A real roof. Dry clothes. Warmth that seeps into your bones instead of cutting through them. A fire. Food that isn’t rationed or scavenged. A bath.
A bed.
The thought alone makes my chest ache.
I glance at the others as we walk, at the tension still lingering in their shoulders, at the way they stay close without thinking, and I wonder if they’re picturing the same things. If they’re astired as I am. If they want, just for a little while, to stop fighting and breathe.
Something about this feels… too easy.The thought lingers in the back of my mind, quiet but impossible to ignore. The labyrinth has never given us anything without a cost. It doesn’t offer comfort. It doesn’t offer rest. But the storm rages harder around us, wind howling through the hedges, rain blinding and cold, and the alternative is staying out there in it. Wandering. Freezing. Waiting for something worse to find us first.
I let out a slow breath and push the doubt aside, just enough to keep moving.
Maybe this time… it’s exactly what it looks like.
Maybe, for once, we’ll be safe.
7
Alette
The castle that looms before us is smaller than I imagined, nestled into the landscape as if it’s part of the labyrinth itself. The stone walls have an ancient quality, their surfaces weathered and covered with creeping vines that seem to reach out like fingers, attempting to reclaim the structure. Its sharp spires rise toward the stormy sky, jagged against the backdrop of swirling clouds.
Lord Ferngull is quick to explain, his voice smooth and inviting. “Most of it is underground. Like much of the labyrinth. What you see here is just the surface. The true beauty lies below.”
I glance at the others. Sylvian just shrugs.Okay, alright, if this is yet another crappy trap, we’ll be ready. We’re always ready for trouble now.
As we step inside, the storm outside worsens, the wind howling like a restless spirit as rain lashes against the tall windows. The doors shut behind us with a heavy finality, muting the chaos outside.
Servants appear almost immediately, silent and efficient. They wait for their orders, their expressions blank in a waythat makes it hard to tell if they’re avoiding our eyes or simply trained not to meet them.
“Dry things, we have guests,” Lord Ferngull says lightly, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.
At once, more servants step forward carrying folded clothing. Simple, but clean. Dry. Warm-looking.
“We’ll get you into clean, dry clothes, and then have your clothes ready for you in the morning,” Lord Ferngull adds with a small, courteous incline of his head, like this situation is an everyday occurrence.
There’s a brief hesitation between us, a shared glance passing between the five of us. No one says it out loud, but the same thought lingers, this leaves us exposed. Vulnerable in a place we don’t understand. But we’re soaked through, shivering, and the cold is starting to bite deeper than our pride.
“We stay close,” Oberon mutters under his breath, low enough that only we hear.
Always.
Servants move quickly, leading us to a room with racks of clothes and separate changing areas behind screens, giving each of us our own small pocket of privacy. Not far apart. It’s perfect.
I slip behind mine, the fabric shielding me from view, and then I just stand there, dripping onto the polished floor, my hands slow as I reach for the hem of my clothes.
Peeling them off is worse than I expected. The wet leather clings stubbornly to my skin, cold and heavy, and I have to force it away inch by inch. By the time I’ve gotten everything off, I’m shaking harder, my teeth chattering as the air hits my damp skin.
I dry my body with a blanket that was folded along with the clothes, then grab the dry clothes quickly, pulling them on with clumsy fingers.
The moment the fabric settles over me, the difference is immediate. Soft, dry, blessed warmth that feels almost unreal after the cold. It sinks into my skin, chasing away the worst of the chill, and I let out a slow breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding.
I just stand there, letting it happen. Letting myself feel it. Then I strap my blade to my hip, straighten, and push past the screen.
I glance down at myself first, almost startled by the sight. The dress they’ve given me is soft and flowing, the fabric a deep, rich color that catches the candlelight with every movement. It drapes over my body in a way I’m not used to, fitted just enough at the waist before falling in gentle layers to my ankles. The sleeves are light and loose, brushing my wrists, and I realize how nice it is to not be dressed for survival.
I feel… almost pretty.The thought catches me off guard.
One by one, the others emerge as well.
