The tower door closed behind her with a sound too soft to be called a slam, but too final to be anything else. No keys turned. No bolts slid into place. But she knew — the way a bird knows when the sky is blocked — that she would not be leaving.

She stood there a while, small hands twisting in the folds of her dress. It was not a dress made for climbing or running or hiding. It was made to be looked at. Pale blue with tiny seed pearls sewn along the hem, the color of it drained the warmth from her skin. She did not cry. She did not call out. She simply breathed.

The steward who had brought her — a thin man with a thin mustache— had said nothing when he left her. Only gave a shallow bow, as if she were already a queen and he an old man tired of serving. His boot steps faded down the stone stair, and the outer door breathed itself shut.

In her hand, they had left her one thing. A small framed picture. Heavy for its size. She turned it over carefully, feeling the grain of the wood. On the front, a boy stared back at her. Older than her, but not by much. Maybe twelve. Maybe thirteen. His clothes were rich — fur along the collar, a jewel tucked against his throat — but he didn’t smile. His eyes were pale like smoke, and his mouth pressed into a line so thin it hardly looked like he had lips at all.

The son of the conqueror.

The man who had ground her father’s kingdom to dust and sown its ashes into the wind. This boy would be her husband someday, when they were both “of age” — a phrase she barely understood but had heard whispered over her head often enough to feel the heavy shape of it. Like a stone carried in the pocket, growing heavier with each step.

She sat down on the floor and stared at the boy’s face. She could not imagine kissing him. Could not imagine touching him. Could not imagine him touching her. All she could think was that he looked very far away, even in the frame. As if whoever had painted him had tried to trap something that was already slipping out of reach.

Setting the picture down, she let her gaze lift to the rest of the room.

The tower was not clean. Dust clothed everything like a second skin. Shafts of light cut down from narrow windows set into the thick stone walls. The air smelled old, but not dead. There was something living in the scent — something that moved if she didn’t watch it too closely.

She stood up and brushed off her dress, knowing it wouldn’t stay clean no matter what she did.

The first room was round, of course. All towers were. A great circular rug lay in the center, its colors dulled into the same grey-brown of everything else. Against the walls were shelves — some still holding books, others fallen into themselves. A heavy table, thick-legged and scarred, waited by the far wall, half-covered by a faded cloth. A fireplace yawned empty across from it. A single spiral stair threaded up into darkness.

A simple bed. A barren kitchen. No friendly little comforts. Just the tower. Just her. And the boy, peering out from the frame. She ignored him. 

Instead, she crossed to the table crouching in front of the crumbling book shelves. Pulled the cloth back carefully, as if she might be punished for tearing it. Dust puffed into the air. She coughed, waving it away.

Beneath the cloth, there were objects. Some she recognized: a cracked mug, a pair of blackened tongs. Others she didn’t. Strange things with too many edges. Little vials still corked, though whatever had once filled them was now only a sticky smear. A box, sealed shut with wax. A silver knife, its blade notched and blackened at the tip.

And something else. Something small. It was no bigger than her thumb. A marble? No. She picked it up and rolled it between her fingers. It was warm, not cold like stone should be. Warm like something breathing. It glowed faintly — not enough to light the room, but enough to make her skin shine where it touched.

Curious, she brought it closer to her face. The glow brightened, and she thought — just for a second — that she saw something move inside it. A ripple. A shimmer.

She dropped it.

It didn’t fall. It hovered in the air for a moment, quivering like a plucked string, before gently settling itself back onto the table.

Her heart was hammering in her chest, a trapped bird. She looked around wildly, half-expecting the steward to come charging back in, to grab her wrist and slap her for touching something forbidden. But no one came. The door stayed shut. The stair stayed dark.

She was alone.

Slowly, she reached out again and touched the little thing. Warmth spread up her fingers, into her palm. Not burning, but not exactly comfortable either. Like holding a small, fierce animal that had not yet decided if it liked her.

She didn’t know what she was supposed to do with it. Maybe nothing. Maybe everything.

Setting it back down, she wandered away, letting her fingertips trail along the dusty surfaces. Her boots left small prints in the dust. She imagined that, if she looked back, she would see the trail she had made — proof that she had been here. Proof that she had moved.

The windows were too high to reach. Even standing on the heavy table, she doubted she could get to one. And even if she did — even if she smashed it with the silver knife — there was only the sheer drop of stone to meet her. No vines. No ladders. No hope.

