Chapter 1 #2
“Know this—” He raises a finger to the sky, where the moon hangs red and heavy.
“—when the blood moon completes its cycle, my game must end. And those who have neither claimed a husband nor reached the maze’s heart by the final moonset…
.” His smile remains pleasant, but his eyes glitter with divine amusement.
“Well, let us say they shall provide a different sort of entertainment.”
He spreads his arms wide, his presence filling the space. “The choice of how to play is yours alone. Will you be predator or prey? Will you trust in chance or forge your own path? Each step you take writes your story in my grand game.”
With a courtly bow that somehow manages to be both elegant and mocking, his mask shimmers, the smile now a gaping grin. “May luck be your friend.”
He straightens, eyes bright with gleeful anticipation.
“Let the Hunt begin.”
Lightning cracks overhead, and he’s gone, disappearing between one heartbeat and the next. A bone-shaking rumble of thunder follows, rattling the stones and shaking dirt from the walls.
I brace myself, planting my feet as my heart pounds against my ribs.
What kind of game is this? I wonder, my breath catching. That man—or monster—might hunt us. What kind of mad God is Kasaros that he finds joy in our fear?
A howl echoes through the archways, followed by another, then another, until the sound seems to come from every direction at once.
And in terror, the women run.
My thin sandals, made for beauty, not function, slap loudly against the cold stone as I flee down alleyways with walls that seem to pulse with that same silvery light from the chamber.
The corridors twist and branch, each choice leading me further into darkness.
I try to keep track of my turns—right, then left, then right again—but I soon lose count.
Strange plants grow here, ivy that moves, pale blooms that gleam like pearls in the shadows, moss that ripples with light. My healer’s mind tries to catalogue them even as I run—they might be useful later, if I survive long enough to need medicines.
The thought is automatic, years of training asserting itself even in my terror. I know a thousand ways to heal, to soothe, to ease pain. But how many ways do I know to survive?
A scream echoes through the maze—high and frightened, cut off too quickly. I catch a glimpse of two brides ahead of me—a woman in a white dress and another bride with striking red hair. I follow their sure stride but in a dozen turns and twists, they disappear, lost to the maze.
I slow, pressing myself against a wall to catch my breath. The howls have faded, replaced by an eerie silence that somehow feels worse. My heart hammers against my ribs as I try to decide which path to take.
I am not prepared for a game like this—dressed in the lightweight white linen dress of the healers and the fragile, thin-soled sandals we are forced to wear at home.
Delicate gold wire winds through my hair, decorated with elaborate gold leaves that mark me as a senior healer.
Gold bracelets encircle my arms, identifying me as the daughter of a highborn.
I carry no weapon. I know no defense. I am trained as a healer, not a hunter.
“It seems I’ve found a lost little bride.”
The voice comes from behind me, thick with an accent I can’t place—rough yet melodic, a dangerous lull in the darkness.
I spin, heart pounding, to find a mountain of a man blocking the corridor.
His black leather armor clings to him like a second skin, the material absorbing the dim light and leaving him almost a silhouette against the stone—a shadow given form.
He moves closer, each step slow, deliberate, menacing, his presence pressing in on me.
He steps into a sliver of light, and my breath catches in my chest, fear stabbing its knife deep.
His filthy hair falls in untamed clumps around a face chiseled from stone, but it’s his eyes that hold me captive—cold, with a glint far too calculating for my comfort.
“You’ve wandered too far, little one,” he says, his voice a low purr of menace. “And now, you’ve found me.”
He tilts his head, the motion almost lazy, but there is nothing relaxed about the way his gaze moves—slow, deliberate, devouring.
It drags from the tips of my toes, crawling up my body in a way that makes my breath stutter.
Not just looking. Feeling. Claiming. When his eyes reach my thighs, a sickly chill skates across my skin, like phantom fingers pressing where they have no right to be.
Higher.
My stomach clenches as his gaze lingers there, a whisper of cold against my flesh, something unseen but felt.
A touch without a hand, a violation without contact.
My skin prickles, my body recoiling from the intangible yet unbearably real.
The higher his gaze climbs, the more it burns like frostbite—searing, intrusive, a darkness slithering over my flesh and sinking in, staining me from the inside out.
