Chapter 14
Fourteen
I’m lost.
After returning the basket of eggs and joining Bernice and some of the other attendants for lunch, I tried to retrace my steps back to the room I share with Alder—all while secretly hoping his covert, intelligence- gathering meeting was over and he’d be there waiting for me.
Preferably shirtless, chest gleaming, and ready to report back on our chances of returning home.
But only after we defile every surface we can find.
And I have multiple orgasms. And he has an emotional catharsis that finally cracks his I’m-such-a-moody-asshole exterior.
You know…casual weekday stuff.
Instead, I’m somewhere between tapestry thirty-two and tapestry fifty, maybe, wandering the castle’s stone hallways like I’m stuck in a really elaborate, dimly lit IKEA.
Every corridor looks the same—endless stretches of gray stone and brooding images featuring long-dead royals and overcompensating heroes, all slowly being devoured by time and moths.
The torches lining the walls cast flickering shadows that shift and stretch like they’re waiting for the right moment to pounce.
My borrowed slippers, half a size too big and aggressively unsupportive, whisper against rugs as I walk. The runners are obnoxiously plush. The kind I envision in a villain’s lair or the home of someone who enjoys twirling their mustache and hoarding cursed objects.
I run my hand along the cold, uneven wall and turn another corner only to find an identical stretch of hallway.
Nope. Still not my room.
A familiar buzz of panic starts in my chest, fluttering just beneath my ribs. I slow my steps, half hoping that someone will pop out and rescue me, preferably with a tray of pastries and a helpful little map that says: YOU ARE HERE and ROOM WITH HOT MAN IS HERE.
But no one comes.
And it’s quiet. Too quiet.
Not just castle quiet, which I’ve learned is a mix of library plus cathedral plus abandoned museum at midnight quiet, but eerie quiet.
My stomach twists, and my thoughts sharpen in the worst way.
What if I never get home?
It slides into my brain like a slow-moving tide, seeping into the cracks of my composure.
What if I really am stuck here? What if this is it?
No more morning coffee runs, no more talking to Mackenzie using TikToks and memes, no more drunken late-night truth-bomb bonding sessions with Amanda. No more real world.
Just stone walls. Crowned queens with bad attitudes. And Alder.
Alder, who I am definitely not emotionally dependent on in any way. Obviously.
I shake the thought off—violently, like a dog shaking off water—and refocus.
Find my room. Find Alder. Don’t panic.
I square my shoulders, take a breath, and turn down the next hallway.
That’s when I feel it.
A breeze.
It’s faint but unmistakable—cool, unexpected, and tickling the inside of my forearm. I stop in my tracks. There’s no window here, no reason for wind in this part of the castle. But it’s there, whispering against my skin like it has secrets to share.
My heart beats a little faster. It’s irrational, but something about the crisp, shifting air feels…purposeful.
I follow it.
The breeze grows stronger, carrying a scent that’s different from the castle’s mustiness—cleaner, wetter, like rain on stone.
It dead-ends at a massive painting. The canvas stretches nearly floor to ceiling, depicting a regal woman draped in blue.
Her pale face serene but her unnervingly sharp eyes are not.
They seem to follow me, tracking me like she knows something I don’t.
The frame is ringed in silver serpents, coiling and gleaming in the torchlight.
The draft tugs again, and my fingers follow it to the seam where the frame meets the wall. And there, just under a snake’s forked tongue, is a small, almost invisible button.
Because of course there’s a secret button in the creepy snake frame.
I press it before my brain can think better of it.
Click.
With a shudder, the floor shifts. My stomach lurches as a hidden panel beneath my feet pivots, and swings inward. I yelp, a tiny, panicked noise, when the castle spins around me, and I tumble into the darkness.
The painting slams shut behind me.
And I’m alone.
In the pitch black.
Awesome.
My hands find the wall, rough stone cool beneath my fingers. I press my palm flat against it, as if I can absorb some kind of guidance through sheer contact. Of course I can’t, but it gives me something to do while I wait for my eyes to adjust and my heart to slow down.
“This is how people die in fantasy worlds,” I mutter. “Secret tunnels. Paintings with weird buttons. I know this trope. I’ve read this book.”
Up ahead I see a faint golden glow seeping through the worn weave of another canvas.
I creep closer, my fingers skimming along the wall as I shuffle forward and try not to think about spiders or ghosts or the fact that I left behind both safety and my home.
My hands skim the back of the painting, and the rough fabric prickles my skin. I lean in, pressing one eye to the small gap in the weave. It’s a peephole, not much but enough. And through it, I have a perfect view of the bathing chamber beyond.
The room glows, lit only by flickering candlelight and the watery shimmer of the cloudy gray sky pouring in through a pair of open French doors.
Steam curls around everything, softening edges, but not hiding what’s about to unfold.
A silver tub—ornate, massive, gleaming, carved with images of waves and writhing serpents—sits at the center.
A glittering, endless stream of water spills from the gaping mouth of a silver serpent mounted high on the wall.
The tub overflows, water cascading over the edges and spilling down stone steps and across the floor in a rushing current.
The stream flows across the room in a path that slips straight through the open doors and vanishes into the black abyss beyond the cliffs.
Four masked guards take their places on either side of a man already standing near the tub, their robes the color of a moonless sky. Their faces are hidden behind smooth silver masks, identical in every way, hollow-eyed and expressionless.
The man is tall, still, with a robe as pale as bleached bone and as luminescent as moonlight.
His mask is similar to the guards’, but the top is adorned with two curved points that jut out like viper fangs above his eyes.
He cradles a book in both hands, thick and old and bound in tarnished silver, its cover etched with waves and sigils that shimmer when the candlelight catches them.
