Chapter 33
Thirty-Three
The Tower shudders as if flicking off flies. The iron shackles bite deeper into my wrists, and my pulse thrums in sync with the Tower’s ancient magick. The doors groan open, loud and slow, the sound echoing through the chamber like a death knell.
I wrench my head toward the sound, heart stuttering as storm-gray light spills into the chamber, casting long shadows against the damp stone.
Silhouettes emerge, and the sharp staccato of the Masked guard’s march echoes throughout the chamber, their silver masks catching the light.
At their center, flanked on all sides and barely upright, is Alderic.
My breath lodges in my throat.
He’s not supposed to be here. He was supposed to be safe. He was supposed to blend in and stay alive, and now he’s bleeding because of me.
His wrists are bound. His shirt clings to him, blood-soaked and torn. There’s a gash on his forehead, stark against his white skin, and crimson runs down the side of his face. His steps drag, his legs barely cooperating.
“Alderic!” My voice cracks as I strain against my restraints, fury and fear roaring in my chest.
His head jerks up. Wild eyes search the room and then lock on mine.
“Gemma!” The breath leaves his lungs like a gut punch. His shoulders collapse with it as he exhales my name like it’s the only thing that’s kept him alive. His face crumples with too many emotions at once—devastation, disbelief, desperation, relief.
And God, it nearly undoes me. But I don’t get to falter right now. I don’t get to feel anything. I need to be steel. For him. For me. For whatever’s coming.
“She told me…” His voice is hoarse. “Sylvie. She found me. Said you were taken. I came as fast as I could but… I thought I was too late. I thought they’d already—” He doesn’t finish. His knees buckle, and a guard yanks him upright before he can fall.
“You’re not,” I whisper, tears threatening to spill. “You’re not too late.”
Our reunion is short-lived as another figure glides forward, sweeping in from the shadows behind him like mist from the sea.
Queen Delphara Rothmore—of course she’s here.
Her smile, when it finds me, is slow and serene like the sea moments before its pull turns deadly.
She turns to Alder, voice sweet as pie. “It’s time.”
Alderic’s gaze cuts across the chamber. His breath catches. His body goes rigid. And for one suspended second, he doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe.
White robes swirl around Alder’s ankles like steam, the silver priest’s mask dangling from his fingertips.
Alderic shakes his head once. Twice. Like he can undo what he’s seeing. “No, it’s not—you’re not—” Fury replaces disbelief as the realization sets in. “You,” he spits, eyes blazing. “You’re the priest?”
“I knew you were a little slow, but I thought you’d catch on faster than this.
” Alder’s smirk curves like a scythe. He spreads his arms and lets the mask fall from his hand.
The sound it makes when it hits the floor echoes louder than it should, like a gavel, like a death sentence.
Like the sound of my last stupid hope cracking in half.
Alderic stares at it. At him. At me.
“Gemma, I’m sorry,” he says, voice raw. “I’m so—” His words dissolve into a choked breath, rage and heartbreak etched into every line of his face.
Alder strolls forward, hands clasped behind his back. “So desperate to be the hero. So willing to play protector.” He stops inches from Alderic and tilts his head. “How does it feel to know that the woman you tried so hard to save played right into my hands?”
“You don’t speak about her,” Alderic growls, bound fists clenched.
“Oh, come on. You really think she wanted you?” Alder crouches in front of him. “She spread her legs because your face looks like mine. That’s all this ever was.” He flashes a wicked smile. “You were a safer version of the person she can’t resist.”
Alderic explodes forward, a snarl ripping from his throat, but the guards crash over him like a wave. Blades flash, steel sings, fists slam into his ribs as they wrench his bound arms. He fights like a man possessed—like a man who has nothing left to lose.
One guard stumbles under the weight of Alderic’s fury. Another loses hold of his dagger entirely as Alderic jerks free, only for more hands to seize him again, dragging him backward. His roar echoes through the chamber as metal scrapes stone and blood spatters the floor.
I want to move, to tear this place apart, but all I can do is watch as they beat him.
He clenches his jaw, breath coming hard and ragged, but he doesn’t fall. Doesn’t give Alder the satisfaction of seeing him break.
“Alderic!” My wrists pull against the restraints, my whole body screaming for movement, for a fight, for him.
The guards drag him to my feet, force him to his knees. Blood streaks down his forehead, his arms, dripping into the cracks of the stone. He meets my gaze, blue eyes burning with pain and fury, and I don’t know if I want to cry or scream or tear open the sky with my bare hands.
Alder turns slowly and tilts his head toward Delphara. “Told you she’d keep him busy.”
My rage detonates. If I could get free, I would end this whole kingdom. “Fuck. You.”
“You’d like to, wouldn’t you?” Alder’s grin sharpens. “If only there were time.”
“Enough.” Delphara’s voice cuts clean through the chamber. “I admit, I had my doubts. However, you were right to let him move about the islands. A clever trap, indeed.”
Alderic thrashes again, twisting against the hands pinning him down and the twin blades now pressed to his ribs. “Cowards,” he spits. “You hide behind your masks and your magick and call it power.”
Delphara doesn’t flinch. She steps forward, her voice calm, almost kind. “That one dies first.”
Alder doesn’t even look at Alderic. He simply nods.
My lungs seize. My vision narrows. The air feels too thin, the walls too close. My pulse beats in my ears, frantic and stuttering.
This can’t be happening.
“Alder…” It slips out—a plea wrapped in panic.
He looks at me, and the cruel curve of his mouth deepens like a crack in ice. “Oh, sweetheart,” he purrs. “Now you want to beg?”
Delphara begins to chant. The low, lilting hum slips from her lips and winds through the air as the Masked guard joins in. Their voices rise together, a replay of the bathing chamber. Of Clara. Of death.
“Too little,” Alder murmurs, stepping toward me. “Too late.”
Delphara lifts her arms, eyes closing as her fingers begin to move, tracing invisible shapes in the air. Sparks of blue magick flicker at her fingertips—cool, crystalline drops that shimmer like rain suspended mid-fall.
The Tower groans in response. Water weeps from its ancient stone, slipping down the walls in rivulets that pulse with silvery light. The stones beneath us dampen with seawater, pooling in patterns that spiral beneath my feet.
“Now,” Alder says as he steps forward, his smile cold and final. “Shall we begin?”