No.
I’m fine. Keep walking.
But my feet are rooted to the spot because it hits me—my life at the Pen was so sheltered. The adventurous side of me ended with Drayven’s death. I misjudged the difficulty of this. Didn’t expect to be reminded of ghosts around every turn.
Icy rain lashes down, faster and heavier.
I force myself to refocus on my friends in the Pen. For better or worse, they’re my family now. My brows pinch. That’s if any of them are still alive.
Not all Vesper lessons were horrible. Some were fun, like when we role-played being different types of hunters. Oh, how we mocked them. My favorite game was and always will be hide and seek. Demaya was the best. She has an innate talent for sneaking around unseen.
For all of its faults, the worst part of my year at the Pen was the week leading up to the Hunt and the week afterward… when one of us left for good.
I never had to deal with spiders, monsters, or a growly Huntsmen I hate. Who reminds me of someone I loved.
Despite the Pen’s cruel lessons, at least there I had a purpose, an identity. Out here, stripped of everything familiar, who am I really? The scared little girl in the well? Or a lost queen?
My thoughts flitter to the Huntsman again. A sense of—something—quickens in my chest. He seemed so insistent on saving my life. Maybe he died. Maybe that creature ripped him to shreds. Oh, Gods. A whimper shoots from my lips, and I cover my mouth.
Why do I feel sick at the thought? Worse, why do I feel the urge to turn back and find him? He’s my enemy. I owe himnothing.
Whatever the case, losing it now will not help. If anyone can survive this, it’s me.
Stick to the plan. Get to the end of the Labyrinth unclaimed. Win my freedom. Win every bride’s freedom. Or Kasaros takes mine.
No more games.
Dashing my tears, I set my feet to walking and consider adjusting my plan.
It’s highly unlikely I’ll make it to the end of the Labyrinth alone. If the Huntsman is dead, I’ll need to find another protector.
Maybe I should track down another bride.
Kasaros never forbade me from seeking their help.
As if hearing the challenge, air shudders, and the Labyrinth shifts. I clutch the dagger’s hilt, bracing for whatever comes next. The walls groan, stone grinding against stone. The floor tilts, and I stagger. Then, silence. The downpour has stopped. When I open my eyes, I see I’m at a massive, ancient courtyard, its edges lost in the mist. Though the sky is thick with clouds, a momentary break reveals the stars. My breath catches. Amara’s stars.
The Goddess who abandoned this world might look down on me now. Maybe it’s just wishful thinking. Either way, the sight steadies something within me.
I step forward beneath creeping vines along a moss-choked path. Remnants of an old pantheon linger. Marble columns rise like fractured ribs, some split in half, others only stumps. A broken sundial at my feet is missing its gnomon. A scorched scar marks where time was measured. The last recorded hour is midnight—the hour the Bride Hunt begins.
I swallow hard and step over it.
Four fountains sit at the courtyard’s edges, their once-pristine basins slick with moss and decay. Water trickles from the stone mouths of forgotten Gods, the sound unnervingly soft after the roar of the shifting Labyrinth. My scratchy throatis thumping, but as I near the closest fountain for a drink, something pale and brittle shifts beneath the surface.
Bones.
Tiny ones. Not animal. Not human, either. Something else. A shudder runs through me, and I step back. At the center of the courtyard stands an altar veiled in vines. It’s low and wide, with a smooth surface, except for thick, rusted chains dangling from its sides.
Whatever this place was, whatever it became, it’s not a sanctuary.
Wind tickles my skin as I continue walking. On a ruined wall, I read ancient carvings—warnings and prayers. From one bride to another,The sooner you stop fighting, the happier you’ll be.
Another, fresher—Never cry before your husband.
I exhale and shake my head. It sounds like something a Vesper would say. If brides have accepted their fate for centuries, who am I to rage against it?
Perhaps it’s time to face facts.
