Chapter 9 · The Tower's Dead Bell

"Let go of me."

Mara's voice cut through the rift's hum, sharp and cold. Adrian had her wrist locked in his good hand, the burned one still throbbing against his ribs. They'd fallen maybe twenty feet before the rift spat them onto stone—real stone, not the glassy nothing inside the breach. The tower loomed above them, black iron and older than the city's charter. No windows. No door he could see from here.

"Not a chance," Adrian said. He pulled her up. She yanked back hard enough that his shoulder popped, but he didn't let go. "You heard him. My father said don't let you reach the tower."

"Your father's dead."

"Yeah, well, dead people don't usually give directions." He stepped in front of her, blocking the path. The ground under them wasn't dirt—it was ash, pressed flat and smooth like someone had paved it with funeral dust. "So either that was a curse wearing his voice, or something worse. Either way, you're not going in there."

Mara's jaw tightened. She was breathing hard, hair stuck to her neck, and her inspector's coat was torn at the shoulder.