Before the thought can settle, the Tower pulses. A slow, guttural thrum that reverberates through the stone.
The priest steps forward, his white robes nearly brushing my legs, his mask tilted ever so slightly as if admiring his handiwork.
“The gods are generous,” the priest says, his voice distorted by the mask, warped and watery. “Plucking you from your small, simple life and bringing you to the place that could use you the most.”
He lifts a hand and presses two fingers to my forehead in a mockery of a blessing.
I lurch at him, baring my teeth. “Go to hell.” My bound wrists yank me back, pain snapping like lightning under my skin. “You think sacrificing me will make your gods happy? You think this will save your kingdom?”
A monster in priest’s robes.
A butcher in his white apron.
“Tell me,” he says. “Has the blood we’ve spilled failed to work?”
I freeze.
Because he’s right—the machines have stirred. The kingdom has flickered with signs of life. And that’s thepart I overlooked. That we all overlooked.
I’ve been so focused on stopping the sacrifices, on putting an end to the slaughter, that I never paused to ask why they worked in the first place.
And now, with my life mere moments from ending, the answer crashes into me like a wave.
The blood Delphara spilled, the women she and her priests slaughtered…it worked. For a while. But only because it brushed up against the true magick. The shadow of it, the twisted reflection. Not union but division. Not devotion but betrayal. Not love freely given but trust violently broken.
The reverse meaning of the Lovers.
It was close enough to the source to flicker the machines awake. To mimic power. But it was never going to heal the kingdom. Never going to restore what was lost.
Because this kingdom needs connection—love, freewill.
And what Delphara offers is not love. It’s control. It’s the illusion of unity built on blood and fear.
The priest lifts his hands, palms upward, as if welcoming a divine truth. As if calling the Tower itself to bear witness. “The time has come to restore what was broken. To resurrect the order that once gave this kingdom power. Tonight, the cycle begins anew. The Tower will rise. Cups will flourish. And prosperity will once again flow through this kingdom like water…like blood.”
The words don’t echo—they root. They claim. They sink into the walls, the floor, the bones of the Tower itself. The machine’s hum deepens, vibratingunder my skin.
“We thank the gods with this offering. With this sacrifice.” The priest tilts his head back, bathed in flickering torchlight, pristine mask gleaming.
Except it isn’t flawless—a single line of blood slips from beneath the silver edge. A vivid crimson stream against pale skin.
Everything stills. The machine. The Tower. The shackles. My thoughts.
The world is suddenly silent. Heavy. Wrong.
He raises a hand and smears the blood at his throat with his fingers. The pristine white robe stains beneath his touch, blooming like dye in snow.
And then he laughs.
The sound is low and warped, twisted at the edges, like a memory gone sour. It scrapes against the walls of the Tower, against the inside of my ribs.
His fingers find the edge of the mask. They linger there, as if savoring the power in the reveal. Then, with a quiet scrape of metal against skin, he begins to lift.
Blood snakes down his cheek in a scarlet thread, catching the flicker of the torches as it carves its way along the sharp line of his jaw.
And then I see it.
That smirk.
