Page 8

“I didn’t say it does.” I sit back down, adopting relaxed indifference despite the excitement surging through me.

The dreams matter. They may be the key to understanding why she responded to my spell, why she alone was drawn across worlds.

But pursuing it too aggressively will only make her defensive.

Being locked away has taught me the value of patience, of knowing when to press and when to retreat.

The light in the chamber changes subtly, violet deepening to indigo before brightening again.

On the table, the remnants of her earlier meal dissolve like morning mist, replaced by fresh food materializing from nothing.

Crusty bread still steaming as though just pulled from an oven, dried meat arranged in a spiral, and what I’m sure will be a thick stew in a carved wooden bowl.

A bottle of wine appears beside the refilled pitcher of water.

She jumps back, a strangled sound escaping her throat. Her back hits the wall with a dull thud.

“What … how did that happen? Did that food just … appear? ”

The first time it happened, I stared too, but not for the same reason. I wasted days trying to understand the pattern—wanting to know what triggered it, what logic it obeyed. I no longer bother.

The tower gives. The tower withholds. It does not answer.

“The tower provides everything I need.” I keep my tone matter-of-fact, but I savor her reaction. Her disbelief reminds me of how extraordinary this place must appear to her, while to me it’s something I’ve long since grown immune to.

Her gaze jerks between the table and me, her face pale beneath the sunburn. “That’s not possible.”

“And yet you saw it happen.” I gesture to the table, unable to suppress a slight smile at her distress. Each impossibility she sees frays her connection to her world’s logic a little more. “You should eat, build up your strength. The food is quite real, I assure you. ”

She approaches cautiously, as though the meal might vanish … or attack. “What about you?” She looks between me and the food, wariness still evident in the tense set of her shoulders.

“I don’t need to eat as often as you do.

” I don’t offer further explanation than that, turning away slightly.

Let her wonder about what else might be different about me.

The less she understands about my condition, about what the binding has done to me over years, the better.

Some vulnerabilities are too dangerous to reveal, even to someone who might be the key to my freedom.

She examines the food from all angles before finally sitting down. Her hunger eventually overcomes her suspicion, but she eats slowly, glancing up at me between bites.

“You said this place is called Meridian?”

“The realm, yes. The desert where we are is called Sunfire Dunes.”

“That’s original,” she mutters around a spoonful of stew.

I allow myself a small smile at her sarcasm. Her spirit remains intact despite her circumstances. A quality that might prove useful if properly directed.

“Is there anything beyond the desert?”

“The Obsidian Peaks to the north, impassable most of the year, if ever. Thornevale Ridge lies east. And west, the Moonlit Basin. Beautiful, if one can avoid the salt storms.”

She absorbs the information, filing it away as if any of those places might offer her an escape route.

They won’t.

“And the people who live here? What are they like? ”

That’s a more complicated question, and one I need to be careful with.

“I would imagine they’re similar to the people in your world, in most respects. Though their relationship with the forces I mentioned is … different.”

“Different how ?”

“Some fear those forces. Others embrace them.” I keep the explanation deliberately vague. There’s no need to share anything about the purges, the bloodlines, the systematic destruction of anyone with magical ability. Not when it’s unlikely she will ever need to understand Meridian that deeply.

She seems to sense my evasion, but doesn’t press. Instead, she looks at me.

“And where do you fit into all of this?”

“That isn’t easy to answer.”

“I have time.” Her voice is dry.

My lips twitch. “Indeed.”

The light begins to dim as the day comes to an end, the blue-violet glow that illuminates the chamber softening to a deeper hue.

I stand up and walk over to my sleeping area, as I feel the binding come to life—a slight change in the perpetual hum, a difference in the vibrations in the air.

Each evening follows the same pattern, a torment designed by my captors with exquisite attention to detail.

When darkness claims the world outside, the magic gradually restricts my movements more and more, until I’m eventually confined to my bed, rendered helpless as a child .

