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Chapter Five

ELLIE

“He who has waited does not knock. He listens for silence to end.”

Veinwarden saying, post-Thornreave

My eyes open to the same blue-violet light pulsing through the room as yesterday. The rhythm feels almost like a heartbeat—steady, unwavering, alien . I don’t realize I’m breathing in time with it until I stop. It’s too regular. Too intentional. So I break it on purpose.

For two nights I’ve slept in this tower.

Two nights I’ve spent in another world, if the man I’m sharing this chamber with is to be believed.

The thought doesn’t fill me with the same frantic panic as yesterday.

Instead, it’s been replaced by something worse—a hollow resignation settling into my bones.

The panic might have gone, but that doesn’t make me feel any better. I can’t tell if I’m adapting or giving up. I only know that I’m no closer to getting home.

Across the room, Sacha is in the same position as before. Sitting at his desk, writing in a journal. He doesn’t look up when I stir, but I’m sure he’s aware that I’m awake the same way he was yesterday. Nothing seems to escape his notice .

I sit up slowly. Every joint aches from another night on the hard floor. Even with the thick rug and all the blankets, it’s not a bed. I rub at my eyes, yawning, and shove my hair away from my face. My fingers tangle in the knots, pulling against my scalp, and I wince.

“Breakfast is waiting for you.” Sacha doesn’t look up.

Fresh food is already on the table—bread, fruit, and something that might be cheese. The way it appears from nowhere is unsettling, but I’m hungry so I try not to think about it too hard.

I push to my feet, fold the blankets, then walk over to the table. The tower still hums with that strange energy I noticed last night—a vibration just below hearing level coming from the walls. It’s distracting and lifts the fine hairs at the back of my neck.

“Do you always write in the morning?”

I tear off a piece of bread, and sit on the chair, trying to sound casual despite how wrong everything still feels. Each question drops like a pebble into a bottomless well. I never know if I’ll hear it land. Whether he’ll ignore it or answer at all.

People like that always made me feel like I was saying too much just by existing. As if curiosity itself was a weakness to be punished. It makes me want to talk more, not less.

“Yes.” He makes a final mark on the page, then closes it and sets it to one side.

I take a bite of the bread, still watching him. “What are you writing?”

“Thoughts. Ideas.” He meets my gaze, those strange black eyes, still as pools, giving nothing away. I wonder if it’s a trick of the light or if it’s how all eyes look here. “Understanding the patterns of the tower is essential.”

“Essential for what?”

There’s a slight pause, just long enough to make me wonder if I’ll get an answer.

“Survival.” He says it like it’s obvious, that survival is the baseline we’re both starting from. Not escape. Not understanding. Survival .

I study him as I eat. His expression reveals nothing. His posture is relaxed. But there’s something about him that exudes danger. Not in any obvious way, but in the feeling of being watched on a dark street, or something wrong when you enter a building.

“You never answered my question yesterday.” I finish the bread, and reach for the fruit. “About how long you’ve been here.”

“No. I didn’t.”

“Are you going to?”

“Would the answer change your situation?”

His deflection is irritating, but not surprising. I set down the half-eaten fruit, and face him properly. “Maybe not. But it might help me understand what I'm dealing with.”

“What you’re dealing with.” There’s a thread of amusement in his voice. “An interesting choice of words.”

I don’t bite. If I let myself get derailed, he wins. I push forward. “How does this place work? The tower? The food? The light that doesn’t have any visible power source?”

“Magic.”

“That’s not an explanation.”

“It’s the truth.”

“Not a helpful one.”

He stands, moving across to the bookshelf. His fingers skim along the spines before selecting a volume bound in what looks like dark leather. “Some knowledge requires context to be useful or safe.”

“Then give me context.”

He glances at me. “In time.”

I almost laugh. Not because it’s funny, but because I don’t know what else to do with the knot twisting in my chest.

He’s impossible, but I don’t let it stop me. I keep asking questions, and he keeps deciding what is worth answering. He knows everything about this place, and I’m stuck throwing questions at him, and hoping that eventually something might crack.

I snatch up the fruit again, and bite down too hard. Juice bursts out, sweet and sticky, running down my chin. It tingles on my tongue, and for a second I hate how good it tastes. As though the tower is trying to make me comfortable while he keeps me in the dark.

