Chapter Twenty-Five
Twenty-Five
The castle kitchens are separate from the gilded lies of the palace above.
Down here, the air feels heavier but somehow cleaner—like the truth is allowed to live in the cracks between the stone.
It’s the only place that feels remotely safe to me now.
Maybe it’s the warmth that lingers in the hearth’s low-burning embers.
Or maybe it’s the people who work here, the ones who truly keep the kingdom running, who don’t have the luxury of deception.
There’s no room for secrets when hands are stiff from kneading dough, when bodies ache from hours over a fire.
Unlike the nobles, they don’t waste time pretending.
I wish I could say the same for myself.
I came here instead of returning to my room. Now that I know every bit of the truth, I can’t look at Alder. He was always the man I feared he was, ruin wrapped in a beautiful smile. And Alderic, his counterpart on the boat, the man I let in, I’m not sure he’s any better. Not really.
The kitchens are quiet at this hour, the usual clatter of pots and barked orders replaced by an expectant stillness.
The dwindling fire casts ribbons of orange light across the stone floor.
The scents of flour and rosemary still linger, mingling with the faint spice of clove.
The air is heavy with the ghost of heat and the quiet hum of something waiting.
My gaze drifts over the empty counters and the neat stacks of wooden bowls left to dry by the basin. So much has unraveled, but the threads are still tangled, looping back on themselves in ways I don’t yet understand.
But this is what I do know.
I turn chaos into clarity. I’ve managed national campaigns with a thousand moving parts, juggled bestselling authors with last-minute demands, sold books I hadn’t even read off a two-line pitch.
I’ve wrangled book tours, pre-order giveaways, launch strategies, influencer roundups, TikTok reveals.
I’ve taken disasters and turned them into five-figure launch weeks. I’ve made magick out of mess.
And I can do it again.
“Okay, Gemma, think.” I exhale and tuck my damp hair behind my ears. “What do you actually know?”
I square my shoulders and start mentally storyboarding the path forward, the way I would in a pitch meeting for a book with an unclear audience.
Step One: What do I know?
I know the Tower is connected to whatever’s going on—and to me. I know Clara’s dead. I know another girl has been taken. I know the queen and her new priest are killing women. And I know, with the final sacrifice the priest mentioned in his sermon, that I’m running out of time.
Step Two: Identify potential.
Delphara: Villain. Power-hungry. Dangerous.
Priest: Delphara’s weapon. Identity unknown. Definitely a monster.
Alder: Manipulative liar.
Alderic: Complicated. Not off the hook. But… maybe not the enemy.
Sylvie: Cautious, capable. She knows more than she lets on. I can work with her.
The other women working in the castle: They’ve been surviving this place longer than I’ve been breathing its air. They’ll help me. If I can convince them to trust me.
Step Three: Weigh the risks.
If I can’t stop this, more women will die. The kingdom will collapse—or worse, become something even darker than it already is. And I’ll never get back home.
Step Four: Craft the strategy. Execute the plan. Fix everything.
“Shit.”
A muffled shout cuts through my brainstorming session, shattering the quiet like a dropped glass.
I go still, breath caught, heart slamming against my ribs.
The sound doesn’t come again, but I know what I heard.
And I’m done pretending things away. Done rationalizing the strange or brushing aside what I feel in my gut. I’ve ignored too many instincts since stepping into this world. Looked away from too many truths.
Not this time.
My eyes sweep the room. I move to the hearth, fingers grazing the worn mantel until they close around a thick pillar candle nestled in a silver holder.
It’s heavy in my hands, the metal cool against my skin as I crouch beside the embers and coax the dying flames toward the wick. It catches on the second try.
Faint, flickering light pushes back against the dark. Shadows slither across the stone walls, darting through the gaps between counters and cupboards like things with teeth.
Another shout—louder this time. A single word too muffled to understand. But I know what fear sounds like.
My pulse spikes. I tighten my grip around the candleholder, and the flame wavers as I move toward the pantry.
The larder is cavernous, carved deep into the bones of the castle.
Shelves stretch to the ceiling, heavy with jars of amber and ruby colored preserves that catch the candlelight like jewels in a dragon’s hoard.
