Chapter 4 Rooke
Rooke
She who is fairest is never free.”
— CARVED INTO THE WALL OF THE LABYRINTH
She’s a feast for my starved senses.
Dark curls touched with gold tumble across the stone like spilled wine, framing skin so pale it seems to glow in the cave’s dim light.
Even trail-worn and exhausted, she’s the kind of beautiful that makes men start wars—all lush curves and soft edges that stir something primal in my blood.
Her full lips part slightly in sleep, and I force myself to look away before the temptation to taste them becomes too strong.
She moves slightly, and my coat falls open to reveal the fine linen of her dress—now torn and stained from our journey. The still-damp material does nothing to hide the generous swell of her breasts, the enticing flare of her hips.
Syrrah is built for pleasure, for bearing children, for all the earthly delights her temple has forbidden her. I cannot imagine the waste, cannot envision a world where women are so plentiful that a diamond such as this is so easily discarded.
She is the kind of woman who could make a man forget his purpose, his mission, his very soul if he’s not careful.
I force my gaze away, staring at the strange stones that pulse and shimmer happily in our fire.
I should send her back into the maze. Let her find another hunter, someone who’ll keep her as a pampered pet rather than deliver her to the Underworld King.
I’ve seen what he does to soft things, how he delights in crushing spirits far stronger than hers.
She’s too gentle for that fate—all healing hands and compassionate heart, untouched by the cruelties my world holds.
But the thought of another man claiming her causes a dark and possessive need to uncurl in my gut.
Mine.
The word echoes dangerously in my mind and I dismiss it. She’s not mine to keep. She’s a means to an end, a prize to be delivered, nothing more.
She sleeps unlike any I have ever seen.
Even in rest, Syrrah maintains perfect posture, her hands folded demurely across her stomach. No thrashing, no snoring, not even the occasional murmur. She shifts only slightly, as if afraid too much movement will result in punishment.
Her control would be admirable if it wasn’t so damn sad.
I check our warning signals again, more for something to do than necessity. The runes pulse steadily, casting blue shadows across the cave walls.
We’re safe enough, for now. Or as safe as anyone can be in this cursed maze.
My fingers find the dice in my pocket, worn smooth from countless throws. They click softly as I roll them between my fingers, a familiar comfort in this strange place.
Syrrah stirs slightly at the sound but doesn’t wake. In the dim light, I study her feet which are stained with blood and dirt. She never complained, not once. Just kept walking, adapting, surviving.
Not what I expected from a pampered temple healer.
I toss a dice in the air, asking a question of the Trickster God. Catching it in my hand, I turn it over, examining the symbol.
Luck.
The memory of another night, another game of chance, another lucky throw, rises unbidden.
The Dragon’s Breath tavern lived up to its name—hot, smoky, and liable to burn the unwary. Gold and silver flowed freely across the gaming tables, while silk-clad courtesans—both male and female—mingled with rough-handed sailors, each testing their luck against fate.
But I wasn’t there for common games.
In the back room, where stakes ran higher than mere coin, I found him—the Underworld King’s second champion.
A brute of a man, Vien wore scars that spoke of countless victories.
Before him sat a pile of gold that could buy a small kingdom, but that was of little interest to me.
Instead, a small playing card etched from gold and lined with jewels drew my attention.
The token was of Kasaros and would grant him entrance to Kasaros’s game.
Kings, nobles, and the immensely wealthy would often send champions into the game—buying their loyalty with promises of riches far beyond anything they could imagine.
If successful, the wealthy patron ended up with a bride, while failure cost them little beyond a disposable warrior.
Two tokens were assigned to this kingdom of sin, and Vien just happened to be the easiest target.
“Captain Rooke,” he sneered, his ugly face twisting. “Come to lose your ship?”
I dropped into the chair across from him, letting my smile show enough edge to make him think twice before reaching for his blade. “Actually, I’m here to make a deal with your master.”
The champion’s eyes narrowed. “Lord Gorbain doesn’t make deals with Raiders.”
The moniker was self-appointed, rather than true.
Gorbain had crowned himself king of the underworld after bathing the ports in enough blood to make the seas run red.
Fear kept his subjects loyal, terror kept his enemies at bay.