When I’m done, I push away from the table and begin another exploration of the chamber. Yesterday, I was too overwhelmed, too focused on finding a way to escape. Today I’m calmer. I examine every inch of the curved walls for any sign of weakness or hidden mechanisms.

The wall is smooth beneath my fingertips, unbroken except for the bookshelves that seem to grow directly from it rather than being placed against it. I run my fingers along the edge of each shelf, testing for any secret triggers or hidden compartments.

“What are you looking for?” Sacha asks, leaning back on his chair.

“A way out. Another door. Anything that might help get me home.” I don’t bother hiding my intentions. Why would I?

“And if there isn’t one?”

I turn to face him. “There has to be. I got in somehow.”

He doesn’t respond, flipping his book back open as if I’ve said nothing.

I keep searching, pulling out each volume one by one.

“You’re not going to find a door inside the books.”

I ignore him. The books are strange, bound in materials I can’t identify, marked with symbols I can’t read. Toward the end of one shelf, there are five bound in black. The air around them feels different, slightly heavier, as though they’re holding more than just words.

I ease one from the shelf and open it carefully. The pages are covered in the same flowing script as the one Sacha is reading, alien and indecipherable.

“What language is this?” I hold it up.

“High Meridian.” He doesn’t look up. “The formal written language of this realm.”

“Can you read it?”

“Of course.”

“What does it say?”

He sighs, and sets down his pen. “That particular volume discusses the theoretical principles of elemental resonance in non-corporeal manifestations.”

I blink at him. “It does what now?” It sounds like a science textbook and a seance had a baby. “Can you explain in more simple terms?”

“It’s a treatise on certain forms of magic. Not particularly useful for your current situation.”

I slide the book back into place, and take out another. This one is heavier, colder to the touch, bound in something that might be leather. Even before I open it, I feel as though I’m being watched.

I glance over at Sacha, but his head is down … ignoring me again.

I lift the cover. The pages inside are filled with diagrams alongside the text. Intricate patterns that remind me of constellations or circuit boards.

“What about this one?” I hold it up.

His head rises and his expression changes … just slightly. “Put that back.”

The sharpness in his tone cuts through my curiosity. I freeze. Panic flares, brief and hot, before I can talk myself down.

“Why? What is it?”

“A text beyond your understanding.” He rises from his desk, and crosses the room slowly, eyes locked on the book like it’s dangerous just being open. “Some knowledge does not belong in the hands of the untrained.”

I should do as he says. His intensity is warning enough. But every instinct that got me into trouble as a kid urges me to rebel against his authority, and the way he parcels out information like throwing scraps to a starving dog.

I flip to another page. A drawing spans both sheets.

A circle filled with interconnected lines and symbols that seem to pulse in time with the light in the chamber.

At its center stands a figure that might be human but isn’t quite—taller, more angular, with tendrils of darkness flowing from its outstretched hands.

The shadows surrounding it don’t sit still.

They press outward, like they’re testing the edge of the page.

My fingers skim the outline. A jolt of cold shoots up my arm—sharp, immediate, real . My whole body locks up for a second before I snatch my hand back. My heart pounds hard against my ribs, shallow and fast.

Sacha is beside me in an instant. “The book, please.” His voice is quiet, but firm.

“What is this?” I point to the central figure, trying to ignore the pins-and-needles sensation still crawling across my skin. “It looks like?—”

“It’s not your concern right now.” His voice remains level, but there’s an undercurrent I haven’t heard before. Not quite anger. Something darker. A warning wrapped in velvet.

His eyes settle on my hand for a heartbeat too long. But it’s enough to kill what remains of my small rebellion.

I close the book and hand it to him, aware I’ve crossed some invisible boundary.

Whatever game of information we’re playing, I’ve just lost a round.

He returns it to its exact place on the shelf.

Whatever that book contains, he clearly doesn’t want me asking about it …

which only makes me more determined to find out what he’s keeping from me.

He doesn’t relax until I move away from the bookshelves.

I circle wide, ignoring the tightness in my chest, and resume my search.

Only there’s nothing to find . No doors.

No cracks. No change. The spiral staircase leads down to the empty chamber below, and stops dead at the entrance to this one.

The walls remain solid and unbroken, no matter how carefully I examine them.