17. Chapter 17
seventeen
B rielle
Days have blurred into each other, stretching into an eternity. It’s hard to say how long I’ve been in this cell, two days, three? Time doesn’t exist down here, not in this darkness. The air is stale, thick and the silence feels heavy, suffocating. The only sound is the slow drip of water pooling near the edge of the floor. I stare at it, the tiny puddle, and lean closer, catching a glimpse of myself in its murky reflection. Pathetic. A weak, pitiful reflection of someone who was stupid enough to believe she could survive.
I wrap my arms around my knees, trying to ward off the chill creeping into my bones, but it’s useless. I feel so small here, so powerless. It’s not just the cold or the hunger gnawing at my insides; it’s the weight of failure.
Why did I think I could do this?
A thought stirs, a faint spark, buried beneath the layers of self-pity and exhaustion. The puddle distorts slightly, rippling, and I see Henry’s face flash in the water. His fists, his cruelty. I survived him, didn’t I? That violent, twisted man.
Then the knights that chased me but I made it into the maze. I made it this far. I survived. The thought isn’t much, but it’s enough to pull me out of the hollow pit I’ve been sinking into. Maybe I don’t look like much now, but I’ve been through hell already, so why the hell am I sitting here, feeling sorry for myself?
I think about Villina, strong, unbreakable Villina. I think of Alaric and his warnings. And Thorne… they keep saying he’ll come for me. That he loves me. As if love has anything to do with this mess I’ve found myself in. The thought of him makes my chest tighten, but I push it aside. It doesn't matter. I’ve depended on too many people already.
I force myself to stand, ignoring the way my legs protest, weak and shaking. I’m not going to die here, not without a fight. There’s nothing in this cell but four walls and shadows but I can’t let how far I’ve come be for nothing. I search the walls and the bars that cage me in again. I’ve lost count as to how many times I’ve done this already but I don’t care.
Suddenly, there’s a noise from above, a clattering sound, boots against stone, voices. I freeze, listening. The door slams open, the heavy sound echoing down the narrow hall. My pulse spikes. Guards. Three of them, moving with purpose, their eyes locking onto me as they unlock the cell and step inside.
This is it.
One of them grabs for me, his hand rough and unfeeling. But I’m not going quietly. Not this time. I twist sharply, jerking out of his grip, my heart pounding as I drop to the floor, using my body weight to slip from his hold. The cold stone scrapes my skin, but I don’t care. I’m moving before they can grab me again.
I sprint out of the cell, the sound of my bare feet slapping against the stone as I make a break for it. The air hits me like a slap as I burst through the door and up the stairs, lungs burning, legs screaming with every step. I don’t know where I’m going, only that I have to move.
Then I see her. Nyria.
She sits there, a twisted smile on her lips, she is pure evil and my skin turns cold at the sight of her. Her guards flank her, but none of them move. Not a single one lifts a finger to stop me.
I skid to a halt, my breath coming in short, ragged gasps. My body trembles, adrenaline coursing through my veins, but it’s no use. I’m trapped. She tilts her head, her smile widening as if this is all some kind of sick game to her.
“Well,” she drawls, her voice like poison, “aren’t we in a rush to die?”
Her words hit me like a slap. The fight in me falters, but I stand tall, refusing to let her see my fear. Even if she’s right, even if I’m running straight toward death, I’ll meet it on my terms.
I make a break for the tall doors, desperate to escape this nightmare. My feet slap against the cold stone, my breath ragged in my chest. But just as my hand reaches for the iron handle, two guards step in front of it, blocking my way. I skid to a halt, my body trembling with adrenaline and exhaustion. A scream of frustration claws its way up my throat, and I can’t hold it back. I let it rip through the air, echoing in the cavernous room.
The doors don’t budge. The guards don’t even flinch.
I stand there for a moment, my chest heaving, feeling the weight of defeat press down on me again. The cold realization hits; I’m trapped. I can feel her eyes on me, burning into my back like a brand, and I force myself to turn around, slow and deliberate. I walk back into the center of the room, trying not to stumble, not to let the exhaustion swallow me whole. I’m on display for her now, like some spectacle she’s waiting to pick apart.
Nyria lounges on a throne made of shadows, her body draped across it with a kind of sinister grace. The dark smoke swirls and coils around her like living things, twisting into the shape of a seat, I tilt my chin up, refusing to cower. I’ve had enough of feeling weak. If I am to die at the hands of this wretched woman then I will die still clinging to my defiance.