Trapped.

The boy’s eyes watched her from the floor where she had left the picture. She turned it face down. Pressing her palms against the frame, she pushed him down against the floor. She looked around, wondering where she could put him. It was only then she noticed the second door.

Small. Low to the ground. Half-hidden behind a shelf. No lock that she could see. No handle either. She moved toward it and it hummed. She knelt in front of it, pressing her ear against the wood. No sound came from the other side. 

Taking a deep breath, she pushed. It didn’t budge. She pressed harder, putting her shoulder into it. Still nothing. Then, remembering the little glowing thing, she got up and retrieved it. Holding it in both hands, she pressed it against the door. The orb pulsed. Once. Twice. A third time.

Then the door shuddered — not opened, but changed. The edges blurred, as if someone had drawn them in ink and then spilled water across the page. The wood faded. The hinges melted away. In their place was only darkness. Not the natural darkness of a room with no candle. A heavier darkness. Thicker.

Still clutching the glowing orb, she crawled forward. The darkness swallowed her whole. The air was cooler here, but not cold. The orb lit the way just enough for her to see that the space beyond was not another room, but a tunnel. Rough stone walls. Damp under her fingers. It sloped downward.

She hesitated.

Backward meant the tower. Forward meant — she didn’t know. The boy’s picture floated into her mind. The hard mouth. The faraway eyes.

Forward.

The tunnel wound and twisted, the floor slanting deeper with every step. She counted her heartbeats to steady herself. She counted the steps, too, until she lost track. It didn’t matter. She wasn’t turning back.

At last, the tunnel opened up into a small cavern. The ceiling was low — she had to crouch. Stalactites hung down like teeth. Water dripped somewhere, steady and slow. In the center of the cavern, another object waited.

This one was bigger. Waist-high to her. A pedestal carved from the same stone as the tower. It had no decoration, but there was a hollow in its top. Something fit there once, she thought. But whatever it was, it was gone now.

The orb pulsed in her hand, harder now. Urgent.

She stepped closer.

Symbols covered the pedestal. Some she recognized — the old runes of her mother’s prayers, the ones stitched into dresses for luck. Others were stranger, curling and spiking in ways that made her eyes ache to follow them.

She reached out and touched the hollow. For a moment, nothing happened. Then the pedestal shuddered under her hand, and the orb tore itself from her grip, flying into the hollow. Light exploded outward. Not blinding. But enough to make her stumble back.

When she opened her eyes, the cavern had changed. The walls had smoothed. The water was gone. And floating above the pedestal was a book. A thin book. Bound in cracked leather. No title.

It drifted there, waiting.

She stepped forward. Slowly. She was not a fool. Things that waited could be traps. She knew enough stories to know that. But the book did not move. Did not lunge or growl or whisper. Only waited.

She reached out and took it. The leather was warm. Not as warm as the orb had been. But not dead, either. She opened the book. No words. Only pictures. Tiny, intricate drawings that shifted when she looked away from them. A bird flapped its wings out of the corner of her eye. A river flowed across a page. A tree grew taller and thicker every time she blinked.

Magic.

Her fingers trembled as she touched the first page. The book did not tell her what to do. It showed her. In her mind, she saw herself drawing a symbol in the dust. A small thing. A simple thing. A spiral. She knelt down and did it, using her fingertip. 

The air stirred. The dust lifted off the ground and spun in the spiral, dancing like it had its own tiny mind. She laughed — a sharp, shocked sound that bounced off the new-smooth walls.

Magic.

Real magic.

Not the kind sung about in the old songs. Not the tricks the court magicians had pulled with hidden wires and puffs of smoke.

This was real.

The dust collapsed to the floor again, and she closed the book carefully, cradling it against her chest. This place — this prison — was not empty. It was full. Full of secrets. Full of power.

She was not here to wither away, waiting for a boy with cold eyes to come claim her. She was here to learn. And maybe — when the time came — she would not be the one standing quietly at a wedding altar with a bowed head. Maybe she would be something else entirely.

She looked once more at the pedestal, now dark and empty.

Then, holding the book tight, she turned and made her way back up the tunnel, the orb floating gently at her shoulder, lighting the way.

The tower was waiting for her.

And she — at last — was ready to meet it.