Page 36 of Dark as the Cursed Abyss

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chloe

By the time Chloe left the training grounds, the fading light of day was swallowed by thick clouds that pressed low over the mountains. Snow threatened again, the sky heavy with it, and the wind that cut through the stone corridors of the outer keep carried a bite sharper than before. Her muscles ached from Markos’s relentless drills, every movement still echoing in her limbs, but it was not exhaustion that unsettled her. She had not seen Farah since that morning.

Not in the halls, not in the courtyard, not even from a distance where their eyes might briefly meet before duty pulled them apart again. It was unnatural after everything that had shifted between them. After the way Farah had looked at her, the way she had touched her. Chloe told herself it was nothing—that training schedules did not align, that Avra’s court thrived on separation before trials—but the unease remained, coiling tighter with every step she took toward her chambers.

The corridor ahead darkened as she turned the final corner. The torches here burned lower than the rest of the castle, their flames flickering weakly against stone. Chloe slowed, her senses sharpening instinctively, a faint prickle rising along the back of her neck. Something was wrong. Before she could even turn, a hand clamped over her mouth.

The scent hit her first. It was sharp, bitter, laced with something sweet enough to mask its danger. Chloe inhaled on instinct, and immediately regretted it. Her body reacted too slowly, her limbs turning heavy, her vision blurring at the edges as she fought to twist free. She reached for her power—nothing. Reached for the strength in her limbs—gone. The world tilted. Darkness swallowed her whole.

Sound returned before her eyes could adjust. A distant echo at first—something like wind howling through hollow stone. Then something sharper, more jagged. A scream. Not human. Not anything she had ever heard before. Chloe’s eyes snapped open.

Darkness loomed above her, broken only by thin shafts of pale light filtering down from somewhere unseen. The ground beneath her was damp, uneven, cold enough to seep into her bones. For a moment, she didn’t move, her mind struggling to piece together where she was—how she had gotten here—until the memory crashed back all at once. The corridor. The hand. The drug. She pushed herself upright, her head spinning as the world came into focus.

The labyrinth.

It stretched in every direction, walls rising high around her in twisting paths that seemed to breathe with the mountain itself. Some were carved from raw stone, jagged and dark, veins of mineral glinting faintly in the low light. Others were overgrown with thick, gnarled hedges, their branches woven tightly together, leaves blackened as if they had never known sunlight. The air was thick, damp with the scent of earth and decay, and beneath it all—something else. Something ancient. It couldn’t be. The third trial wasn’t supposed to occur for another week. They were supposed to have more time.

Another shriek echoed through the maze, closer this time. Chloe turned sharply, trying to gain her bearings and saw her.

“Farah!”

Relief hit her first, before bile rose in her throat. Farah lay only a few paces away, unmoving, her dark hair spread across the ground like spilled ink. Chloe scrambled toward her, knees scraping against stone as she reached her side.

“Farah,” she said again, more urgently now, shaking her shoulder. “Wake up.”

For a moment, nothing happened. Then Farah’s brow furrowed, her breath hitching as she stirred. Her eyes snapped open, sharp even through the haze of whatever had been used to subdue them.

“Chloe?” Her voice was rough, disoriented, but alive.

Another roar tore through the labyrinth, deep and guttural, vibrating through the stone beneath them. Farah pushed herself up instantly.

“Where are we?” Farah asked.

Chloe swallowed, forcing her gaze back to the twisting maze around them. “The next trial,” she said, the realization settling like ice in her chest. “They lied. There was no week.”

Farah cursed under her breath, rising to her feet in one fluid motion. Her hand immediately went to her thigh—no blade.

“Of course,” she muttered.

Chloe flicked her gaze around the space, a table stood not far from them, carved from the same dark stone as the labyrinth walls, its surface lined with weapons. Swords, axes, daggers—more than enough to arm an army.

They moved toward it quickly. But the moment Chloe stepped within reach, the air shifted and she was sent flying backward. A barrier. Invisible, but unmistakable.

Chloe’s hand met resistance, a ripple of magic that pulsed outward from the table, pushing her back with enough force to make her stagger.

“What—”

Farah stilled beside her. “I know this,” she said, her voice tightening.

Chloe turned. “What do you mean?”

Farah hesitated—just for a fraction of a second—before her expression hardened. “It’s a binding spell. Blood-based. It is the olde magic of the phamarkos. Sacrificial. My father’s kind of magic.”

Chloe’s pulse quickened. “Then how do we break it?”

Farah met her gaze. “Blood.”