Her sharp eyes meet mine, and for a long, agonizing moment, there’s only silence. Then she chuckles, a low, cruel sound that grates against my nerves. "Ahh," she says, her voice like honey dipped in poison, "Look at you, chin held high, a little girl trying to play make-believe. How charming. But we both know you’re weak. Don’t we?"
Her words slither into my chest, coiling around my insecurities, trying to suffocate me. But I won’t give her that satisfaction. My fear, my pain has somehow transformed into nothing but pure blinding hot rage. I want to tear her apart where she sits. I want to cut her down. I clench my fists and snicker, the sound a mix of defiance and venom. “Better than a bitter, discarded woman playing make-believe on her fake throne.”
Her eyes darken, and for a split second, I see the anger flash behind her calm facade. Good. Let her seethe. She tries to keep that smug smile, but there’s a crack in it now, a subtle shift that makes her shadows pulse like something alive, feeding off her anger. She can kill me now but I won’t go silently, I will not be quiet, ever again.
She leans forward, her gaze narrowing as if she’s studying me, her voice lower now, more dangerous. "You think you’re clever, don’t you?" Her fingers trail through the air, and the shadows respond, thickening around her, growing darker. Her smile twitches, her eyes narrowing into dangerous slits. “You think I’ve been discarded? Foolish girl. I am still the queen here, not some whimpering little stray who got lost in the maze.”
The shadows around her throne twist tighter, and I can feel the power in the room shift, the air turning heavier. But I hold my ground, despite the creeping chill that raises the hair on my arms. I’m tired of being cornered, tired of feeling like prey. If this is the end, I’m ready.
“Queen?” I say, the word sharp on my tongue. “Is that what you tell yourself while Thorne marches on you? While your quadrant crumbles and you're hiding down here in your little pit? Once Thorne gets here, he will bury you under it.”
Her smile vanishes entirely now, and I can see the fire building in her eyes. I’ve struck a nerve, and I don’t stop.
“You had a chance,” I continue, my voice stronger now, surprising even myself. “You could’ve been something more. But instead, you’ve turned yourself into this… a coward pretending to be a ruler. Thorne’s coming, and he’s going to tear this place apart. You know it.”
Nyria stands now, her shadow-throne dissolving into a swirl of darkness as she steps toward me, her eyes burning with cold fury. The air around us seems to hum with energy, crackling with the force of her magic. Don’t back down. Not now. I’m too far gone to retreat.
“You think you’ve won because that king of yours has claimed you?” she hisses, “You think you’re special because he looks at you like some kind of savior?”
She circles me, her gaze never leaving mine. “You’ll end up just like the rest. Broken. Forgotten. Thorne doesn’t care about you; he cares about power, about control. And soon enough, you’ll see that. You’ll be nothing.”
I shake my head slowly. “Maybe you’re right,” I say softly. “Maybe he doesn’t care about me, but the difference between you and I is that I haven’t made that define me as a woman. Who you are depends on if he accepts you. You want to prove yourself to him by killing me then go right ahead. But if he didn’t want you before I got here I doubt he will want you now. I can smell the desperation on you and it reaks.” She opens her mouth to say something else, but before she can, the ground beneath us trembles. A distant rumble echoes through the hall, and both of us turn, eyes widening. It’s faint, but unmistakable—the sound of an army approaching.
Thorne’s army.
Nyria’s expression hardens, and her lips curl into a sneer. “Looks like your king has arrived,” she says with a bitter edge. “Let’s see if he can save you now.”
The guards seize me roughly, but I barely feel their grip. My pulse is too loud in my ears, drowning out everything else. Nyria, with a flick of her wrist, drifts back into her throne, the swirling shadows curling up around her like serpents, forming the twisted, inky throne beneath her. She reclines as though she’s in control, but I see the flicker of anticipation in her eyes.
Time stretches, the air thick with a tension that makes every second feel longer than the last. The cawing of crows echoes through the stone walls, and beneath it, the rhythmic thud of approaching boots reverberates, growing louder, closer. Each stomp is a countdown, and with each beat, my heart hammers harder.
I hold my breath, nerves coiling tighter with every second. I've never seen him before. The Maze King, the one who’s been the shadow haunting my every step, his voice both cruel and alluring. He made me run through this nightmare of a maze, testing me, mocking me with his words. Sometimes tender, sometimes cutting. Always watching through the eyes of those crows.
