The door did not open all the way.
It stopped after a single inch, just enough for darkness to spill out like breath released from held lungs. The air that leaked through was colder than anything I had felt before—sharp, metallic, carrying the faint scent of wet stone and something older.
Older than the tower.
Older than memory.
I stumbled back, nearly losing my footing. The pearl flared violently in my hands, its surface rippling like disturbed water. My pulse roared in my ears, drowning out everything else.
"Close it," I whispered. "Please—just close it."
The door did not listen.
Instead, the darkness inside it shifted.
Not forward. Not outward.
Sideways.
Like something adjusting its stance.
The scraping sound returned—slow, deliberate. Not claws. Not metal. Something softer. Something patient.
"Don't let it touch you," the man said quietly.
I shot him a look. "That would've been helpful before it started opening."
His mouth twitched—not quite a smile. "It's still helpful now."
The pearl grew warmer again, pulsing in uneven beats that didn't match my heart. With each pulse, fragments of sensation slid into my awareness—flickers of sound, pressure, distant echoes. I could feel the tower reacting, its silver veins dimming and brightening erratically, like nerves misfiring.
"What is it?" I asked.
"Not what," he corrected. "Who."
A shape pressed against the opening.
Not a body. Not fully.
Just the suggestion of one.
The darkness thickened, folding inward on itself, creating the outline of a shoulder—then dissolving again. It was as if whatever stood behind the door was struggling to decide how much of itself belonged in this reality.
Or how much it was allowed to bring through.
"I didn't invite you," I said, my voice barely steady.
The pearl reacted sharply—heat spiking, then dropping to near-freezing. The door creaked in response, opening another fraction.
The man inhaled sharply. "Careful."
"I'm just stating facts."
"That thing doesn't care about facts. It cares about permission."
My stomach dropped. "I didn't give it permission."
"No," he agreed. "But the tower might have."
The scraping stopped.
Silence poured out of the doorway—heavy, unnatural. Even the hum of the tower faded, leaving an oppressive stillness that pressed against my eardrums.
Then—
Something crossed the threshold.
Not fully.
Just enough.
The temperature plummeted. Frost crept along the stone floor in thin, branching veins, spreading outward from the door. My breath hitched as my chest tightened, as if the air itself had grown heavier.
A hand emerged.
Or something shaped like one.
It was pale—not white, but colorless, like skin drained of every living hue. Too smooth. Too still. Fingers elongated just slightly too far, joints bending in ways that made my teeth ache.
It didn't reach for me.
It touched the floor.
The instant it did, pain lanced through my skull.
I gasped, dropping to one knee as images slammed into my mind—rain falling sideways, a city drowning in shadow, a younger me standing in a narrow corridor, whispering a name I couldn't hear.
The pearl screamed.
Not audibly—but inside me. Light burst from its core, flooding the chamber with blinding brilliance. The hand recoiled instantly, snapping back into the darkness as if burned.
The door shuddered violently.
Cracks raced across its surface, silver light bleeding through the seams.
"What did you do?" I cried.
The man stared at the pearl, something like surprise flickering across his face. "You rejected it."
"I didn't—"
"You did," he said firmly. "You didn't fight. You didn't run. You denied it access."
The door groaned, metal warping inward as if under immense pressure. The darkness churned violently behind it now, no longer patient—angry.
A voice slipped through the opening.
Not loud.
Not threatening.
Just close.
You still owe.
My vision blurred. "I don't even know who you are."
The voice shifted, brushing against my thoughts like fingers trailing through water.
That's the only reason you're still breathing.
The tower responded with a violent tremor. Stone groaned. Mirrors shattered behind us, reflections exploding into fragments that dissolved before they hit the ground.
The door slammed shut.
The impact echoed like thunder.
Silver light surged along the walls, sealing cracks, reinforcing boundaries. The tower's hum returned—but strained, uneven, like something injured forcing itself to keep going.
I collapsed fully this time, palms flat against the cold stone, shaking.
The pearl dimmed, its surface cloudy now, as if exhausted.
For a long moment, neither of us spoke.
Finally, the man exhaled slowly. "It shouldn't have been able to reach that far."
"That's reassuring," I muttered weakly.
He crouched beside me, meeting my eyes. "Listen to me. Whatever is behind that door—it's bound by rules. Ancient ones. And you just proved something important."
"What?" I asked.
His expression darkened. "That you're not as powerless as it remembers."
Somewhere deep within the tower, something shifted.
Not awakening.
Repositioning.
And I knew—without knowing how—that the door was not gone.
Only waiting.