Never powerless.
They do not hesitate. They do not waver. They do not ask permission.
They claim what has always been theirs.
Thirty-Six
Magick hums against the breeze, an ancient, livingvibration I feel in my bones, in my blood. The Tower’s isle glows beneath the fading light, its silver walls no longer hidden, no longer forgotten. It stands tall against the horizon, gleaming—a beacon of what is possible, of what will be. It looks almost beautiful now. Strange how something that nearly killed me can also feel like the beginning of something new.
Ahead of us, the women’s footsteps echo across the stone bridge, steady and sure, as they return to the castle where other women gather. Those who watched and waited, who feared and hoped and dared to believe, they surge forward, a tide of voices and open arms and wide eyes, meeting in the middle like waves crashing together.
They call to one another, voices bright with victory and laughter. Fierce cries of triumph ring out into the twilight-tinged air. The sounds spill across the water, unrelenting, unstoppable. Like them.
I should be crying or collapsing or doing somethingequally dramatic to mark the moment. But all I can do is watch them, hollowed out and overflowing all at once. This isn’t just a win. It’s a reclamation.
I press a hand to my chest and exhale. The fight is over, but my heart still races.
Alderic stands beside me, bruised and bloodied and breathless, his tunic torn, his knuckles scraped raw. He looks like hell. And yet, he’s gorgeous. A little more golden in the silver dusk. A little more real in the stillness.
And there’s something in his expression now that wasn’t there before. Lightness.
I feel it too.
The weight I’ve been carrying for so long—fear, doubt, the crushing belief that survival meant selling pieces of myself—has finally slipped from my shoulders.
He wraps an arm around me, pulling me close. His lips press against the top of my head, a breath of warmth brushing my sweat-damp skin. A promise. A quiet vow in a world that no longer demands sacrifice.
I slide my fingers between his, threading them together as I tilt my face up to his.
His gaze is steady, searching. Lit with something too vast to name and too fragile to look away from.
Without a word, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out the Lovers card. “I think you dropped this.”
My breath catches. “I wasn’t sure I’d get it back.”
He tilts his head, eyes glittering. “It’s always been yours, Gemma. I was just holding onto it until you were ready to take it.”
Something warm twists in my chest. “That’s oddly romantic for a man covered in blood and dirt.”
“What can I say?” He brushes a grimy strand of hairfrom my face and softer, teasing, says, “You bring out my poetic side.”
“So,” he murmurs, a weak smile tipping the corner of his mouth, “what now?”
I take the card from him and hold it between us like a question, like an answer.
The card that brought me here. The card that cracked open my world.
This card tore everything apart. It also stitched it back together. I don’t know if I believe in destiny—but I believe in this. In him. In us.
Beneath my fingers, the ink shivers. The figures shift, tangling into each other just like they did the night the Tower called me here. Magick stirs. Not loud. Not grand. But steady. Familiar.
Alive.
“It can take you home.”
I study Alderic—the man who never asked me to be small, who never demanded I fold myself into something more palatable or give myself away just to be accepted. The man who fought beside me, fought for me. The man who lets me be me. Who chose me, not in spite of that, but because of it.
I glance down at the card. The ink continues to swirl, its edges warm beneath my touch. A tether. A choice.
