The masked man chants louder, his voice rising above the others like a thread pulled taut.
Clara’s eyes roll back. Blood leaks from her nose, the corners of her eyes, from her mouth. Crimson foam bubbles down her chin as her lips part in a silent scream.
My hand flies to my mouth.
A final ragged, wet gurgle, and Clara sinks. Her body slips beneath the surface. The water froths. Blood weaves like silk ribbons through the waves and coils around Delphara’s pale skin.
The air shivers. A faint hum pulses through the chamber—like a chord struck on an instrument that doesn’t exist in this world, in any world. The surfaceof the water glows faintly, then brighter, a shimmering white light that radiates outward from where Clara vanished. It casts dancing reflections on the walls, the ceiling, Delphara’s face.
And then Clara rises.
Not floating, not bobbing—but lifted, slowly and deliberately, as if the water itself is obeying a silent command. Her body breaks the surface like an offering. Limbs weightless. Hair fanned around her like a crown of kelp. Eyes closed.
Delphara touches Clara gently, reverently, as though this isn’t a murder but a farewell. She presses her forehead to Clara’s, their brows touching in a quiet, brutal blessing.
Then Delphara steps back.
Clara’s body tips over the edge of the tub, limbs loose and limp, a doll discarded, her blood-slicked skin glistening in the candlelight.
With a sickening splash, the current grips her. Drags her. And I watch, numb and frozen, as she’s carried across the stone floor, out the open doors, and over the cliff into the abyss beyond.
Gone.
Like she was never here at all.
The chanting stops.
Silence slams into the room like a fist.
The masked man closes his book with a soft final thud.
Delphara brushes two fingers through the blood-slick water, then raises them to her lips. She kisses them, eyes fluttering closed.
A ritual sealed. A promise kept.
And, for the second time in as many days, I run.
Fifteen
I can’t breathe.
The air is thick and wet and wrong, the taste of blood still sharp on my tongue. My legs move before my brain catches up, sprinting down the stone corridor as if I can outpace the image of Clara’s lifeless body slipping into the dark.
My shoulder slams into the hidden panel. I’m frantic and shaking, and my fingers scrape over the cold stone. I find the button—press it hard.
Click.
The floor shifts beneath me again and I’m thrown back into the hallway, staggering away from the painting like I’ve been spit out by the castle itself. I slam into the opposite wall and suck in a breath like it’s the first I’ve ever taken.
Run.
My slippers skid across the rugs. I round corners too fast. My breath punches out in short, shallow bursts. I don’t know where I’m going—I just need distance. Distance from that room, from that tub, from that sigilthat shimmered and changed and sunk into Clara’s skin like a key into a lock.
They killed her. They killed her like it was nothing. Like it was sacred.
I reach another intersection of hallways, my pace faltering as I clutch my aching chest and swallow ragged gulps of air. My legs burn, exhaustion catching up with the terror surging through my veins.
A tapestry ripples beside me from the force of my movement, and I force myself to slow down and duck into the shadows. I cannot get caught looking like this—wild-eyed, trembling, covered in sweat.
