Chapter 15
Fifteen
I can’t breathe.
The air is thick and wet and wrong, the taste of blood still sharp on my tongue. My legs move before my brain catches up, sprinting down the stone corridor as if I can outpace the image of Clara’s lifeless body slipping into the dark.
My shoulder slams into the hidden panel. I’m frantic and shaking, and my fingers scrape over the cold stone. I find the button—press it hard.
Click.
The floor shifts beneath me again and I’m thrown back into the hallway, staggering away from the painting like I’ve been spit out by the castle itself. I slam into the opposite wall and suck in a breath like it’s the first I’ve ever taken.
Run.
My slippers skid across the rugs. I round corners too fast. My breath punches out in short, shallow bursts. I don’t know where I’m going—I just need distance. Distance from that room, from that tub, from that sigil that shimmered and changed and sunk into Clara’s skin like a key into a lock.
They killed her. They killed her like it was nothing. Like it was sacred.
I reach another intersection of hallways, my pace faltering as I clutch my aching chest and swallow ragged gulps of air. My legs burn, exhaustion catching up with the terror surging through my veins.
A tapestry ripples beside me from the force of my movement, and I force myself to slow down and duck into the shadows. I cannot get caught looking like this—wild-eyed, trembling, covered in sweat.
Think. Breathe. Do not get found out and dragged in front of Queen Magickal Human Sacrifice.
Inhale. Exhale. Again.
I smooth my trembling hands down the front of my skirts, force my spine to straighten. Act normal. Just a normal woman in a normal castle on her way to…tea drinking? A modiste fitting? Letter writing?
I push off the wall, walking fast but controlled. Head down. Eyes on the ground.
I’m fine. This is totally fine.
And I’m also ignoring the fact that my brain is playing the trauma reel on a loop behind my eyelids.
I turn a corner—and slam straight into a wall of solid muscle and tailored velvet.
A sharp gasp escapes me as I stumble back, hands catching soft fabric.
Strong hands catch my elbows, steadying me before I can fall. “Whoa there,” a familiar voice says, stretching the words with a lazy drawl. “Where’s the fire?”
Alder.
Relief crashes through me so hard my knees almost give out, and I lean into him.
He grins down at me, golden hair tousled, blue eyes gleaming. “God, you’re warm,” he murmurs, pulling me against his chest. “Where have you been?”
“Alder, I—” My voice catches, cracked and raw. I don’t know where to begin. I don’t know how to make the words come out. “Something happened.”
But he’s not listening. His arm slips around my waist, the other brushing a loose strand of hair behind my ear as his mouth finds the curve of my neck. “I thought I told you to stay in bed.”
I plant a hand on his chest, firm but not enough to push him away. “Seriously. Something is wrong.”
“Mmm. Of course something’s wrong,” he murmurs against my jaw, like this is all a game. “Something always is when you’re involved.”
“I watched a girl die,” I blurt. “Clara, the maid from this morning. In some kind of bathing chamber. With the Queen. And a masked man who—I don’t even know what he was chanting—and it was magick, Alder. Real magick.”
He goes rigid for half a second and then exhales a soft laugh. “You must have hit your head harder than I thought.”
“I’m serious!” I snap. “There was chanting, there were guards, the Queen painted a glowing sigil on Clara’s head—and then Clara started bleeding from her eyes and nose and mouth. And then she—she just—she died. Her body went over a cliff. I saw it.”
He pulls back slightly, his eyes narrowing in something that looks like concern, but feels patronizing. “Gemma, sweetheart, you need to lie down.”
“No, I need you to listen,” I say, words tumbling out in a rush.
“There’s something happening here. Something bigger than us getting swept up into this world.
Magick is real. I felt it. I saw it. And Sylvie—she mentioned the Kingdom of Pentacles.
She said they have magick there. That’s what she said.
That their new king uses it. This whole state or country or—”
“Realm,” he corrects. “This whole realm is called Towerfall.”
“Yes,” I say, my voice pitching up. “They have magick here. Real magick. And I think—” My breath hitches. “I think there’s so much going on that you and I cannot even begin to understand.”
He exhales through his nose and drags a hand through his hair. “Gemma…”
It’s not just his tone. It’s his whole body—tense, jaw tight, muscle in his temple ticking like he’s barely keeping his irritation in check. Like I’m the problem.
“You said you’d find a way home,” I push. “Have you? Have you actually found out anything that will help us?”
He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he shifts, stepping toward our door like he’s heard all he’s willing to hear. “You need to get into bed,” he says finally.
I blink. “What?”
“You’re rambling. You’re exhausted. This entire ordeal has clearly brought on some sort of episode, and you running around the castle unsupervised isn’t helping. What you need is to lie down and let me handle things.”
He opens the door to our shared room and places a hand at the small of my back, nudging me forward like I’m some fragile thing he needs to tuck in and medicate.
I step into the room but stop just past the threshold.
He’s different now—colder, sharper, like the man from the chicken coop never existed.
And I understand. Pretending to be someone else during high-pressure trade negotiations in front of literal royalty would rattle anyone, even him.
