I can’t scream.
My body is not my own.
No!The words imprint themselves on my soul.I will not be held hostage. Not like this.But there’s a wall between my mind and body, a strange dark fog, my will no longer iron, but lost. Malleable.
All I have left is rage. Its touch is cold and it settles beneath my skin like an old friend, soothing the terror and chasing away the fear. He can’t hold me forever. And even if he is a God, he is not invulnerable to weakness.
Even Gods can die.
Kasaros circles the gathered brides, each movement precise like a predator roaming its domain. He lifts a bride’s chin with one elegant finger, searching her face.
“Welcome, my delightful brides-to-be.” Turning to face the rest of us, he spreads benevolent hands wide as he walks among us. “Today begins your dance with destiny. Before you lies my maze—a Labyrinth of choices and chances.”
Lightning flickers through the nearest stone arch, highlighting the creeping crawl of danger. A man lurks there, crouched on all fours as he eases up what appears to be the last flight of a row of stairs. His gaze rakes the chamber as he moves stealthily forward.
“Sweet Goddess,” the girl beside me gasps, sucking in a sharp, terrified breath.
“Quiet,” I hiss, tearing at the gauzy dress that the Knights gave me to find the silk bound corset I wear underneath. They’d missed that when they’d taken me to the sacrificial chambers, too intent upon leering at my breasts.
Which is precisely what I’d intended.
The handle of the thin stiletto sheathed between the whalebone pushing my breasts together finds my touch, and I ease it free, palming it so the length of the blade tucks neatly against my arm unseen. There’s a needle hidden in my braid but beyond that I have no other weapons—far too difficult to smuggle more in—but then anything can become a weapon, can’t it?
“Shall you choose to run?” Kasaros cajoles, as the man slides into the shadows of the room. “Will you hide? Or…” His figure blurs and he reforms directly behind me, his fingertips brushing across the top of my clavicle. “Will you seek out your own match and claim your own hunter?”
I glance over my shoulder toward him, turning slightly so he can’t see the knife. He’s close enough to stab, but I’ve seen himmove. One blur and he’ll be gone again, with the advantage of surprise lost.
“Are there no other options?” I ask sweetly.
His image warps for a second, amused eyes locking on me through the mask. They burn a bright blue, the same color as the hottest of flames.
“Ah,” he muses, and for some reason it feels as though we both step outside of time. The room falls still, the world silent, and here we both stand, caught in some strange bubble of nothingness. “A Huntress. Brave and beautiful, her cunning legendary. Perhaps,” he mocks, “there is another path for those bold enough to take it.”
Instantly, my arm sears with pain and I hiss a breath as I’m catapulted back into my body, the harsh intake of breath suddenly erupting all around me. There’s a golden image burned into my skin, an arrow seated within a drawn bow.
Huntress, whispers a little voice in my head.
“But know this—” He gestures toward the roof of the chamber, where the moon bleeds through the circular arch, casting a soft red glow across the floor. “When the blood moon completes its cycle, my game must end. And those who have neither claimed a husband nor reached the maze’s end by the final moonset... Well, let us say they shall provide a different sort of entertainment.”
“The choice of how to play is yours alone. Will you be predator or prey?” He seems to see straight through me, a smile quirking at his lips as he presses a finger against his lips in a shushing motion.
Our little secret, his smile seems to say, as if he knows exactly what’s tucked against my arm.
Then he’s gone, running his fingers through another bride’s hair, before blurring and reappearing somewhere else. “Will you trust in chance or forge your own path? Each step you takewrites your story in my grand game. May luck be your friend.” He bows to one and all. “Let the Hunt begin.”
Lightning strikes, obliterating the shadows, and then Kasaros is gone, the electric sensation of his presence vanishing.
But we’re no longer alone.
Chapter 2
Zyla
A good huntress learns their prey’s habits…”
—ZYLA BASHKIRIA, AUTHOR OFA BRIDE’S GUIDE TO HUNTING THE HUNTER
The piercing cry of a horn echoes through the night.
