The High Tower was a vacuum, a curated silence that functioned more like a fortress than a room. Sunlight filtered through the towering, arched windows, transforming into shards of deep crimson and regal purple as it passed through the stained glass—the library’s crest, a tower of books entwined with flowering vines, casting long, fractured shadows across the floor.
I sat in the heavy oak chair behind the primary desk, my eyes tracking the flickering glow of the latest memory fragment as it rotated in the air. For five days, this had been our rhythm. I would guide the process, and she would endure the unraveling.
I paused the projection, watching the way the residual magic clung to her. It hummed against her skin, a low-frequency vibration that filled the room like the static before a st
