Two women cling together—mother and daughter, or sisters perhaps. The younger one can’t be older than Demaya. My chest tightens. Focus. Stick to the plan.
I step toward the maiden with the gold in her hair, hand extended. “I need you to listen to me very carefully.” My voice scrapes raw. “Any minute now, around two hundred men will arrive. They’ll hunt us down.”
Her brows draw together in confusion.
“Do you understand me?” I ask.
Before she can respond, male laughter booms through the chamber. My skin prickles with recognition before my mind catches up. Not just any laugh—Kasaros. The Trickster God. The Laughing God. He’s here to gloat.
“Not to gloat.,” his whisper tickles my ear.
I spin. Empty space. Spin again.
He stands inches away, just as I imagined—dark, dashing, disgustingly distant as he surveys me. His eyes glaze over as if he has somewhere better to be until he notices my blue hair. Something flickers in his expression, gone before I can name it. Then he moves away, weaving between the other brides, shadow one moment, gleaming mist the next. A golden mask flickers on his face, painted in a grotesque smile like the Huntsman’s mask. It disappears so fast, I wonder if it was real.
There are now two of him, one dancing around the courtyard, the other inspecting each of the women individually. The odd part is, the other women don’t seem to notice the second God. They’re focussed on the other version of Kasaros, which skips and hops around the walls of the Labyrinth, chaos incarnate.
Are we all subject to a different illusion? One crafted for individual eyes and hopes?
“I’m here to explain the rules.” His monotone drone fades into the atmosphere. “To give you a fighting chance. It’s what you want, isn’t it? To win?” A pause. “Blah blah. And so on.”
He doesn’t care for us. We’re pawns, not people. Alarm spikes in my veins. The other brides remain unaware they’re trapped in an illusion, dazed. But something inside me, something ancient, purges the fog like a flame licking through oil.
Kasaros stills mid-step, his gaze snapping toward me. His head tilts slightly, as if listening to something I can’t hear. A shadow flickers through his irises.
Curiosity.
I stiffen. Try not to breathe.
His expression shifts. It’s subtle but unmistakable. The slow drag of his attention over my form, the assessing gleam in his eye, the way his lips part slightly as if he can taste something in the air, something he overlooked before. He waits. I remain a statue until my lungs burn.
He resumes his walk around the chamber, cutting through shadows like he owns them. Each bride he passes tenses up without knowing why, just as I did. His demeanor changes when he reaches the one with shrewd eyes. His fingers dip into her corset and tease out a hidden dagger before he slides it back in place. She never notices.
“Finally,” he drawls. “A Huntress worth watching.”
His casual amusement carries an edge of aroused anticipation, almost like her defiance excites him. Could he be bored with the game he’s watched year after year? Man hunts woman. Man claims woman with blade and body—the end.
I’d be bored, too.
A snort of amusement escapes his lips as he releases the huntress’s braid. My eyes narrow. Though he doesn’t look my way, I’m sure he follows my train of thought. The bastard must have known I watched him earlier. My statue freeze was pointless. He’s probably listening in on my thoughts right now.
His lips twitch again in that pleased way. The air between us crackles.
I should be afraid. Should be screaming with terror at the power he holds. But I’m not. I’m… I try to lock onto my tumultuous feelings, to catch them within the hurricane of my soul. No, I’m not afraid of him. I’m angry.
His head snaps toward me, mouth opening to speak, but I lift my hand and growl, “I don’t want to hear it.”
If I’m going to die for my impudence, I’d rather die without receiving a lecture.
His jaw clicks shut. For a single, delicious heartbeat, Kasaros is stunned.
Oh, that’s interesting.
Thoughts swirl in my head, lessons, and mysteries learned too fast for him to catch. His silence is an opening, and I seize it. I tilt my chin, not in defiance but in something softer—consideration. My gaze flits over him as if he’s beneath my notice, as if the God standing before me, a being of shadow, laughter, and destruction, is just another player in a game I intend to win.
“Bold, little rose,” he muses. “You do realize who you’re speaking to, don’t you?”
“Of course I do.” My lashes lower, my voice softening—just enough to make him lean closer, to make him want to hear me. I let the silence stretch between us, a skill I mastered on a different kind of battlefield. “Do you?”
