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“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’s been 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 is living . 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.

Her fingers release mine. The impact is instantaneous and violent, like being struck in the stomach by an invisible fist. I’m thrown backward through the barrier and into the chamber, stumbling several steps before regaining my balance .

Her eyes widen, lips parting in shock. A small gasp escapes her as she watches me fight to stay upright. I straighten, composing my features into a mask of mild interest rather than the disappointment and lingering sensation of her touch warring within me.

“Interesting.” I force my voice to remain steady. “Physical contact needs to be constant for me to stay across the threshold.” I don’t mention that I can still feel the phantom warmth of her hand against mine.

She comes back into the room. “That means you can only leave if we’re touching.”

“It appears so.” I test the archway again, pressing my palm against the invisible barrier. It blocks me as firmly as ever. “The effect seems to be quite specific.”

I turn to study her face, watching the implications settle in her expression.

This is a complication I hadn’t considered, but one that presents its own opportunities.

Requiring physical contact creates a binding of a different sort—a dependency between us.

She can’t simply weaken my prison and leave me to my own devices.

I need her cooperation, her direct assistance, her willing touch for every step toward freedom.

But the symmetry of our situation doesn’t escape me. She also needs me. If I can’t leave, she can’t leave. If she wants to return to her world, she needs my knowledge of the tower’s magic. We’re now tethered to each other by something stronger than convenience or momentary alliance.

The irony isn’t lost on me. After decades of isolation, my freedom now depends on maintaining constant physical contact with another person. After a lifetime of independence, I must now rely on someone else’s willing cooperation.

The tower, it seems, has a sense of humor.

“Try touching my arm instead of my hand. Let’s see if the type of contact matters.”

Her hesitation is more noticeable this time, but she steps back through the door and reaches out to touch my forearm.

Again, the boundary yields where we connect, and I step through, noting that the effect doesn’t seem to change regardless of whether she’s touching my skin directly, or through my clothes.

“I wonder if we could leave the tower completely.” She tips her head up to look at me. “You’re sure there isn’t any way out? Would the door appear if we’re touching?”

“I believe the entrance sealed itself behind you when you arrived. You being let in is unprecedented. As I told you, I’ve never seen it admit anyone in all my time here. It appears you’ve triggered something I’ve been unable to access.”

She glances down the spiral staircase. “So we’re both trapped here until we figure out how to open the door.”

“Perhaps. Or there’s the possibility that your unique connection to the tower might allow you to influence its magic, just as you affect the binding and the boundary. If you opened it once, there may be a way to do so again.”

“But how?”

“By continuing to test the limits of your influence on the tower’s restrictions. Each discovery may bring us closer to understanding how you might return home. ”

She nods, but isn’t able to quite hide her disappointment that everything hasn’t magically resolved with our first test.

“Can you move farther away? Could we walk down the stairs, do you think?”

“That is something we can test. Keep hold of my arm.”

She secures her grip to maintain contact and we walk slowly toward the stairs. There’s a slight resistance, a gentle tug trying to draw me back to the doorway, but the farther away we move the weaker it gets. By the time we’re on the stairs, it’s completely gone.

She moves in front of me before descending the stairs. They’re too narrow to walk side by side, so she reaches back, fingers curled around my wrist, and we move slowly.

Each step down is a revelation. The texture of the stone beneath my feet, coarser here than in my chamber, with subtle variations I catalog instinctively.

The changing quality of air as we descend—cooler, carrying mineral scents my prison lacks.

The subtle shift in the tower’s resonance, a deeper hum that vibrates through my bones rather than just my skin.

I find myself studying every detail with a hunger I can’t disguise.

The curve of the stairwell, worn slightly where countless feet must have tread before my imprisonment.

The way the blue-violet light shifts and plays along the walls, casting shadows that whisper to me in languages I’d almost forgotten.

The exact sound our footsteps make, her lighter tread and my heavier one creating an unexpected rhythm.

Simple things. Mundane things. Things I once would have overlooked entirely.

Things that now hold immeasurable value to me after years of seeing only my chamber. The same limited space repeated endlessly like a painting I’ve memorized down to the last brushstroke.

Her hand remains warm on my wrist, a tether to this moment of impossible freedom. I’m careful not to look at her directly whenever she glances back, afraid she might see too much in my expression.

We step off the final stair, into the lower chamber of the tower. Maintaining her grip on my arm, we walk over to the wall. Ellie presses her free hand against it, and we walk in a slow circle.

“There’s nothing here. No seams, no markings. Nothing .”

“I would imagine that the entrance doesn’t operate on physical mechanisms.” I move with her as she continues her examination. “It would respond to specific magical conditions.”

“Then what’s the point? Why are we bothering?”

“Because everything we try tells us something. Even failure defines the shape of what doesn’t work.”

She shakes her head. “We might as well go back. There’s nothing here.”

As much as I would like to stay here, she’s right. There’s nothing to see, so I allow her to draw me back to the staircase.

“How long have you been here?” Her voice hardens with determination. “And don’t give me some non-answer.”

I glance at her out of the corner of my eye, debating whether this particular truth serves my purpose. The intensity in her gaze suggests evasion will only damage the tentative trust forming between us.

“All right.” I concede the information like a gift. “Twenty-seven years.”

She stops abruptly, her hand almost slipping free. I brace myself for the impact of being thrown back, but she manages to catch herself, fingers tightening around my arm.

“Twenty -seven years?” Disbelief colors her voice. “How is that possible? Were you imprisoned when you were a child?”

“No.” Bitterness twists in my chest at the memory of that day. The betrayal, the trap, the moment I realized I’d lost everything. “I was twenty-nine when they took me.”

“Then why don’t you look?—”

“Older? An unintended consequence of how the binding was crafted. The magic preserves what it contains.”