When he reaches my chest, I flinch violently, my body jerking as though he has actually touched me. It feels like he has.
“Or, perhaps it is I who found you,” he murmurs, and I swear I feel his voice curl against my throat, tightening like an invisible collar.
Caught.
The smile he offers is sharp, predatory, like a hunter toying with his prey, and it holds all the warmth of a grave long forgotten. Everything about him radiates violence—from the massive sword at his hip to the scars that map a history of cruelty across his visible skin.
I turn to run, but his hand shoots out, fingers tangling in my hair to yank me back. My spine bows as I crash against a solid wall of muscle and armor, his grip unrelenting. His other arm snakes around my waist, locking me against him like an iron shackle.
“Now, now,” he rumbles, his fetid breath hot against my ear. “No need to rush off. Magnus will take care of you.”
His hand moves and I go rigid as his fingers snake downward to wrap around my neck, a grotesque parody of possession. Violation without hesitation. A mockery of control.
The breath leaves my lungs in a strangled, soundless cry.
Horror rips through me, cold and sharp as a blade, severing me from thought, from reason.
My body reacts on instinct—pure, undiluted terror.
I thrash, my nails raking against his armored forearm, searching for any gap, any weakness.
My heels slam into his shins, but the thick plates of his armor absorb the blows.
I am nothing to him.
His grip tightens, crushing until I can’t breathe. My ribs scream under the force, my lungs fighting for air that will not come. Pain sears through me, spreading like fire where his fingers bite into my flesh. I can already feel the bruises forming.
Years of knowledge flashes through my mind—pressure points, vulnerable spots, ways to cause pain—but I’ve sworn oaths against using such knowledge to hurt.
Those oaths now feel like chains binding me when I most need to be free.
“That’s right,” he purrs, clearly enjoying my struggles. “Fight all you want. Makes it more satisfying when you finally break.”
I want to scream.
I want to tear him apart.
But I cannot breathe.
And I cannot wake from this nightmare.
He spins me around and slams me against the wall, one massive hand closing tighter around my throat. Dark spots dance at the edges of my vision as he leans closer, his thumb pressing against my windpipe.
“Magnus claims this one,” he announces. “Any objections?”
The silence that answers feels like a death sentence. My vision begins to dim, and with it comes a terrible clarity—my oaths mean nothing if I die here. What use are vows of nonviolence to a corpse?
My vision is blurry, my lungs burning, screaming for air that will not come. My limbs weaken, trembling uselessly in my captor’s grip. My body betrays me, sliding toward the abyss.
As consciousness begins to fade, two figures step from the shadows, their weapons already drawn, tension crackling the air.
The first, draped in elaborate robes of rich crimson and gold, looks as though he belongs in a grand court rather than this dim alley.
The fabric shimmers faintly, the fine silk almost weightless, dancing with the slightest movement as though enchanted.
Embroidered sigils trace the hem, symbols I do not recognize.
His face is sharp, regal, with eyes as cold as the steel dagger he holds, curved and wicked in his pale hand.
Beside him, the second figure is a stark contrast—broad-shouldered and imposing, clad in leather.
Dark fur covers his body, and his face is that of a bear.
His muzzle is scarred from past battles, but it’s the massive sword he raises that draws my attention.
The blade gleams in his paws, well-worn and deadly, catching the faint light with a glint as sharp as his glare.
A rescuer would offer words. A savior would shout in warning.
These men do neither.
I can’t even breathe a sigh of relief at their appearance. What would be the point? Given the twisted game I now find myself in, they aren’t here to be heroes. They aren’t here to save me.
They’re simply more wolves in the dark.
Their eyes rake over me, and I can see the calculation there—not whether I should be saved, but whether I’m worth the effort. I am not a woman in need of help. I am a prize. A bargaining chip. A piece of meat thrown between starving beasts.
Terror coils through me, but I shove it down. I will not break. Not for Magnus. Not for these men. Not for whatever nightmare comes next.
“The Hunt has barely begun, my friend,” the first man says, his tone reasonable despite the steel in his hand. “Surely we can work this out like gentlemen.”
Magnus’s grip loosens enough to let me breathe, though he keeps me pinned against the wall—a casual display of power, showing how little he views my struggles as a threat.