And still, I shake my head. Because none of it excuses the lies.
“The Kingdom of Cups is dying, Gemma. Towerfall itself is dying, and if we don’t—”
“Stop.”
He blinks, startled, his urgency faltering, caught off guard by the edge in my voice.
“If what you’re saying is true…” He opens his mouth to respond, but I don’t let him. “And I’m not saying it’s not. But I wasn’t brought here to fall in love.” The words scrape out past the lump in my throat.
He stills.
A gust of wind rolls off the water, sharp with salt and the ghost of rain. And in the space between us, the card flutters in his hand like a dying flame.
“Gemma—” My name is a prayer, a plea, a broken thing falling from his lips.
And I’m breaking too.
Because yes—I believe in magick. I believe that card brought me here. I believe there’s something bigger happening, something ancient and wild that’s been weaving itself into my life without permission.
But this is not our love story.
“There’s a lot here that needs to be fixed,” I say, my voice steadier now, stronger for the pain beneath it. “And I will do what I have to do to get back home. To make it right. But whatever this is”—I motion between us, atrembling hand slicing the air—“it’s not the answer.”
I turn and walk away.
The dock creaks beneath my steps. The breeze bites at my skin. The tears come hot and unrelenting, blurring the world as they streak down my cheeks.
I don’t wipe them away, and I don’t look back.
Twenty-Five
The castle kitchens are separate from the gilded lies ofthe palace above. Down here, the air feels heavier but somehow cleaner—like the truth is allowed to live in the cracks between the stone. It’s the only place that feels remotely safe to me now. Maybe it’s the warmth that lingers in the hearth’s low-burning embers. Or maybe it’s the people who work here, the ones who truly keep the kingdom running, who don’t have the luxury of deception. There’s no room for secrets when hands are stiff from kneading dough, when bodies ache from hours over a fire.
Unlike the nobles, they don’t waste time pretending.
I wish I could say the same for myself.
I came here instead of returning to my room. Now that I know every bit of the truth, I can’t look at Alder. He was always the man I feared he was, ruin wrapped in a beautiful smile. And Alderic, his counterpart on the boat, the man I let in, I’m not sure he’s any better. Not really.
The kitchens are quiet at this hour, the usual clatterof pots and barked orders replaced by an expectant stillness. The dwindling fire casts ribbons of orange light across the stone floor. The scents of flour and rosemary still linger, mingling with the faint spice of clove. The air is heavy with the ghost of heat and the quiet hum of something waiting.
My gaze drifts over the empty counters and the neat stacks of wooden bowls left to dry by the basin. So much has unraveled, but the threads are still tangled, looping back on themselves in ways I don’t yet understand.
But this is what I do know.
I turn chaos into clarity. I’ve managed national campaigns with a thousand moving parts, juggled bestselling authors with last-minute demands, sold books I hadn’t even read off a two-line pitch. I’ve wrangled book tours, pre-order giveaways, launch strategies, influencer roundups, TikTok reveals. I’ve taken disasters and turned them into five-figure launch weeks. I’ve made magick out of mess.
And I can do it again.
“Okay, Gemma, think.” I exhale and tuck my damp hair behind my ears. “What do you actually know?”
I square my shoulders and start mentally storyboarding the path forward, the way I would in a pitch meeting for a book with an unclear audience.
Step One: What do I know?
I know the Tower is connected to whatever’s going on—and to me. I know Clara’s dead. I know another girl has been taken. I know the queen and her new priest are killing women. And I know, with the final sacrifice the priest mentioned in his sermon, that I’m running out of time.
Step Two: Identify potential.
