I stumble back, chest heaving, my wrist throbbingfrom the pressure of his fingers.
He shakes his head, a hollow laugh breaking free. The storm howls outside, lightning flashing again, catching in his golden hair like a crown of fire.
“It’s not just the fake romance PR stunt bullshit that isn’t worth it.” His voice drops, quiet and cruel. “It’s you, Gemma. You’re not worth it.”
The words cut like glass.
I take a shaky breath and force myself to meet his eyes. My vision blurs, but I refuse to look away. Refuse to cry any more tears because of him.
“How can you say that?” My voice fractures. “After everything we’ve been through. Was it all an act?” My throat tightens, but I force the words out. “This version of you—you’re breaking my heart.” I shake my head, blinking hard. “What happened to you?”
He turns halfway, spine rigid, hands flexing at his sides. Then, through gritted teeth, he snarls, “Youhappened to me.”
Alder walks away, boots echoing down the corridor like distant thunder. Before he disappears around the corner, he glances back over his shoulder.
“If you still want answers…” A pause. A muscle ticks in his jaw. “Come to the chapel.”
He doesn’t wait for a response. Doesn’t look back again.
And just like that, the storm isn’t only outside anymore.
Twenty-Two
Rain lashes the stained-glass windows. Thunder murmursand wind wails, slipping its cold fingers through the cracks in the stone as I slide into the shadows behind a crumbling pillar. I’d followed Alder through the castle, hiding just far enough behind to stay unseen, my footsteps cloaked by the storm. I hadn’t wanted him to know I was following—hadn’t wanted to give him the satisfaction.
The chapel stands at the heart of the castle. A masterpiece of reverence and ruin, rising from an open courtyard where the storm has full reign. Cracks snake through the marble pillars, thin as veins, and the once-lustrous frescoes high above are peeling, their faded edges curling like shedding skin. The air inside is heavy, humid, thick with the cloying scent of incense, damp stone, and that ever-present metallic tang that clings to everything in this kingdom and rests against my tongue like rust.
Lightning flares, illuminating the stained-glass murals—waves crashing against jagged cliffs, a hand risingfrom a dark lake, fingers clenched around a chalice, rain pouring down on bowed heads in a benediction…or a curse.
And there, at the far end of the chapel, carved across the back wall, a serpent.
The sight of it makes my skin crawl. Its stone scales gleam wet in the flickering candlelight, and from its gaping mouth pours a thin stream of water into a basin below. The trickle distorts the candlelight, and, for a moment, memory drowns me—stone, silver, sacrifice. The hidden chamber. Clara’s death.
Is this chapel tied to that chamber? Is it the origin of whatever rot slithered into that room with its chanting and magick and blood?
My stomach churns.
Nobles file in, and I scoot tighter into the shadows of the crumbling stone. They’re draped in rain-slicked silks and velvets in shades of slate, seafoam, and storm, heads bowed, voices hushed, hands clasped in obedient devotion.
But this isn’t reverence. It isn’t worship.
It’s hungrier.
Fear and fascination braided together. A wide-eyed submission that slides over them, then over me, like oil, slow, insidious, choking.
I scan the crowd, heart starting to race. Velvet shoulders, bowed heads, rain-spattered cloaks. My pulse kicks harder, searching for the familiar line of his jaw, the unmistakable gold of his hair. But he’s gone. Lost somewhere in the sea of nobles welling into the pews like a tide.
For a heartbeat, panic flickers. But I squash it just asfast.
It doesn’t matter where he is. I don’t need Alder to get the answers waiting here. I don’t need Alder at all. I can find my own way home.
At the front of the chapel, on a raised dais, stands Queen Rothmore.
She still wears Mackenzie’s face. Still has Mackenzie’s willowy limbs, that graceful, ballerina-like poise—but the resemblance ends there. Everything that made Mackenzie my friend—warmth, kindness, honesty—is gone.
The queen’s eyes gleam like the point of a dagger, sharp and cold. And the moment she opens her mouth, the congregation stills. The silence is instant. Breathless.
“The gods have sent us a sign,” Queen Rothmore begins, the crowd hanging on her every word. “For decades, we have labored, prayed, sacrificed. And now, for the first time in generations, we are close—so close—to the return of our kingdom’s heart.”
