My stomach lurches, hollow and heavy at once.
Breathe.
I squeeze my eyes shut, drag air into my lungs until it hurts, and force it out slowly.
Maybe blank isn’t empty. Maybe it’s a door.
The thought steadies me, calms the frantic flutter in my chest. I’ve read enough books about the tarot to know that the cards speak in riddles, not direct answers. Maybe whatever magick dragged me here isn’t finished yet. Maybe the wheel is still turning, waiting for me to remember what Fortune said I’ve forgotten.
I press my thumb against the slick white face of the card.
“I hear you,” I whisper. “I’m listening. But you have to give me a little more.”
I glance over my shoulder, hoping Declan didn’t notice the stampede of dread that just barreled throughme. He gives me two very enthusiastic thumbs up.
I respond with a crooked smile and turn back to the spell that is not going to plan.
I close my eyes. Let the sand warm my shins. Let cinnamon sting my senses. Let the dry air catch in my lungs.
“I’m not asking for much,” I whisper to the fire that’s claimed dominion over this realm. “Just a nudge. A flicker. A sign.”
I’ve never cast a spell before. I’ve never believed in this type of magick enough to try. But, ever since I’ve been here, things have been different. There’s real magick here. At times, I can feel it smoldering in my chest. This world is not mine. Towerfall is truly magickal.
I draw a breath, open my eyes, and blend my writing skills with what I’ve learned about spellcasting.
“Fire that cleanses, fire that knows…”
Slowly, I wind the red silk thread around the chunk of citrine, knotting it tight, anchoring the energy like muscle to bone.
“Spark the truth this desert shows.”
I press the stone into the sand.
“Find the path—the place to start.”
I empty the cinnamon into my palm, inhale its spicy heat, then draw a circle around the stone.
“Reveal the way…” I lower my hand, pressing it to the stone. “Send it straight to my heart.”
The sand beneath my palm trembles. Then buckles. The ring of cinnamon spits and flares, a lit fuse racing around my hand. The red thread writhes as it lengthens, slithering out from the citrine to coil around my fingers. The stone pulses, its glow swelling until it burns like a miniature sun. Jagged seams of light crack through thesand, splitting outward in lightning-fast veins.
I try to yank my hand back, but the thread has already tightened, binding me to the stone. The citrine is locked fast in the sand, immovable no matter how hard I tug.
“Okay,” I breathe, my muscles tensing. My voice comes out high, panicked. “Okay, I’m listening. What do you want me to know?”
The sand beneath me shudders, then softens. Heat rises in waves. The surface bubbles, simmers, then gives way.
“Declan!” My scream rips out as the sand grabs my thighs, swallowing my legs.
The thread surges higher, twisting up my arm, tightening around my wrist, and with a violent yank it drags my hand beneath the surface.
He’s there in a heartbeat, grabbing my arms just as I sink deeper, sand gurgling around my waist. “Can you stand?”
I try to kick my legs, to wiggle free, but every movement drags me deeper and tightens the thread’s grip around my arm. “This isn’t normal quicksand, Declan. This is magick murder sand! Do something!”
He plants his feet in the soft slope around the sudden pool of quicksand and crouches low. He leans in and slides his arms under mine like we’re about to hug. “Stop thrashing,” he grunts. “You’re making it worse.”
“Shut up and pull!”