Burlap sacks of grain are stacked in neat rows, their rough edges softened by dustings of flour.
Bundles of drying herbs are strung from the rafters, their earthy scents mixing with the brine of cured meats hanging on iron hooks.
The air is colder here. My breath fogs in the low light as I press deeper into the room, the candle’s flame trembling with each step.
The shouting has stopped, but the silence it leaves behind is worse.
I move carefully toward the back of the pantry, where my candle throws just enough light to illuminate bare stone walls. And a seam in the stone.
I move closer, holding my breath. A golden glint slices vertically down the stone, thin as a blade. I press my palm against it and feel it—a groove, almost imperceptible, like the hidden switch in the frame of the painting. A crack in the castle that leads to something secret.
The wall shifts beneath my hand, and the panel moves with a soft grind, stone scraping against stone, revealing a narrow passage.
A rush of cold air spills out. Beyond, a spiral staircase winds into the dark. Oil lamps hang from the low ceiling at irregular intervals, their pale flames throwing long, nervous shadows.
I glance back. The kitchen remains silent. No one is coming to save me. I have to do that myself.
I blow out the candle and set it on a shelf. Then I suck in a breath, brace my shoulders, and squeeze through the narrow gap.
The panel slides shut behind me with a quiet click, sealing me in with the cold and the dank.
The voices are clearer now. Low. Urgent.
I hesitate, my fingers tightening into fists at my side, but I can’t lurk in the shadows or wait for answers to fall into my lap. That’s what I’ve been doing, and it’s not working out. Instead, I descend the stairs with a steady breath and a clear purpose.
The cold intensifies with each step, curling around my sodden slippers and biting through my damp gown. The flickering lanterns overhead do little to banish the dark, but my eyes have adjusted and I no longer need the flames to see clearly.
The stairway opens into a wide, low-ceilinged chamber.
The air is sharp with salt and smoke. The temperature drops further here, the cold clinging to the walls, seeping into the wooden beams overhead.
To the left, a row of shelves gives way to heavy barrels and stacks of sealed crates.
A collection of dusty wine bottles line one wall, their corks sealed with thick, dark wax.
A single lantern flickers on a hook, illuminating a rack of cured meats hanging near the back wall.
But it’s the women gathered around a central table, its surface strewn with maps, ledgers, and loose pages, that draw my focus.
Sylvie. Bernice. Castle maids. Noblewomen with their daughters who I recognize from the chapel, dutifully seated beside their husbands. The lines that divide these women above don’t exist down here.
The women startle when they notice me—hands flying to chests, chairs scraping, whispers sharpening into alarm. One of the noblewomen steps in front of her daughter like a shield, while another grips a rusted meat hook from the wall.
“How did you find this place?” Bernice demands, eyes narrowing. “Who sent you?”
Sylvie doesn’t wait for an answer. “Lord Lockhart sent you, didn’t he, on behalf of Queen Rothmore—”
“Or her filthy priest.” Another cuts in.
Sylvie resumes, “You found this place for them.”
“No,” I say quickly, hands raised, palms out. “I wasn’t sent here. I didn’t even know this room existed until I heard shouting.”
The oldest woman rises slowly, her presence commanding even in silence. She looks familiar. She sat next to the Queen’s empty seat during the sermon. A trusted ally. Or so I had thought. “You expect us to believe that you, an outsider, a stranger, simply happened upon our only sanctuary?”
Panic ripples through the chamber. A few of the younger women back toward the far wall. One of the older noblewomen whispers, “We need to move. If they know we’re here, that we’ve been traitors to the throne, we shall be next.”
Bernice slams her hand down on the table. “We are not traitors! Loyalty to the throne is not loyalty to a person, no matter how powerful. It’s allegiance to the people. To this kingdom. Delphara Rothmore is the traitor.”
“I’m not here to harm you or spy on you,” I add, holding their wary stares. “I’m here because the Tower brought me.”
Sylvie folds her arms tightly across her chest. “How have you seen it?” she demands, suspicion curling in her voice. “The tower vanished. Faded from the land, from records, long ago.”
I swallow, my voice low. “When I was on the island it…appeared. Covered with moss and dead branches, just waiting to be seen again. Inside, there’s a machine. It’s huge and motionless, but not dead. It’s dormant—like it’s holding its breath.”
