The hum inside me swells, vibrating against my ribs. And over it, a voice—clear, crisp, undeniably Fortune’s:
He can’t open that.
I draw in a breath. “You won’t be able to open it.”
He gives me a look. “Why not?”
I shrug. “It’s not meant for you.”
Declan grunts and strains anyway, teeth bared, butthe lid doesn’t so much as creak. Finally, he exhales and leans back, shaking his head. “I defer to you, oh wise Story Witch.”
I roll my eyes, but a smile slips free anyway. It’s getting harder to pretend he’s irritating. Harder to pretend I don’t like the way he looks at me when he steps back, like he actually trusts me with this. Harder to forget that real people, real relationships, are messy, complicated, doomed to fail no matter how many affirmations I arm myself with.
I step forward. The copper wheel glints, the scorched runes shifting under my gaze. A prickle rides my spine. My fingers tremble as I lift my hand and hover it above the wheel.
The second I do, the air thickens. Heat and static press in. The room itself seems to lean toward me, waiting.
A whisper ofyes, Fortune’s whisper, rises from the center of my being and fills me with knowing. It’s a knowing that says I was always meant to find this place. To land in Towerfall. To change.
I splay my fingers wider, draw a breath deeper.
“I think you were right.” My voice is unsteady as I glance up at Declan. “This is going to get way weirder.”
Fourteen
I run my fingers over each of the four runes in the copper wheel: water, earth, air, fire. The brands drink in the warmth of my palm and give it back in a steady, glowing pulse that stirs an ancient ache deep in my chest. It hums beneath my skin and welcomes me with a slow build of heat.
I glance over my shoulder. Declan’s watching, arms crossed, gaze sharpened by caution and something else. Something protective. Like he’s ready to drag me out of danger again, whether I ask him to or not.
“When we first landed in this kingdom,” I say, voice quiet but steady, “you said I was scared.”
He glances down at his borrowed sandals. “I said a lot of things.”
“True. But you weren’t wrong about that one.” My pulse echoes in my ears, in my chest, in the pit of my stomach. “I’ve been scared this whole time.”
He lifts his chin, those dark eyes pouring fire into mine. “So have I.”
A crooked smile tugs at my mouth. “We don’t have to be afraid of this.”
His brows draw together, the smallest flicker of uncertainty flashing across his face. “What do you mean?”
I wish I could tell him. I’m not completely sure myself. But this feels right. For the first time in months—maybe years—I feel aligned. I’m no longer simply surviving. I’m beginning to find my place.
“You’ll see.” I turn back to the trunk. “We both will.”
I straighten my spine and press my hand flat against the symbol of fire. The rune beneath my palm ignites in a soft flare of yellow light. The wheel turns slowly,click,click,click, each quadrant shifting with the same mechanical beat from earlier. The seam along the lid glows, a brilliant thread of fire racing around the edge.
I flinch as the heat kisses my wrist, but I don’t pull away.
Click.
The wheel unlocks. The trunk exhales. A warm rush of air spills out, brushing over my face like a memory scented with charred parchment, melted wax, and the faintest trace of cinnamon.
My hand falls away, fingers trembling as the lid creaks open.
Wood strains, copper groans, and then there’s light. Soft and smoldering, it slips from the trunk in ribbons of faint gold, candlelight filtered through smoke.
Inside, the trunk is packed with scrolls. They’ve been clawed through, torn, rewritten, crossed out, reimagined. The ink is blurred in places. Many are singed,smudged with charcoal, their edges blackened and fragile. Wax-sealed fragments are strewn between the stacks like dried blood. Burned scraps litter the pile, twitching as the cool air rushes to greet them.
