His jaw sets, and he shakes his head.
Silence folds in around us.
I step back, this time needing distance from myself. From the sharp, cruel things I continue to let out just to keep from feeling vulnerable.
My heel clips something hard, half-buried in the sand. I stumble and look down.
Stone, blackened and weatherworn, juts from the dune. Faded sigils, carved deep, catch the last light like wet teeth.
I kneel, brushing the sand away with my fingers. More stone is revealed as a hum slides under my skin in a low electric pulse. My fingertips tingle, and that feeling swells, fierce and alive, beating beneath my ribs like a second heartbeat. I press my palm to the stone, and it answers.
The sand around the spire trembles with a long, low groan. Cracks spider out from under my knees, thin as lace at first, then widening until the ground at our feet sighs and the dune cascades in a great, roaring slide.
“Hold on!” Declan shouts.
I seize his hand. Maybe he grabs mine. It hardly matters. The world tilts. The dunes fall away in columns, pouring like waterfalls of sand.
We tumble down, down, down, the air full of grit.
Stone slams into my back, knocking the breath from my lungs. My palms scrape the ground as I push myself upright, coughing until my lungs burn. I blink through the dust. Declan’s a few feet away, rubbing the back of his head as he stares up. I follow his gaze, my head tilted all the way back.
We stand in a chamber carved deep into the desert’s belly. It’s vast and open to the sky now. Evenly spaced columns thick as sequoias shoot up from the stone floor. Flame-shaped spires crown each, their tops black and sharp against the sky. We’re within a ring of ancient stones, the desert exhaling around us. Above, the first stars prick the dusk.
We’ve fallen into a memory long forgotten, a secret swallowed by the earth itself.
Declan groans, brushing sand from his clothes. “Fuck being dropped into things.”
I smell smoke and ash, fire and ozone. The air thrums with heat and something that feels ancient. Something that vibrates against my bones and whispers beneath my skin.
Magick is on fire behind my heart as Fortune’s words echo through my thoughts:
…the Tower chose you… The Tower brought you to this realm. And when you are ready, you will heal it.
I blink up at the circle of dusk, wide and gleaming like a god’s eye. At the columns and their stone flames. At the sand that is held at bay around us by some otherworldly force.
“I think…” I swallow, throat raw. “We found the Tower.”
Or maybe it found us.
Eighteen
I should feel empty after what I said. That Declan’s basically a to-do list. That we’re frauds. That he could never be my haven. After the way Declan looked at me like I’d ripped the earth out from under him and offered him nothing to hold on to, I should feel hollow.
But then the sand opened up.
And now I’m not empty.
I’mbrimming.
Something timeworn and hot is coiling in my chest, pressurizing with every breath. Like the Tower planted its magick inside me the moment it cracked open. Magick that’s growing, expanding, aching to burst free.
At the center of the Tower sits a forgotten shrine. It rises from the stone floor like the spine of an ancient beast. The pedestal is carved from obsidian, edges chipped and softened by time. Ash clings to the base like a shadow while traces of red pigment bleed into the sunken lines and faded symbols etched into its surface. A clay offeringbowl rests on the podium. It’s cracked down the middle and blackened by fire, its rim warped and melted.
Around the shrine, stone steps lead to a sunken circle—an ancient gathering space carved into the Tower. The floor is smooth beneath the drifting sand. Obsidian inlays glint faintly beneath the dust in jagged, interwoven flame-like patterns.
A deep bench curves along the circular wall, polished to a dark, oil-slick sheen. Nestled on the stone are cushions draped in rust-colored velvet and gold brocade, their fabric worn thin in places. Golden tassels glint beneath fine layers of dust, and thick fur pelts spill over the seats.
I follow the steps down, drawn to the altar, the magick in me recognizing the magick in it.
