Behind her, her empty throne looms, flanked by two others. In one, an elderly woman, spine stiff, lips pursed, gray hair swept up on top of her head and secured with sapphire pins. In the other, King Rothmore sits scowling, his shoulders as tense as mine.
But he isn’t watching the queen. He isn’t listening. His attention is elsewhere. Victor scans the room, his gaze flitting over corners, faces, shadows with a precision that makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.
What is he looking for?Whois he looking for?
“We are not alone in this effort,” Queen Rothmore continues, her voice dropping to a hush that somehowfills the entire chapel. The congregation leans forward, heads tilting like flowers bending toward the sun.
The silence thickens. Something in me coils tighter.
“Our former priest was reclaimed by the gods some time ago and taken to his final reward,” Queen Rothmore says smoothly. “We honor Droskyn Vayne. We cherish his memory. However, the Kingdom of Cups does not dwell in the past.”
A ripple of agreement rolls through the crowd like a wave as thunder rumbles overhead.
I tense. Alder said the man we sawwasDroskyn—that he should be dead. And if the Queen isn’t lying about Droskyn now…if thatwasn’thim on the island hunting down that girl…
Then who the hell was it?
My question is answered before I can finish formulating it.
“The gods, in their infinite wisdom, have sent us a new herald. Their new messenger. Their angel of restoration.”
The crowd shudders, a collective inhale sweeping through them like wind through brittle leaves as white robes emerge from the shadows behind the altar.
The new priest steps forward and into the water pouring from the serpent’s mouth. It spills down his body, soaking his white robes until they cling to his tall frame, outlining every corded muscle. The fabric is nearly transparent now, a second skin slicked against him.
Streams slip down the silver mask that hides his face but not his presence. It radiates through the room like a current. The congregation breaks into applause, a wave of sound that fills the chapel and crashes againstmy ears.
Delphara moves toward him. Her fingers trail along the curve of his mask like she’s blessing him. He catches her hands before she can pull away and presses them to his unmoving mask.
She murmurs something I can’t hear over the swell of cheers. Her eyes shine as she clutches him like he’s the answer to her prayers, to the kingdom’s.
The crowd responds in kind. A sound of rapture. Of surrender.
“My steady flock…” The priest’s voice warps, distorted by the silver mask that obscures his face. It ripples, wavy and choppy, as though his words are being dragged through deep water.
My blood runs cold.
That voice—
It sounds like the one I heard during the ritual. The one echoing through the chamber while Clara died.
I can’t be certain. But my body knows before my mind can catch up.
It’s him.
He stands at the altar now, anointed. Worshiped. And all I can do is watch as they devour every word.
“We are called to endure. To sacrifice. To restore. The gods demand it, and we answer.”
The rhythm of his voice is hypnotic, his words rising and falling like waves, lulling the congregation into something just shy of trance.
A shiver crawls over my skin, and I tuck my arms against my middle.
I know this cadence. This kind of tone. This kind of power. Not just from Cups. From home. From childhood.A too-small church in the south. The pungent scent of lilies, thick and sickly sweet. The sour tang of sweat. A preacher with a voice like this one—soft, steady, never needing to shout. His power wasn’t in volume. It was in the whispers that slipped under locked doors, in the words that seeped in like dark water, warping thoughts before they fully formed.
This is how it starts. This is how control nests inside devotion.
“We stand at the edge of salvation. At the brink of restoration,” the new priest continues, arms spread wide. The storm howls against the glass as if trying to drown him out, but he doesn’t falter. His words twist and writhe, a tangle of lies and half-truths that wind their way into the crowd. And the congregation devours it all, their hunger endless.