What will he be like in the flesh? The man everyone whispers about ,the one who’s supposedly been pining for me, who’s drawn me into this hell. Is he handsome? Or a monster, as the legends paint him? The air shifts, and the weight of his presence presses down on the room. My breath catches as the doors slam open with a resounding crash, armored guards spilling into the space like a flood of shadows. The clang of their boots echoes in unison, a haunting rhythm that thrums in my chest. They’re not fully human, crow-headed warriors, their beady, black eyes gleaming beneath helmets shaped to resemble twisted, sharp beaks. Their wings, dark and glossy, flutter behind them like a cloak of death, casting long shadows on the stone floor. I’ve never seen anything like them.
And then, they part.
He walks in with a measured, commanding pace, his movements fluid and precise, like a predator that knows exactly how to strike. His armor is blacker than the darkest night, absorbing the light around him, its edges shimmering like polished obsidian. Spiked feathers cascade from his pauldrons and chest plate, rippling with the slight motion of his steps, as if they’re alive. His presence makes the room feel smaller, the walls closing in as if bowing to his will.
His horns curve wickedly from his head, framing his face, a face that is both beautiful and terrifying. His features are sharp, chiseled, with skin pale as bone, contrasting against the dark inkiness of his raven-black hair. His eyes, cold and calculating, are the color of storm clouds, framed by long lashes that would be almost delicate if not for the intensity of his stare. His lips are set in a thin line, unmoving, yet his gaze speaks volumes—danger, power, obsession. The sight of him stuns me. He is beautiful.
A crow, just like the one I’ve seen in the maze, is perched on his shoulder, its beak clicking, its dark eyes fixed on me as if it, too, are a part of him, an extension of his command. The shadows around him seem to bend and twist, drawn to his presence like moths to a flame, as if he is not just a man, but something more. Something far more dangerous than I could have imagined. My skin flushes and I feel my chest expand with a heat I’ve never felt before.
He stops in front and center, and the silence in the room becomes unbearable.
This is the Maze King. "Thorne..."
I thought I had spoken his name in my mind, but the faint reaction in his eyes tells me otherwise. His gaze flares briefly, and his expression hardens immediately as if he regretted even allowing a glimpse of vulnerability. His attention snapps away from me, his features sharpening as they zero in on Nyria, who sits smugly on her throne of shadows, her eyes gleaming with mischief.
Her smirk deepens but I can see the fear lying close beneath the surface. "Mighty King Thorne," she drawled, her voice thick with venomous mockery. "So nice of you to stop by."
Thorne doesn’t respond. He just stares, a deadly silence stretching between them like a drawn blade.
"Come to collect your queen?" she teases. "I wish you'd have given me a heads-up. I could've packed my things." Her eyes flicked toward me with a wicked glint. "But that's alright. I'll have my new servant pack for me."
She gestures lazily in my direction, her smirk curving even higher, but before she could revel in her taunt, Thorne's deep voice brakes the tension, low and dangerous.
“That won’t be necessary,” he said, each word cutting like glass. “I haven’t come to collect a queen... I’ve come to slay a bitch.”
In an instant, his guards surge forward, and the room explodes into chaos. Nyria’s soldiers rush to intercept, but Thorne is already moving, a dark blur of fury and precision. His blade cleaves through the air, lethal and unrelenting, as his guards clash with Nyria’s forces. The sound of steel clashing and bodies hitting the ground echo in the chamber. In the midst of all of this, I can’t take my eyes off of him.
But outside the room, another battle must be going on —shouts and screams reverberate through the walls, a storm of violence that seem to shake the very foundation. In the middle of this mayhem, Nyria shoots to her feet, her predatory eyes locking onto me. I barely have time to react before she lunges. Her fingers curling into claws, and the shadows around her twisting, curling over her skin and snapping out toward me like whips.
A cold, suffocating sensation grips my throat. The shadows coil around me, squeezing tighter with every breath I struggle to take. I gasp, the air forced from my lungs, my vision dimming as the dark tendrils constrict.
“Brielle!” Thorne’s voice is sharp, filled with an anger I haven’t heard before. He stops dead in his steps, his fierce eyes tracking Nyria’s every move.
She smirks triumphantly, her grip tightening around the shadows that hold me. "Come closer, and I’ll crush her windpipe, darling," she purrs , her eyes gleaming with cruel delight.
I claw at the shadows, panic surging through me as the air continues to slip away. My vision blurs, and I can feel my strength fading. Thorne takes one slow step forward, his face twisted in fury, but he hesitates, torn between ending Nyria and saving me.
The world begins to tilt, my mind floating in the growing haze of suffocation.
This is it. This is where it all ends.