I settle onto the mattress before the binding can force me there, maintaining the illusion of choice. I ensure my movements appear natural, giving my guest no clue that my freedom is being steadily diminished with each passing minute.

“You should try and rest properly tonight.” I point to the chest at the foot of my bed. “There are blankets and pillows in there.”

She hesitates, obviously uncomfortable with the idea of sleeping anywhere near me.

I can almost hear her calculating the distance between my bed and various points in the chamber, looking for a spot that balances comfort with safety.

Her intuition serves her well, even if she doesn’t understand the true nature of her danger.

She still believes space equals safety. That distance will hold the danger at bay. I envy her that illusion. The only choice left to me is whether I lie down before I am forced to.

After a moment, she moves to the chest and retrieves blankets, but instead of making a bed on the floor near mine, she carries it to a spot on the opposite side of the chamber, on top of a thick rug that covers part of the stone floor. As far from me as the space allows.

“I’ll be fine here.”

I nod, and say nothing. Let her think distance provides safety, if that’s what she needs. She doesn’t look at me again. Not directly, anyway. But I can feel the weight of her awareness, even from across the room.

The binding continues to tighten, reducing my movements with each passing hour. I remain on my bed, stretching out and settling back against the pillows, giving the appearance of being ready to sleep.

“We’ll speak more tomorrow.” I say as she arranges her makeshift bed. “If there's more you wish to know, I will try to explain.”

“I have plenty of questions.” Her voice has lost some of its edge, tiredness already taking hold.

“Then we’ll have much to discuss.” My words emerge light and conversational. The perfect mask to hide the calculations already forming behind it. Every question she asks brings her one step closer to serving my purpose, whether she realizes it or not.

The binding locks into place as darkness finally claims the chamber, pressing against me from all sides.

My limbs grow heavy, immovable. The restriction tightens around my chest, making each breath a conscious effort.

After all this time, I should be accustomed to this nightly ritual, but some violations never dull with familiarity.

Yet something feels different tonight. Not the binding itself, that remains as effective as ever, but in the tower’s atmosphere.

A subtle shift in the magic that permeates these walls, as though the very air has changed with her presence.

It pulses with a rhythm slightly altered from its usual steady beat, like a heart adjusting to a new presence.

My captors were thorough in their imprisonment, designing layers of magical constraints that have held me for decades.

The irony doesn’t escape me. The same people who hunt and kill those with magical abilities, who preach against magic’s corruption, who built their entire doctrine on its eradication, still rely on it when it serves their purpose.

Hypocrites wielding the very power they claim to despise.

But no spell, no matter how meticulously crafted, is truly perfect. If her presence is affecting the tower in even the slightest way, if she is creating a single crack in my prison, it bears careful observation. I’ve waited too long for an opportunity to waste it through impatience.

Across the chamber, she tosses and turns on her makeshift bed, blankets twisting around her with every move.

A soft murmur escapes her lips—words I cannot decipher, but carrying the cadence of troubled dreams. I wonder if she’s seeing these strange faces again, hearing that language she doesn’t understand.

Part of me wants to know what she sees when darkness claims her.

Those dreams may tell me exactly why my magic chose her.

Dawn will come soon enough, and with it, I’ll continue what I’ve already begun.

Testing her responses, gauging her weaknesses, and finding ways to bring her closer to me both physically and in her understanding of this place.

Each conversation, each revelation, each moment of vulnerability will serve my purpose.

She wants to go home. I want to be free. I’ll make her believe these goals are inextricably linked, that her path back to Chicago runs directly through my liberation. By the time she understands the cost of one, the other will already be in motion.

I turn my head with effort, the binding allowing me this small movement. My eyes fix on her form across the chamber. Tomorrow, I’ll take the first step toward testing the true extent of her effect on my prison. I’ll begin the slow work of turning my unexpected visitor into my unwitting accomplice.