The mask distorts it, making it hollow and disembodied, like it’s echoing from a cave somewhere far beneath the earth. The sounds are low and strange and rich with unfamiliar syllables that curl through the air like smoke.The guards join in, their voices weaving together in a dissonant, hollow harmony that bounces off the stone and reverberates in my bones.
A door opens, and two women enter.
Queen Delphara Rothmore glides into the room like a specter made flesh. Her ceremonial cloak ripples around her ankles like water. The fabric is impossibly fine—midnight blue kissed with silver—the color of a lake lit only by stars. On her head rests a delicate crown of entwined silver serpents, pale blue gems glinting in their eyes. Apple blossoms are woven around the polished coils, fresh and white, like they bloomed just for her. Her dark curls fall down her back in loose ringlets beaded with moisture as if she’s been walking through mist.
Clara follows her—barefoot, pale, her own cloak a softer echo of the Queen’s in color and style but there’s no crown, no embellishments. Only her hands, clenched into fists, and the kind of stillness that comes right before someone breaks.
Together, they descend the stone steps into the steaming tub, the water seeming to rise to greet them. Their cloaks float on the surface like petals.
Delphara straightens, tall and motionless in the center of the tub, water curling around her hips. Clara bows her head, her shoulders hunched like she’s bracing for pain.
The chanting grows louder. The masked man’s voice rises, but it’s Delphara’s that reaches my ears—clear, resonant, and undeniable. It rings out like a bell struck underwater, threaded with a power that doesn’t simply join the ritual but commands it. Her voice bends the air. It pulls the steam into spirals. The candle flames bow toward her. Even the masked guards hesitate for a breath,their chants faltering as if something ancient has stirred. The magick doesn’t come solely from the book or the masked man. She sets it free.
And the room answers.
The candle flames flicker violently. The temperature drops. The shadows twitch. The current in the tub picks up speed as the water takes on an iridescent sheen. The surface glows from beneath, suddenly lit from below. Threads of color shimmer under the water—blue, violet, silver—twisting like fish just out of reach.
Wind rushes in through the French doors, sudden and forceful. Every apple blossom in Delphara’s crown lifts, suspended in the air. The silver on her robes catches the light and flares like a mirror to the moon.
She dips her hands into the tub, water streaming down her arms like liquid glass as she lifts them.
Then, she touches Clara’s forehead.
Two fingers. That’s all. But the moment they make contact, the magick manifests.
A line glows neon blue where Delphara’s fingers trail—fluid, ancient, like it’s been pulled from the depths of the sea itself. It’s a sigil that loops and arcs with unnatural grace as it hovers, gleaming against Clara’s skin like bioluminescence in the dark.
The sigil pulses once. Twice. Then it begins to shift.
The blue deepens into silver, burning brighter for one long heartbeat—and then it sinks into Clara’s skin like ink into paper, leaving nothing behind.
The chanting hums through the floor. The air tastes electric.
This is magick.
Not metaphorical magick. Not the kind I read inbooks or whisper over birthday candles. Not fairy tales or wishful thinking or childhood fantasies about Santa and the Tooth Fairy.
Real magick.
My thoughts flash to the card from the cake. The Lovers. The way it shimmered. The way it felt warm in my hand. The way it pulled me toward Alder and this castle and—
It wasn’t coincidence. It wasn’t chance.
The pull always reveals what’s meant to be.
Magick is real.
And it’s terrifying.
Clara’s breath hitches.
She lifts her head—eyes wide, mouth slack—and for a moment, it looks like awe. Wonder.
Then her whole body jerks.
Her hands claw at the water. Her limbs thrash. She convulses once. Again.
Delphara doesn’t move.
