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The Blackwood Clock Tower rose from the city like a skeletal finger pointing at heaven. It was seven stories of crumbling stone and twisted iron, abandoned for decades. Its windows were dark and empty, like the hollow eyes of a skull. Lindsey could feel the magic as they approached, a thrumming in the air that made her teeth ache, a deep resonance that vibrated through her very bones. This place belonged to Justin, had been anchored to his power since his transformation eight hundred years ago.

The heavy oak door, thick and scarred with age, opened before they reached it, responding to his will alone. It swung inward with a low groan, revealing a maw of impenetrable darkness.

“This is sanctuary,” Justin said, his voice echoing in the cavernous space. He led her inside, his spectral form radiating a cold authority. “While we are here, nothing can touch you. No wraith, no elder, no blade. The wards are absolute.”

The door slammed shut behind them with a finality that made Lindsey’s stomach clench. A heavy, resounding thud. She was trapped. Truly trapped now, behind locked doors and ancient magic, with no escape and no choice but to accept her new reality, to accept him.

Light was scarce within the tower. Moonlight struggled to penetrate grimy windows, casting long, distorted shadows that danced with every rustle of the wind. Dust lay thick on every surface, a silent testament to centuries of neglect. Despite its exterior, the inside was surprisingly intact. Furniture, draped in white cloths, stood like forgotten ghosts, waiting for inhabitants who would never come. Books lined towering shelves, their spines cracked and faded with age, whispering tales of forgotten eras. There was a hearth large enough to walk into, its stones stained black with centuries of fire, a gaping maw of cold.

And there were portraits. Lindsey moved to the nearest one, drawn by something she could not name, a subtle pull she felt in her gut. It depicted a woman, beautiful in a way that spoke of old money and careful breeding, of a world long vanished. Her eyes were sad, though. There was something in her expression that suggested she had been painted mid-sorrow, caught in a moment of profound loneliness that echoed across the centuries.

Justin materialized beside her, his presence a sudden drop in temperature. She flinched, startled. She had not heard him move, had not sensed his approach. He moved like smoke, like silence itself.

“Some ghosts are best left undisturbed,” he said, his voice low and dangerous, a warning woven into every word.

Lindsey turned to face him, her breath catching. “Who is she?”

“That is not your concern.” His eyes lingered on the portrait for a fraction of a second too long, and she saw the faintest flicker of something raw, something profound, in his spectral expression before he buried it. A pain that had endured for eight hundred years. “You will take the upper rooms. Second floor, the eastern wing. There is a room there that has been... prepared.”

“Prepared?” Lindsey’s voice cracked slightly. A sudden tremor of fear ran through her. “How long have you been planning this? How long have you known someone would come?”

“I have been alive for eight hundred years, Scribe. I plan for many possibilities. For every eventuality.” He moved away from her, toward the hearth, his movements stiff with unspoken tension, with barely contained anger. “Go. Rest. You are exhausted, and I cannot protect you adequately while you are slipping toward collapse. Your exhaustion is a weakness I cannot afford.”

Lindsey climbed the winding stairs, the ancient wood groaning beneath her weight. With each step, she felt the weight of the house settling around her like a prison. The silence was absolute, broken only by her own ragged breathing. She was trapped here. Truly trapped. And the only person who could keep her alive was the man who resented her for saving him, the man who was now intrinsically linked to her every breath.

The room on the second floor, in the eastern wing, was exactly what she would have expected. A four-poster bed, covered in a quilt that looked meticulously hand-sewn, its patterns faded but distinct. A sturdy writing desk, complete with fresh paper and a pot of ink, suggesting a purpose. A wardrobe filled with clothes that, surprisingly, almost fit her, though they were of a style centuries old. Books lined the shelves, their leather spines worn smooth from countless readings, their pages brittle with age. Someone had prepared this space, she realized. Long ago, someone had prepared it for a guest who had never come, or for a return that had never happened.

She ran a hand over the smooth, cool wood of the desk, a faint scent of lavender and old parchment clinging to it. The thought sent a shiver down her spine. This room, this tower, was not merely abandoned; it was frozen in time, a shrine to a life that had ended long ago. And now, she was its newest, most unwelcome occupant.

Lindsey lay down on the bed without undressing, the exhaustion a heavy cloak upon her. She stared at the ceiling, the anchor mark on her palm pulsing like a second heartbeat, a steady throb of connection. She could feel Justin downstairs, a constant pressure at the edge of her consciousness, a low hum of power. She could feel his exhaustion, his anger, his begrudging acceptance of their shared fate. He was a sentinel, always aware, always present.

She would learn to live with this. She would learn to survive it. But as she lay there, listening to the silence, a cold dread coiled in her stomach. She was terribly afraid that one day, she might forget to want to escape. That the walls of this gilded cage, and the presence of her spectral captor, might become her only reality.