Chapter 10
Rooke
A fool trusts fate, a wise man trusts his wit.”
— SCRIBBLED IN THE MARGINS OF THE BOOK OF DIVINE GAMBITS, AUTHOR UNKNOWN
I’ve been asleep for barely a blink when the sound of water drags me to wake.
For a moment, I’m back on my ship, waves lapping against the hull. But this isn’t the familiar rhythm of the sea—it’s wrong, insistent, threatening. Like the crush of a waterfall.
“Rooke!” Syrrah’s voice cuts through my confusion. “Wake up!”
I’m moving before she finishes speaking, sword already in hand as I scan for threats. Having her pressed against me has kept my battle instincts sharp, every protective urge heightened.
“Listen,” she says, and now I see it—water floods into our sanctuary, gushing under the hidden door with unnatural speed.
“The maze is changing.” I’m already gathering our supplies, mind racing as I search for escape routes. “We need to move.”
But when I test the door, stone meets stone with brutal finality. My muscles strain against it uselessly. The maze has sealed us in, turning our refuge into a trap. Water swirls around our ankles, rising faster than it should.
Syrrah searches the walls for weakness while I check the ceiling for gaps. Nothing. Every instinct screams at me to get her to safety, but there’s nowhere to go.
Some captain I am, letting us get caught in a flooding fucking hold.
“There has to be another way out,” she says, her fingers trailing across strange markings in the stone. Even afraid, she stays focused, calm, searching for a solution.
I capture our torch, saving it from the spluttering fire, and hold it high.
“Here,” Syrrah says, forcing me to crash through the rising water to her side. “Look.”
She’s found carvings on the wall, thick and solid. I reach out, touching one only to find that it slides across the wall, settling into a new position.
“These aren’t decorative,” I say, slowly. “They’re words.” The same kind of runes that mark my dice and which speak of fate and choices.
The water reaches our knees, cold enough to make my bones ache. Syrrah’s dress floats around her legs, and I force myself to focus on the symbols rather than how the wet fabric clings to her curves.
“It’s a puzzle,” she says suddenly. “Look—these symbols are from my world, and these look like the ones from your dice.”
My eye narrows as I recognize the pattern. “The Trickster God’s game of choice.” I gesture at the rising water. “With stakes to match.”
“In my world, these are symbols are taught to children as a game. You’re told the story and then need to match the symbols as you tell.” She touches one of the carvings as the water reaches our waists. “I think we must do that here.”
“Fucking Gods,” I murmur, piecing together fragments of the story in the carvings.
“Alright, let’s play this pricks game.” I touch the rose, knowing this story by heart.
“These symbols speak of the Goddess Amara who fled this world, leaving it fractured and unbalanced. Her departure came during the blood moon.”
Syrrah’s fingers glide across a corresponding section of the wall. “And in mine, the feminine Goddess Grayah rose during the same celestial event, rebalancing a broken world after centuries of chaos.” She glances at me, her brows furrowing in thought. “Do you think—could it be the same Goddess?”
“Perhaps.” I trace the lines of script again. “Or two halves of the same power, passing between our worlds like a cycle. When balance was lost here, perhaps it was restored in yours.”
Her expression sharpens as she spots a carving that mirrors one near me—a crescent moon splitting into two jagged halves.
“There!” she exclaims as water creeps higher, now brushing against our chests. “The rise of the blood moon in your world matches the rebalance in mine.”
“Rebalance?”
She waves a hand impatiently. “If we live, I’ll explain.”
Together, we align the carvings, our hands working in tandem to push the final blocks into place. Water rises, and soon Syrrah is clinging to me as we slush from one side of the small room to the other, fighting to solve the puzzle.
“And so the Trickster God saved us all,” I say, pressing his symbol into place.
My hand covers hers, and time seems to stretch, the air heavy with expectation.
The water halts, trembling around us. A whisper of laughter reaches our ears—Kasaros.
Then a low rumble echoes through the chamber.
The water drains suddenly, swirling away into unseen depths, leaving us standing on damp stone.
The wall before us shifts, the rock grinding as a new opening reveals itself, glowing with a faint, ethereal light.
“That was too close,” Syrrah gasps, leaning against me.
The press of her body—wet, trembling, alive—tests every ounce of my self-control.
I want her. Gods, I want her. The feeling is a storm, violent and unrelenting, tearing through me with no regard for reason.
She is warmth in the cold, breath in drowning lungs, a dream I should not reach for but cannot stop myself from craving.
But I can’t keep her.
The thought lands like a blade between my ribs, sharp and unyielding. I have Keo to think of. A debt to pay.
And Syrrah…
She is not mine to have.
So I laugh, covering my reaction with humor, masking the ache that gnaws at my chest. “I don’t know. Any puzzle that ends with you wet and clinging to me can’t be all bad.”
She smacks my chest, but I catch her smile. “Wretched man.”
I am. I always have been. And she knows nothing about the depth of my ruin.
She doesn’t know about the weight of my promises, the chains I willingly wrapped around my own wrists, the sins I have carved into my soul.
She doesn’t know that even now, as she leans against me, trusting, warm, I am the knife hidden in her back.
I have no right to want her. No right to hold her, to kiss her, to wish—foolishly, desperately—that the world were different.
But when she tilts her head up, her breath still uneven from the ordeal, her gaze open, unguarded, the want in me roars like a beast freed from its cage.
She licks her lips, and my restraint shatters further.
“Rooke,” she murmurs, my name barely more than a breath.
I should step away.
I should.
Instead, I trace my fingers along her jaw, tilting her face toward mine. A doomed man reaching for the only light he has ever known.
Her breath hitches, her pulse a rapid drum beneath my touch. And Gods help me, but I crave the sound.
“You like it,” I force myself to say lightly, pulling her close. I lower my mouth to hers, claiming, tasting, stealing the one thing I was never meant to have.
She tastes of danger and salvation. Of everything I never knew I wanted until her. And for a moment—just one moment—I let myself forget that I will have to give her up.
I pull back slowly, reluctant to let her go.
We leave the puzzle room behind to find our surroundings transformed. The endless stone corridors have given way to a single alley filled with moss and ivy. Before us is an inn, its windows glowing with warm welcome.
“What does it say?” she asks, looking at the swinging sign.
“The Wanderer’s Rest,” I translate, unease prickling my spine.
“Is it safe?”
I study the building, noting exits and defensive positions out of habit. “Only one way to find out.”