Page 2 of Labyrinthine
There’s onlyone thing left to do.
Run.
I’ve served a sentence I never earned, locked in a palace I was never meant to survive. I won’t stay for another Reaping—won’t watch ten strangers die trying to win my hand like it’s a prize the gods tossed into a pit.
Escape is the only path left. There’s no honor in this. No bravery. Just the raw, aching will to live. If I had more courage, maybe it would let me face what’s coming. But hope left me long ago and all that remains is the hollow where it used to be.
Let the gods be angry. Let them come.
I’m done being theirs.
My only way is out. Cowardice is all that’s left. I’ve lived in the shadows of my father’s palace too long, enduring nights that coil black around their halls like a curse we never learned how to lift. Torches flicker in their sconces, burning brightlyand pretending the darkness isn’t winning. Marble floors gleam beneath them, polished and proud, but I know the truth. These halls have held me long enough for the rot breathing through the stone to make my throat close off. The palace’s stench feeds on all the things we pretend aren’t there.
Columns rise like false idols—ornate, gilded, triumphant—bearing witness to centuries of blood and silence. Even the paintings along the walls are liars, dripping with color and glory, depicting victories that were never clean. My gaze snags on them as I pass. They do not look back. None of them ever do.
The shadows cover me as I creep with the caution of a creature used to being hunted. I’ve rehearsed every step, every pause, every breath. But when I slip past two guards slumped in drunken laughter, a new fear twists in my gut. Maybe it won’t be precision that saves me, but luck. Maybe it never was about being good. Maybe it was always about timing and prayers whispered to gods who stopped listening long ago.
The palace watches. Its hunger gnaws at my back as I press myself into an alcove. The guards’ laughter grows louder, then fades as they wait for their relief. The shift will change soon, and for the briefest moment, the corridor will be mine—emptied of bodies, filled with only cold opulence and the sound of my own heartbeat.
That’s when I’ll move.
When I’ll run.
A hidden passage lies just beyond the royal wing, a secret kept by a trusted few, by those my father says are loyal enough to know of the escape his family will take in times of war. Or rebellion. Tonight it’s both. My war. My rebellion. My father never thought I’d dare.
But I have earned this escape.
Earned it with silence. With obedience. With all the days I did not scream.
I will survive this.
More than that. I will escape this place—and never again endure captivity and its smothering protection.
The bell tolls. The guards stir. A burst of movement as they peel themselves from the walls, muttering and swaying as they stumble toward the barracks. I imagine they’ll be thinking of wine. Of firelit celebrations. Of the feast the Reaping promises and maybe even the men from Larksbind who will die to appease the gods.
They don’t see me.
I’ll let them chase their hunger. Mine is older. Keener. Mine has fangs.
I move—through the doorway like a shadow unmoored, into a stairwell that spirals downward into silence. My hand trembles as I ease the door closed behind me, careful not to let the wood betray me with a slam. One sound—too sharp, too loud—would be enough to shatter the silence and my safety. So I creep through the dark, my breath slow, my heart beating like it knows what’s coming.
The stairs are uneven and ancient, half-carved into the stone like an afterthought. I descend them without doubt, each footfall an echo in my bones, before I break into a sprint at the courtyard, veering along the east wing where the manicured beds run beneath the palace windows. More gardens unfold ahead, their flowers all groomed and beautiful and drowning in moonlight. I tear through them, the scent of jasmine thick in the air, a cruel perfume meant to mask the stench of what festers beneath.
Even now, even as I flee its grasp, the palace shadows cling, a reminder that freedom will never be mine. Not truly. Not while the cursed magic coils inside me, waiting.
The grate to a supply tunnel eases back onto its hinges as a passing cloud erases my shadow. Left. Right. Clear. The coversettles on the cobbles, and I drop into the crawl, my hands and knees scraping in dust. Emerging onto the paved streets of Threnos, the capital’s air hits me like a blade. Cold. Damp. Free.
I blink too long. I shouldn’t have stopped to stare. Starsfall’s capital is a jewel in the dark, its spires catching torchlight, its narrow alleys gleaming with secrets. But awe is a luxury for someone not being hunted.
I run.
My boots pound the stone. My cloak flies behind me, catching wind and trailing shadows. Streets blur around me. I cut into alleys toward the celebrations, praying my memory hasn’t failed me. Threnos’s veins wind and tangle, and I am a drop of blood trying not to clot.
A swell of music rises ahead—lutes and laughter and drums echoing off stone. I push toward it, toward the central square where the Reaping crowds gather, their joy oblivious to the price behind it.
The scent of roasting meat and spilled wine thickens. Voices slur in song. My pace slows, just enough for me to tug my hood lower and slip into the tide of bodies, letting their revelry swallow me whole.
Dancers twirl in silks that shimmer with every spin. Men lift tankards in toasts to death and destiny. No one sees me—not really. They see another girl in velvet, flushed from drink or song or sin.
