“Uh… thanks.”
“You are beautiful,” he says. “Like a goddess herself. Are all human girls so lovely, or only the ones the goddess takes for herself?”
I don’t know how to answer, so I just stare at the lanterns, hoping for rescue.
The nymph beside me giggles, “She doesn’t know she’s beautiful, Zomas. That’s why the goddess picked her.”
He laughs, leans even closer. His breath smells like wine and honey. “You are very lucky, Chosen One. Tonight, you are the Queen of the Feast. Ask for anything, and it will be yours.”
I glance at Ashton, and his face is unreadable. He’s doing his best to be charming, but his knuckles are white.
The rest of the table is watching us, silent, waiting for me to make a move.
I swallow hard. “I just want to survive the night,” I say.
Zomas laughs so loud my ears ring. “A modest queen! That is a new thing. Most would ask for power, or love, or fortune.”
“Survival is more valuable,” I say, and it’s not meant to be clever, but the nymphs squeal and clap.
A satyr further down the table shouts, “Hear hear! The Chosen One is wiser than we thought!”
The food keeps coming. Every bite is better than the last. Everything blurs into a pleasant haze of flavor and sound. But even so, I can’t help but think of Cassius, Oberon, and Sylvian.Are they safe wherever they are? Are they eating? Are they sitting?Somehow I picture them frantically searching for us, and guilt settles in my belly, even though I’d rather be with them than at this strange table any day.
Every so often, Zomas squeezes my hand or touches my face. He tells stories about his time in the maze, how he’s outwitted monsters and seduced beautiful creatures, how the nymphs are his family and the satyrs his brothers. He asks a hundred questions about me. My village, my family, my lovers (none, and he seems to like this answer best of all).
With every answer, he laughs harder, drinks deeper. The nymphs pet my hair and call me sister. It’s all so strange, almost sweet, that for a moment I let myself relax.
But then, I see the way their eyes slide past me when I stop talking, the way the nymphs grip the silverware too tightly, the way Zomas’ hooves never quite stay still. The way the hedge pulses and hums, like a living drumbeat.
This is not a party. This is a performance. I just don’t know why or for what end game.
Ashton doesn’t let go of me all night. He smiles, he jokes, but his hand is always there, on my knee, on my arm, or on my hand, ready to pull me back if anything goes wrong.
I watch the lanterns, counting the faces. Some are beautiful, some are hideous, but none of them are real. It’s all a mask, and I’m the only thing in this clearing that isn’t pretending.
When Zomas leans closer to me, I try to smile, but my nerves are raw. His voice is low, just for me. “Be careful, Chosen One. Not everything in this maze is as it seems.”
He says it like a joke, but the warning is real.
I sit very still, and let the party roll over me like a tide. In the end, it’s not the food or the music that unnerves me. It’s the way they all look at me, eyes hungry, waiting for the moment I let my guard down.
They’re waiting for something, although I’m not sure what.
I lose count of the courses. At some point, the meat gets swapped for roasted roots, then for salted fish, then for pyramids of pastries dusted in something like powdered gold. Every few minutes, another nymph appears with a new jug of wine or a fresh pot of tea, each poured with a sly smile and a whisper in my ear. I never see them come or go. They just exist, bright and impossible, wherever I’m not looking.
I try to pace myself, but the tea is more than tea. Every sip makes my skin hum, my thoughts a little lighter, the sound of music sharper. I keep waiting for the poison to kick in, for the blackout, the madness, but it doesn’t come. There’s just a lazy, stupid warmth that makes me want to trust everyone.
I don’t, of course. Not even a little. But I drink slowly and carefully. Just enough not to insult anyone, but not so much that I lose my wits.
Ashton plays along, but I see his sips are measured too. The nymphs adore him. They drape themselves over his shoulders, stroking his hair, whispering jokes into his ear. He laughs and flirts back, but every other word is about me, about my bravery, my wit, or my beauty. The nymphs pretend to swoon, but it’s clear they don’t care about the stories. They just like the way his lips move.
Zomas is relentless. He’s always reaching across Ashton, refilling my plate, feeding me bits of fruit from his own hand. Hetells stories about ancient feasts, times the goddess herself came down from the sky to dance naked with the satyrs. He flatters me until my ears ring with it, always coming back to my eyes, my hair, my “delicate” hands. It would be sweet, if I didn’t know he’d probably eat my liver if he got bored.
Between bites, he peppers me with questions.
“Is it true,” he asks, “that human women cannot shapeshift?”
I swallow, not sure how to answer. “That’s… true, I guess.”
