“You cannot run from this.” The minister stood as well. “Vhalla, your powers have begun to Manifest. You are older than the normal age of such Manifestations, but it is happening.” He blinked a few times. “Even now, I can see traces of magic woven around you.”

She stopped, halfway between the minister and the door, and wrung her hands. Just because he claimed to see it did not mean it was there. He might be lying, Vhalla insisted to herself. Could she trust the word of a man who abducted her?

“Your magic will continue to grow. Nothing will stop it, and eventually you will be Awoken to your powers in full. It will be either at the hands of another sorcerer, guiding you, or your powers will simply unleash themselves.” The minister’s tone held no levity. But the lack of jest made it no easier to believe.

“What could happen?” The nervous energy within her sought an outlet. Her whole body trembled as she waited for the answer.

“I don’t know.” Minister Victor reached for his mug of caramel-colored liquid, taking a long and thoughtful sip. “If you are a Firebearer, perhaps you light a candle with a glance. Or you could set the entire Imperial Library ablaze.”

Vhalla nearly lost her balance and collapsed, the words knocking the wind from her. She shook her head, as if she could cast reality away.

“I want to go home,” she finally breathed.

“I am sorry, Vhalla, but you should stay—”

“I want to go home!” Vhalla’s cry interrupted him. Through burning eyes she glared at a man to whom she should show respect and subservience.

He let her catch her breath before he spoke. “Very well,” Minister Victor said with a soft and thoughtful voice.

“Really?” Vhalla’s fingers relaxed, her fingernails leaving crescent moons in her palms.

“I can see this is a decision that will not benefit from force.” He held up both hands in a sign of surrender. “Usually when I bring a budding sorcerer into the Tower, they come around. I had hopes that I would be able to show—”

“I don’t want to see it!” Vhalla nearly shouted. Her hand went to her mouth, as if to catch back the rough and rude words.

“Perhaps, some other time.” The minister smiled.

As he led her out the door, Vhalla’s eyes remained on her feet. The hall was a sloping downward spiral with doors at random intervals on either side. There were no windows, and she presumed the light to be from more of the unnatural flames that she had seen in the previous rooms.

Vhalla did not want to look at any of it. She didn’t want to take anything away from this place, not even a memory. She didn’t want to have anything in common with the strange Tower people who currently gave her and the minister a wide girth. Biting her lip, Vhalla choked back a sob. She was tired, and she did not have the energy for this sorcerer’s lies. He was mistaken, and when she returned to the real world she would never have to think of this place again. Bringing her hands together she fidgeted with her fingers.

Yet, despite her mental and emotional withdrawal, Vhalla did see. She saw the endless rugs of dazzling patterns that lined this hall. Where one rug ended, the next began; her feet never even touched stone. She saw the start of ornamentation upon the walls, sculptures embellished with iron and silver, forming shapes she stubbornly would not permit herself to look upon. Vhalla saw the feet of those who passed, boots and polished shoes. Why did sorcerers have such nice things when the slippers she owned were almost worn to holes? When her windows were archer’s slits and her halls were barren, cracked, and roughhewn?

The minister wordlessly led her down a side hall. The stones began to shift into shapes and colors she was more familiar with, the lighting dimmer. Vhalla looked up finally as they stopped. Before them was a narrow, pointed dead end.

“Minister?” Panic blossomed in her anew.

“The Tower lives and dies by the moon, by the Father who keeps the realms of chaos at bay and guards the celestial gateway in the heavens above,” he informed her cryptically. “When you have calmed down, I know you will come find us again. Most Manifesting sorcerers do when they think logically.”

“Will you take me by force again if I don’t?” Vhalla took a half step away, strongly doubting she would ever seek out this man and his Tower by choice.

“My apologies for that.” The minister had a glint in his eyes of what she almost believed to be sincerity. “I didn’t see any other way to speak privately with you. I thought if you were in the Tower you would be willing to see what it held for you.”

“I would have listened...” Vhalla looked away in annoyance. She wasn’t sure which frustrated her more: his actions or the fact that he was right about her not being willing to mingle with sorcerers.

“Very well, I will see you soon I’m certain,” he said lightly; little seemed to bother Victor Anzbel. Vhalla wondered how many times he had performed this same dance with another.

The minister held out a hand, motioning toward the dead end. Vhalla blinked at him, but he said nothing else. She stepped forward hesitantly. Reaching out a palm she expected to push some form of hidden door. Her fingers vanished right into the stone.

Vhalla gasped and she looked back to the minister for explanation, but he was gone. She barely suppressed a shiver before plunging herself into the magic wall.

Emerging on the other side, Vhalla instantly recognized her location. The stone behind her looked the same as at it had every day as she’d passed it growing up. Squinting, Vhalla noticed something she never had before—a circle, cut in two, its halves offset from the other—the broken moon of the Tower. How had she missed it all these years?

Timidly, she reached a hand back, and it vanished back into the false wall. A spark of curiosity blossomed within her. What magic could do this?

Vhalla quickly put the thought from her mind. Too curious for her own good, the master had always scolded. Magic was dangerous. She reiterated the hushed words she had always heard on Southerner’s tongues: magic was risky and strange.

She shook her head and headed for the library as fast as her feet would carry her.

IT WAS FAR easier to feign normalcy when she was in her drab apprentice robes being scolded by the master for arriving almost four hours late for her duties. His words were restrained and her punishment was nothing more than being reprimanded in front of Roan, who sat at the desk transcribing. The other girl looked at Vhalla with curiosity; a glint in Roan’s eye revealing she didn’t buy Vhalla’s excuse of oversleeping. The master did give it heed, however, after the prior night’s excitement.

The master assigned Vhalla the most boring task there was in the library: alphabetization. Most of the staff resented the chore, but Vhalla found the dance of her fingers along the spines therapeutic. This was her world of safety and consistency.

“Vhalla,” a voice whispered from the end of the aisle. Sareem glanced up and down the intersection where the shelves met. He motioned for her to follow, and she was down the ladder without a second thought, winding though bookshelves behind him toward the outer wall.

“What is it, Sareem?” Vhalla asked softly as they reached her window seat.

“Are you feeling well?” he asked, motioning for her to sit at his side.

“I’m fine.” She could not meet his eyes as she sat. How could she sum up the unorthodox events of her day?