The Tower shuddered as Arun's shard slid into the gate. Runes lit up, glowing blue and crimson, crawling up the walls like fireflies imprisoned in glass. The sound was unbearable—a thousand whispers, voices both his own and not his own, calling out his name in agony and reverence.
The witch grabbed his arm. "Do not answer them. The Tower speaks only to devour."
But Arun felt the shard pulsing in his hand, tugging him forward. The doors opened, revealing a stairway of mirrors that spiraled upward into a darkness that looked alive.
Inside, time behaved strangely. Chandeliers swung without wind, and every wall bore clocks—hundreds of them—each ticking at a different pace. Some raced forward, others backward, a few frozen in silence.
Arun's reflection flickered in every pane, but sometimes it wasn't his face at all—sometimes it was the boy in the mirror, sometimes Varma's, sometimes a face he didn't know.
"Every step you take here," the witch warned, "costs you a memory. Guard your mind, or the Tower will strip you of yourself."
Arun felt a clock hand cut across his shadow. A sharp pain lanced through his skull, and for a moment, he couldn't remember his sister's name.