I don’t mention the Lovers card. I don’t mention Alderic. I’m not sure what they mean. Not the card, not him, not the way I felt when the Tower opened its door like it had always known I was coming or the way being with Alderic made me feel like I was finally finding myself.
But there’s no more waiting for men with secrets and power to save me, or lead me, or tell me what to do. I’m done with that.
“Bernice, I know you don’t want to believe in magick, but it’s out there. It’s in this kingdom.”
Bernice’s expression turns to ice. “Magick is outlawed. Magick is dead.”
I square my shoulders. “Magick brought me here. The Tower brought me here.”
The tension doesn’t dissolve, but it hesitates, shifts, curiosity prickling beneath suspicion.
“During the priest’s sermon, he spoke about a great sacrifice,” I continue, stepping closer to the table. “And I don’t know how to explain exactly why I feel this way, but I think it’s connected to the Tower. To the machine. To whatever’s waking up in this kingdom.”
The words taste like certainty. Like truth.
“And if I’m right, then we’re running out of time.”
The old woman exhales slowly and sinks back into her chair. Candlelight flickers across the deep lines of her face, etching shadows beneath her sharp, knowing eyes.
“When I was a girl,” she says, “the machines ran on their own. We never questioned why. The royal family flourished. The kingdom prospered. Life was gilded, effortless.”
“Until it stopped,” another woman finishes. She’s younger, but her voice is just as tight. “One day, without warning, the machines went quiet.”
The old woman nods grimly. “And when our king and queen passed, their son Victor took the throne. He was young, foolish. He sulked and drank and wished for his father’s grandeur. He was too busy pitying himself to notice that his new wife had taken hold of the kingdom.”
“She turned to prayer to heal Cups,” the woman still clutching the meat hook adds.
The old woman scoffs. “Delphara’s answer was Droskyn. Her only tie to the land she left behind.”
A shudder moves through the gathered women. The daughters inch closer to their mothers, drawn toward the warmth of something protective, something that still stands between them and whatever is coming.
“She claimed her priest had communed with the gods. That they were angry. That the machines’ silence was a divine punishment. That they demanded renewed faith and allegiance—not just to them, but to her, to Droskyn, to Cups.”
A bitter sting of recognition lances through me. I know these words. I’ve heard them before, in a different place, in a different kind of sermon. But the message is the same: power belongs to those who take it, and suffering is the price everyone else must pay.
“He claimed that the gods demanded proof of our loyalty,” says a sharp-faced noblewoman near the wine racks.
“And when the first girl vanished, the machines roared back to life.” The older noblewoman’s voice turns flat, matter of fact, as if dulling the edges of a horror too unbearable to hold.
“Let me guess,” I say, my heart pounding so violently I can feel it in my teeth. “Delphara and Droskyn claimed it was a miracle. Proof of divine favor.”
The old woman lifts her chin. “But the machines did not require blood before. And what kind of gods reward the slaying of innocents?”
“More women went missing before we could stop him,” another noblewoman says tightly as she reaches out and grips the older woman’s hand. “But we did stop him.”
“We poisoned Droskyn Vayne.” The eldest woman’s words land with the weight of a gravestone. “We thought it was over. Without Droskyn, the Queen lost her grip on the magick he funneled into her. The machines fell silent again.”
“And we believed we had done enough,” the other noblewoman continues. “But we were wrong.”
“She suddenly found someone new,” Sylvie murmurs. “Not only loyal—powerful.”
The old woman nods, slowly. “And worse. More strategic, more careful. Even less concerned with who we are as people.”
A chill scrapes across my skin.
But even through the fear, something sharp and certain clicks into place.
“With your help,” I say slowly, “I think I can finish what you started.”
Bernice arches a brow. “And how do you propose to do that?”
“Delphara believes blood is the price of power,” I say. “That sacrifice fuels the machine. But she’s wrong. I’ve seen it. I’ve touched it. It doesn’t need blood to work.”
Sylvie crosses her arms. “Then what does it need?”
The answer rises unbidden, heavy, icy. I don’t want it to be true, but every instinct screams that it is.
I swallow hard. “It needs the Lovers.”