You didn't remember climbing the stairs. Your feet had carried you on their own, through the empty corridors, past the portraits that whispered behind your back, up, up, up until there was nowhere left to go.

The tower was open to the storm. Wind howled through the archways, whipping your soaked hair across your face, plastering your robes against your shivering frame.

You stood near the edge, your back to the staircase, watching the rain fall into the darkness below.

The cold had seeped into your bones. You couldn't feel your fingers anymore.

You didn't turn around when you heard the footsteps pounding up the stone steps. You didn't need to. You knew who it was.

Too late.

Heavy breathing filled the space behind you, ragged and desperate, cutting through the sound of the storm. A pause. A sharp intake of breath.

You still didn't turn.