But it doesn’t explain why the Alder who joked with me about being the ruler of hens and made me feel like being vulnerable was a strength is now treating me like I’m made of glass.
“Don’t make this sound like I’m having some sort of issue,” I snap, spinning to face him. “This is real, Alder. We have to get out of here.”
He steps in behind me, closes the door, and turns the lock with a soft click. “You’re hysterical.”
My gaze darts to his. “Don’t you dare.”
But he’s already moving closer, his hands skimming my sides, brushing the edge of my dress, his voice low and coaxing. “You’re exhausted. You’ve been through too much. You need to let me take care of you.”
“I don’t need to be taken care of. I need to be believed.”
He dips his head, pressing a kiss just beneath my ear. “Don’t I always know what you need?”
I jerk away. “Do you?”
His smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “Of course I do.”
“I’m not making this up. I’m not hysterical.
I’m not suffering from some head injury.
This is happening. And the sooner we stop pretending like it isn’t, the better chance we have of getting out before we end up…
” Words clog my throat as the image of Clara’s body sliding beneath the water flashes behind my eyes. “Before something worse happens.”
His jaw tightens. “You didn’t used to question me like this.”
“Yeah, well, it’s amazing what six months away from a toxic relationship will do to a woman.”
That gets his attention. His eyes narrow. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
I cross my arms, nails digging into my sleeves just to keep from shaking.
It’s dizzying, how fast he’s changed—how the man who smiled at me by the waterfall feels like a fever dream compared to the one standing here now. But anger’s easier to hold onto than confusion.
“It means I’ve had time to think. Time to breathe. Time to remember who I am when I’m not constantly trying to be whatever version of me you’ve decided you want that week.”
His mouth twists, but before he can find a comeback, I add, “And if you think I’m going to stand here while you try to dismiss everything I just saw—everything I felt—like it’s some kind of stress-induced hallucination, then you really don’t know me at all.”
“You’re spiraling,” he says, too quickly, like he’s been waiting to use that word. “You’ve always done this—blown things out of proportion when they’re out of your control.”
“You think this is me spiraling?” I ask, incredulous. “I watched a woman die. I saw blood and chanting and a glowing sigil disappear into her skin, Alder. You want to try and tell me that was my attempt to regain control?”
He doesn’t answer. He just looks at me like I’m being ridiculous. Like I’m embarrassing him.
“You’ve always had a flair for drama,” he says with a sharp little laugh that grates across my skin. “You used to love making things bigger than they were. It’s probably why the publisher thought you weren’t ready for a promotion.”
I freeze.
The air shifts.
Alder doesn’t notice. He’s moving toward me to distract me with another touch, another charm offensive.
But I’m stuck.
The publisher thought I wasn’t ready for a promotion.
That phrase—those exact words—came from a meeting with HR the day I was fired. Those words gutted me.
I never told him that. And he just said them like he’d heard them before.
I can’t unravel that thread right this second. Not now. Not after everything that’s just happened.
So I tuck it away. Mentally file it somewhere behind the images of Clara’s blood, the chanting, the queen and that man, and the overwhelming truth that magick is real and people here die for it…because of it.
“But none of that is important right now,” Alder says. “You’re here. With me. Isn’t that all that matters?”
I shake my head. “No. It’s not.”
His jaw ticks. “Why are you being like this?”
“Why am I being like this?” I shake my head. “I shouldn’t have to justify having an emotional reaction to the fact that I just witnessed a ritual sacrifice.”
“Gemma, stop.” His expression shifts. “You’re exaggerating.”
“Am I?” I scoff. “Or is it easier for you if I’m the one being dramatic? That way you don’t have to actually see me.”
“I’ve always seen you.”
“No,” I say, my voice quiet but cutting. “You’ve always seen the version of me that needed you. The one who’d fold when you said fold. The one who didn’t push too hard or ask too many questions.”
He laughs bitterly. “That’s rich. Considering you’ve never stopped running long enough to let anything between us actually stick.”
“Oh, don’t turn this around on me,” I say.
“You want to talk about the last ten years? Let’s talk about how every time I needed you, you turned it into a test. Every time I came back, it was just another game of control.
You pull me in, push me away. You dangle what I want just far enough away to keep me reaching. ”
“I’ve always been there,” he growls. “You think I stuck around because I liked the power trip? No, Gemma. I stayed because you were mine. Because no matter how far you ran, you always came back.”
“Maybe that’s the problem,” I whisper.
A silence stretches between us, jagged and raw. We’re both breathing hard, both flushed with more than just anger.
He takes a step forward like he might try again. But then he stops. His hands ball into fists at his sides, his expression twisting into something bitter and mean.
“Forget it,” he barks, voice rough. “I’m not doing this with you.” He spins on his heel and stalks toward the door. The echo of his footsteps is thunderous, every step vibrating like a slammed drawer in my chest.
“Right,” I say coolly, arms crossed tightly around myself. “Let’s not actually be honest. Let’s not deal with anything.”
He freezes, just for a second. His knuckles go white around the brass doorknob, but he doesn’t turn back. Doesn’t say a word.
The door swings open.
And then he’s gone.
The door slams shut behind him, leaving me alone with the mess he always makes but never bothers to clean up.