Laughter that sounds like twinkling bells and shattering glass fills the dark room.
“Such manners,” the voice says, seeming to come from everywhere and nowhere at once. “I am the holder of histories and worlds long forgotten. I am the keeper of secrets, and answers, and doors. But you may call me Sphinx.”
The words scratch the surface of a memory in the back of my mind. I shake my head, conscious of the time I’m wasting, the seconds draining away like fine sand slipping through my fingers.
“I’m here to answer a riddle.”
“And I am here to speak it.”
A flash of movement draws my attention, and I turn, only to once more find nothing at all.
“What is it, then?” I fight to keep my voice free from the irritation blooming in my chest. So far, all that this…creature has spoken sounds like an Anemoi-cursed riddle.
Something wet and rough brushes along my shoulder, making me shudder as I spin to face my foe. But the room behind me is empty.
“She tastes like wind, and fury, and mortality.”
“Is that the riddle?” I ask with a frown, my eyes darting between the darkest shadows.
“No.”
I bite my lip to hold back a frustrated curse, but then realization dawns on me. My eyes widen as I try to suppress the shudder that rolls through my body.
“Did you just…lick me?”
The laughter sounds again, and out of the shadows I was studying, a creature stalks toward me.
I wassomewhatcorrect in my assumption that she was a woman. Catlike eyes narrow at me from a sharp, angled face. A mane of black hair tumbles in wild curls around her shoulders, concealing the nakedness of her breasts. But that’s as far as her resemblance to tycheroi extends. She prowls forward on strong but feminine arms, her otherwise elegant hands tipped with sharp claws. Below her chest, tawny skin fades into the golden coat of a huge feline body. The muscles of her powerful legs ripple, lethal clawed paws scraping across the smooth floor with each step. Two wings are folded over her back, the same color as her fur at their base, darkening to the midnight shade of her hair at the tips.
The sight of her brings the memory of the troupe’s story roaring to the surface, tearing words from my throat. “You’re real…”
Sphinx sits back on her haunches and cocks her head at me, her tail flicking behind her like I’ve seen the irritated alley cats do so often back in the Sorrows. “You have heard of me?”
“I heard a story.”
“Don’t all stories start with the truth?” she returns with a smile sharp enough to cut stone. My throat constricts, and I tighten my grip around the hilt of my dagger. But she speaks again.
“Neither seen nor felt, its touch is naught,
Yet in your heart, a chill is brought.
It comes before, trailing in the wake,
A cloak of gloom, a path it makes.
It hides the truths that fear unveils,
In silence, it triumphs as courage fails.”
Her golden eyes bore into mine as she finishes the riddle, a predatory smile curling her lips. “What is it?”
Releasing my grip from the hilt of my dagger, I turn away from her. Probably a mistake, but I can hardly think straight beneath herpenetrating gaze and the unnatural dread in the chamber that presses into me like a physical weight.
I repeat the riddle over and over in my mind. My thoughts race, grasping at answers that slip through my fingers like drops of water. I glance at theclepsydrasuspended on the pedestal nearby; the liquid inside it trickles downward in a slow, inevitable stream.
What if the riddles were crafted specifically for each contestant, threads of their unique stories, knowledge, and experiences intertwined? Such an approach could add a poetic complexity, crafting a personalized challenge for every soul—a puzzle as singular and intricate as the person intended to solve it.
What have we here?
