extend.

I don’t pivot.

I don’t imagine the weight of my blade in my hand.

Today is different. Today is not a repeat of every other day.

Today, I have information I didn’t possess yesterday … and a subject to test my theories against.

Something in the order of my restricted existence has collapsed, and it began when she appeared.

She’s still asleep beneath her blankets on the other side of the chamber. I can barely see the top of her head with the way she’s burrowed beneath them. Even in sleep, she’s trying to protect herself.

I should have looked away by now, but I find myself studying the shape she makes under the covers … this creature who has accomplished something no one else has.

The discovery last night could change everything.

After over two decades of confinement, after countless failed attempts to break free, after endless observations of the binding that yielded nothing but frustration, this woman from another world simply walked close to me and weakened my constraints.

It’s unprecedented. It’s … to use her favorite word … impossible.

My mouth lifts into a smile.

More to the point, it’s exactly what I need.

Moving quietly around the chamber, the stone floor cool beneath my bare feet.

I pour water from the pitcher, watching the play of blue light across its surface, then take a piece of fruit from the plate.

I leave the rest for her. My appetite has dwindled to the point where I can exist on the bare minimum.

I discovered during the first few months of my imprisonment that the magic of the tower would keep me alive, no matter what.

Starvation. Dehydration. Sharp objects across veins.

Nothing killed me, and eventually, I stopped trying.

Biting into the fruit, the tartness is shockingly sharp against my tongue after years of muted sensations.

Is that something else she’s caused?

Juice trickles down my finger as I cross to the desk and flip open my journal. The pages are filled with notes. Thousands of detailed observations of the binding’s patterns and cycles. Theories formulated from endless hours of study.

Nothing I’ve observed in all my years of captivity predicted this. That the mere proximity of this woman, this stranger pulled from beyond this world, could weaken the binding that has held me immobile for so long.

Twenty-seven years of meticulous records. Twenty-seven years with nothing to show for it.

Until now.

My fingers tap against the weathered surface of the desk while I think.

The binding weakens when she’s near, but by how much? Will it change depending on how close she is? Under what conditions? Is it merely her physical presence, like last night, or is there more to it?

I need to test it. I need to understand what makes Ellie Bennett different.

A soft rustling draws my attention, and I turn my head in time to see her rising to a seated position. Her eyes find mine across the chamber, immediately wary and watchful. The wariness of someone who suspects they’re being manipulated.

“Good morning.”

She doesn’t return my greeting. Instead, she runs fingers through the tangled mess of her hair, wincing when they catch in a knot. Dark circles shadow her eyes—evidence that the past few days have taken their toll on her. Standing up, she disappears into the latrine.

When she reappears minutes later, her face is damp, hair smoothed back as well as it can be, and her eyes are clearer. She walks past me to the table, and pours a cup of water, then turns to face me.

“We need to talk about what happened last night. You said I affect your binding.” She stumbles over the word. “I want to understand how.”

Direct. Straightforward. No dissembling or dancing around the subject. I can work with that kind of directness.

“That’s what I’d like to find out.” I close my journal. “With your assistance, of course.”

Her eyes narrow slightly. “Even if I can affect it somehow, how does that get me back to Chicago?”

It’s a reasonable question, and one I’ve been expecting. The connection between the two is tenuous at best, but I need her to believe it exists. I need her to see a path to cooperation that serves her own desires.

“Our situations are connected.” I match her directness with my own. “I would put forward the argument that the same magic that has me bound here may hold the key to sending you home.”

I watch her face carefully, looking for signs that she’s accepting this premise. Everything depends on her believing we share a common goal. After a moment, she nods.

“Why were you imprisoned here in the first place?”

“I was placed here by those who fear what they don’t understand.

” My voice holds no hint of the anger stirring inside me.

“In this realm, certain powers … what you would call magic … are hunted and eliminated by the ruling authority. Those with natural abilities are considered threats to be eradicated.”

“And you have these abilities.” It’s not a question.

“Yes.”

“What can you do? ”

I hesitate, weighing exactly how much to reveal. “I have an … affinity with darkness.” I pick my words carefully, offering a fraction of the truth. “I can perceive through shadows, which extends my awareness beyond ordinary limits.”

I deliberately omit the rest, the more dangerous applications, the reasons why the Authority truly feared me.

“Such talents are considered dangerous by those in power.”

She takes a step back, her body instinctively creating distance, while her eyes remain fixed on mine. “That’s why you’re here? Because you can … what? See through shadows?”

The underestimation in her voice is exactly what I want. I offer a slight smile, the barest curve of my lips. Let her believe my powers are passive, observational.

“In simplistic terms, yes.”

Her expression changes, not just skepticism, but beginnings of doubt. The understanding that I’m not telling her everything.

“The Authority believes those with natural abilities pose a threat to their control, and virtually wiped out anyone with them during the purges.” Memories surge—blood-soaked fields, pyres of bodies, entire bloodlines extinguished.

I turn away, not trusting my expression to remain neutral.

“The Authority, those who govern this land, launched a war to exterminate what they claimed as an abomination.”

I don’t tell her how many of their soldiers I killed before they finally captured me. Some truths are better kept hidden … for now.

“How does this connect to me getting home?”

“I need to understand why you affect the binding. If we can determine that, we can try to discover how to open a door back to your world.”

She settles onto the chair beside the table, and pours a cup of water. “What do you want me to do?”

“I’d like to perform some simple tests.”

She frowns.

“It will allow me to determine the exact nature of your effect on the binding.”

“Will these tests hurt?”

“Of course not.” That’s the truth. Her pain would serve no purpose.

She sips her water, eyes never leaving me. I wait, allowing her to process, letting her think that she’s the one making this decision. Finally, she nods.

“Okay, fine. Tell me what I need to do.”

“First, I need to establish a baseline.” I move to the edge of the chamber where the wall meets the floor. “Stay where you are, and observe.”

I press my palm against the wall. “This chamber is my prison. During the day, I can move freely within it, but I cannot leave. At night, the binding tightens, gradually restricting my movements until I’m confined to my bed.”

Her eyes flick toward the archway leading to the staircase. “You’re saying you can’t leave this room?”

“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?”