Chapter 32
Thirty-Two
The Masked guards close in around me. A wall of steel and flesh, faceless and merciless, pushing me toward the Tower. My gaze skims frantically over their shoulders, searching for Alder. But he’s gone.
A shuddering breath catches in my throat as I’m shoved forward, my feet stumbling, my heart thundering behind my ribs like it’s trying to escape. My body shouts at me to fight, to run, to do something, but I’m out of options.
The priest’s voice rises over the howling wind.
“Tonight, we are delivered,” he proclaims, lifting his hands. “And tomorrow, we shall rejoice!”
He walks slowly, the fabric of his white robes whispering over the stone. His silver mask catches the torchlight, glinting like a blade.
I try to dig in my heels, but the guards drag me into the Tower like a doll.
The machine rises before me—an ancient, monstrous thing of silver and stone, its gears and levers frozen with time, with starvation. The skeletal remains of withered apple blossoms cling to its base, their brittle petals tangled in the rusted framework.
Hands clamp down on my shoulders and shove me against the machine. I thrash, kicking wildly, twisting against the hands that hold me. A scream tears free, guttural and desperate, but no one flinches. No one stops. Cold, rusted metal scrapes my back, pain biting into me like hungry teeth.
A sharp, metallic clank—one shackle. Then another.
Iron snaps around my wrists. My arms are yanked upward until my shoulders shriek with pain, my back arching from the unnatural angle. The guards loop my shackles over a rusted iron hook. It catches on my forearm and tears into flesh as my shoulders strain against the weight of my own body.
A warm line of blood snakes down my arm in a crimson ribbon that slides slowly and steadily toward the crook of my elbow.
The first drop falls and splatters against the machine. The steel beast exhales, a sound like the rusted rattle of something long dead.
Another drip of scarlet rolls down my arm, hitting the metal with a soft, sickening pat.
A shiver racks through me, every muscle locking tight as the machine against my back begins to hum with anticipation, with hunger.
It’s been waiting—for me. For this. For blood.
I was so sure it wasn’t sacrifice that the machine needed. It thought it was balance, choice, connection, love.
But maybe I just needed something to believe in, something to make this whole world make sense. Maybe I couldn’t see past my own desperate hope. I wanted so badly to rewrite my story.
But I was wrong. The machine isn’t stirring for love or devotion or any of the sacred things the Lovers card is supposed to mean.
It’s responding to blood.
A wave of nausea crests in my throat.
But…why?
Before the thought can settle, the Tower pulses. A slow, guttural thrum that reverberates through the stone.
The priest steps forward, his white robes nearly brushing my legs, his mask tilted ever so slightly as if admiring his handiwork.
“The gods are generous,” the priest says, his voice distorted by the mask, warped and watery. “Plucking you from your small, simple life and bringing you to the place that could use you the most.”
He lifts a hand and presses two fingers to my forehead in a mockery of a blessing.
I lurch at him, baring my teeth. “Go to hell.” My bound wrists yank me back, pain snapping like lightning under my skin. “You think sacrificing me will make your gods happy? You think this will save your kingdom?”
A monster in priest’s robes.
A butcher in his white apron.
“Tell me,” he says. “Has the blood we’ve spilled failed to work?”
I freeze.
Because he’s right—the machines have stirred. The kingdom has flickered with signs of life. And that’s the part I overlooked. That we all overlooked.
I’ve been so focused on stopping the sacrifices, on putting an end to the slaughter, that I never paused to ask why they worked in the first place.
And now, with my life mere moments from ending, the answer crashes into me like a wave.
The blood Delphara spilled, the women she and her priests slaughtered…it worked. For a while. But only because it brushed up against the true magick. The shadow of it, the twisted reflection. Not union but division. Not devotion but betrayal. Not love freely given but trust violently broken.
The reverse meaning of the Lovers.
It was close enough to the source to flicker the machines awake. To mimic power. But it was never going to heal the kingdom. Never going to restore what was lost.
Because this kingdom needs connection—love, freewill.
And what Delphara offers is not love. It’s control. It’s the illusion of unity built on blood and fear.
The priest lifts his hands, palms upward, as if welcoming a divine truth.
As if calling the Tower itself to bear witness.
“The time has come to restore what was broken. To resurrect the order that once gave this kingdom power. Tonight, the cycle begins anew. The Tower will rise. Cups will flourish. And prosperity will once again flow through this kingdom like water…like blood.”
The words don’t echo—they root. They claim. They sink into the walls, the floor, the bones of the Tower itself. The machine’s hum deepens, vibrating under my skin.
“We thank the gods with this offering. With this sacrifice.” The priest tilts his head back, bathed in flickering torchlight, pristine mask gleaming.
Except it isn’t flawless—a single line of blood slips from beneath the silver edge. A vivid crimson stream against pale skin.
Everything stills. The machine. The Tower. The shackles. My thoughts.
The world is suddenly silent. Heavy. Wrong.
He raises a hand and smears the blood at his throat with his fingers. The pristine white robe stains beneath his touch, blooming like dye in snow.
And then he laughs.
The sound is low and warped, twisted at the edges, like a memory gone sour. It scrapes against the walls of the Tower, against the inside of my ribs.
His fingers find the edge of the mask. They linger there, as if savoring the power in the reveal. Then, with a quiet scrape of metal against skin, he begins to lift.
Blood snakes down his cheek in a scarlet thread, catching the flicker of the torches as it carves its way along the sharp line of his jaw.
And then I see it.
That smirk.
That same condescending twist of his mouth that once told me I was overreacting, spiraling. That I was hysterical. That I was worthless.
It’s not just a smile—it’s a weapon. One I’ve seen before. One I’ll never forget.
Alder’s blue eyes drag over me—my bound hands, my trembling body, my unraveling mind—and linger. They drink me in like victory champagne.
And I break.
Not with a scream. Not with a sob. But with a realization. This is the end of a cycle twisted by this man who mistook obsession for fate—and power for love.
Alder is the Queen’s new priest. That’s what he’s been doing here this whole time.
“I told you, sweetheart,” he says. “You won’t run from me again.”