When he opens it, the air shifts. Cold slithers in, licking at the edges of the room. The guards raise their hands, palms up, and the man begins to chant.
His voice is not…right.
The mask distorts it, making it hollow and disembodied, like it’s echoing from a cave somewhere far beneath the earth.
The sounds are low and strange and rich with unfamiliar syllables that curl through the air like smoke.
The guards join in, their voices weaving together in a dissonant, hollow harmony that bounces off the stone and reverberates in my bones.
A door opens, and two women enter.
Queen Delphara Rothmore glides into the room like a specter made flesh.
Her ceremonial cloak ripples around her ankles like water.
The fabric is impossibly fine—midnight blue kissed with silver—the color of a lake lit only by stars.
On her head rests a delicate crown of entwined silver serpents, pale blue gems glinting in their eyes.
Apple blossoms are woven around the polished coils, fresh and white, like they bloomed just for her.
Her dark curls fall down her back in loose ringlets beaded with moisture as if she’s been walking through mist.
Clara follows her—barefoot, pale, her own cloak a softer echo of the Queen’s in color and style but there’s no crown, no embellishments. Only her hands, clenched into fists, and the kind of stillness that comes right before someone breaks.
Together, they descend the stone steps into the steaming tub, the water seeming to rise to greet them. Their cloaks float on the surface like petals.
Delphara straightens, tall and motionless in the center of the tub, water curling around her hips. Clara bows her head, her shoulders hunched like she’s bracing for pain.
The chanting grows louder. The masked man’s voice rises, but it’s Delphara’s that reaches my ears—clear, resonant, and undeniable.
It rings out like a bell struck underwater, threaded with a power that doesn’t simply join the ritual but commands it.
Her voice bends the air. It pulls the steam into spirals.
The candle flames bow toward her. Even the masked guards hesitate for a breath, their chants faltering as if something ancient has stirred.
The magick doesn’t come solely from the book or the masked man. She sets it free.
And the room answers.
The candle flames flicker violently. The temperature drops.
The shadows twitch. The current in the tub picks up speed as the water takes on an iridescent sheen.
The surface glows from beneath, suddenly lit from below.
Threads of color shimmer under the water—blue, violet, silver—twisting like fish just out of reach.
Wind rushes in through the French doors, sudden and forceful. Every apple blossom in Delphara’s crown lifts, suspended in the air. The silver on her robes catches the light and flares like a mirror to the moon.
She dips her hands into the tub, water streaming down her arms like liquid glass as she lifts them.
Then, she touches Clara’s forehead.
Two fingers. That’s all. But the moment they make contact, the magick manifests.
A line glows neon blue where Delphara’s fingers trail—fluid, ancient, like it’s been pulled from the depths of the sea itself. It’s a sigil that loops and arcs with unnatural grace as it hovers, gleaming against Clara’s skin like bioluminescence in the dark.
The sigil pulses once. Twice. Then it begins to shift.
The blue deepens into silver, burning brighter for one long heartbeat—and then it sinks into Clara’s skin like ink into paper, leaving nothing behind.
The chanting hums through the floor. The air tastes electric.
This is magick.
Not metaphorical magick. Not the kind I read in books or whisper over birthday candles. Not fairy tales or wishful thinking or childhood fantasies about Santa and the Tooth Fairy.
Real magick.
My thoughts flash to the card from the cake. The Lovers. The way it shimmered. The way it felt warm in my hand. The way it pulled me toward Alder and this castle and—
It wasn’t coincidence. It wasn’t chance.
The pull always reveals what’s meant to be.
Magick is real.
And it’s terrifying.
Clara’s breath hitches.
She lifts her head—eyes wide, mouth slack—and for a moment, it looks like awe. Wonder.
Then her whole body jerks.
Her hands claw at the water. Her limbs thrash. She convulses once. Again.
Delphara doesn’t move.
The masked man chants louder, his voice rising above the others like a thread pulled taut.
Clara’s eyes roll back. Blood leaks from her nose, the corners of her eyes, from her mouth. Crimson foam bubbles down her chin as her lips part in a silent scream.
My hand flies to my mouth.
A final ragged, wet gurgle, and Clara sinks. Her body slips beneath the surface. The water froths. Blood weaves like silk ribbons through the waves and coils around Delphara’s pale skin.
The air shivers. A faint hum pulses through the chamber—like a chord struck on an instrument that doesn’t exist in this world, in any world.
The surface of the water glows faintly, then brighter, a shimmering white light that radiates outward from where Clara vanished.
It casts dancing reflections on the walls, the ceiling, Delphara’s face.
And then Clara rises.
Not floating, not bobbing—but lifted, slowly and deliberately, as if the water itself is obeying a silent command. Her body breaks the surface like an offering. Limbs weightless. Hair fanned around her like a crown of kelp. Eyes closed.
Delphara touches Clara gently, reverently, as though this isn’t a murder but a farewell. She presses her forehead to Clara’s, their brows touching in a quiet, brutal blessing.
Then Delphara steps back.
Clara’s body tips over the edge of the tub, limbs loose and limp, a doll discarded, her blood-slicked skin glistening in the candlelight.
With a sickening splash, the current grips her. Drags her. And I watch, numb and frozen, as she’s carried across the stone floor, out the open doors, and over the cliff into the abyss beyond.
Gone.
Like she was never here at all.
The chanting stops.
Silence slams into the room like a fist.
The masked man closes his book with a soft final thud.
Delphara brushes two fingers through the blood-slick water, then raises them to her lips. She kisses them, eyes fluttering closed.
A ritual sealed. A promise kept.
And, for the second time in as many days, I run.