Even the other rulers gave him a wide berth, unwilling to test the depths of his cruelty.
They said he’d killed his own family to take power, though no one knew for sure. The only certainty was that those who crossed him ended up decorating his walls—or worse, kept alive long enough to wish they were the ornaments.
And the monster held my brother.
“He does when they have something he wants.” I pulled out my dice—ancient ivory, carved with runes that seemed to writhe in the lamplight. The champion’s breath caught. He knew what they were, then.
Good.
“One game,” I said, setting the dice between us. “If I win, I take your token and you secure me an audience with Gorbain himself.”
“And if you lose?”
My smile widened. “Then you get my ship, my crew, and these dice. Plus, the satisfaction of watching me walk away with nothing.”
He studied me for a long moment, greed warring with suspicion in his piggy eyes. “Lord Gorbain won’t like being summoned by the likes of you.”
“Let me worry about that.”
The champion grinned, revealing gold-capped teeth. “Your funeral.” He snatched up the dice. “Call it.”
“Shadows,” I said as he threw. The ivory cubes tumbled across scarred wood, dancing like lovers before coming to rest.
Starlight. I’d lost.
The champion’s laugh boomed through the room as he reached for my dice. But before his fingers could touch them, I caught his wrist.
“Best of three,” I said softly. “Unless you’re afraid?”
His face darkened. “Throw.”
I did. “Blood.”
The dice rolled, spun, wavered, stopped.
Blood.
One throw left.
“You risk everything you own on one roll.” Sweat beaded Vien’s brow. “Are you sure you can win?”
I thought of Keo, locked in Gorbain’s dungeons. Thought of what they might be doing to him even now.
“Throw.”
The dice seemed to fall in slow motion. In their polished surfaces, I caught glimpses of possible futures—wealth, death, glory, ruin. All hanging on this single moment.
“Fate,” I called.
The dice hit the table. Rolled. Stopped.
Fate.
The champion’s roar of rage shook the rafters. He lunged across the table, but I was already moving, my knife pressing against his throat.
“The token,” I said pleasantly. “And an audience with your master.”
He spat, but he honored the terms of our game. After all, a thief is only as good as his word.
The meeting with Gorbain himself came later that night, in a chamber that stank of blood and darker things. He lounged on his throne like a great spider in its web, watching me with eyes that held all the warmth of a winter sea.
“The famous Captain Rooke,” he drawled, running a finger along the edge of his goblet. Red liquid that may or may not have been wine caught the torchlight. “Come to beg for your brother’s life?”
I gave him my best smile—the one that charmed queens and pirates alike. “Beg? No, my lord. I’ve come to make a deal.”
“A deal?” His laugh held the rasp of a blade on bone. “What could a Raider offer me that I can’t simply take?”
“Something you desperately want but can’t always acquire through force.” I moved closer, noting how his guards tensed. “I hear your champions are having difficulty finding you a bride.”
That caught his attention. He leaned forward, shadows dancing across his face. “And you think you can succeed where others have failed?”
“I know I can.” I pulled out my dice, letting them dance across my knuckles. “Want to bet on it?”
“Bold words from a man whose brother screams in my dungeons.”
“Bold is what you need.” I met his gaze steadily. “Those brutes you’ve been sending into the Labyrinth? They’re why you’re failing. You need someone with finesse. Someone who can convince a pure, temple-bred maiden to willingly walk into your realm.”
“And that someone is you?” His tone dripped mockery, but I caught the glint of interest in his eyes.
I spread my arms wide, giving him my most roguish grin. “Who better than a charming scoundrel to win a maiden’s heart?”
He stroked his filthy beard, the gray stained with meat, ale and dirt.
“And if you fail?”
“Then my life is forfeit to the Labyrinth, and you may do as you wish to my brother.” The words came easy, but a trickle of sweat snuck down my back. “But if I succeed—if I bring you a bride—you let Keo go.”
Gorbain studied me for a long moment, tapping his fingers against his throne. Then his face split in a smile that would have sent demons running.
“Done,” he said, raising his goblet in mock toast. “Bring me my bride, Captain, and your brother goes free. Fail, and I’ll flay him alive before hanging him from my walls for the ravens to feast.”
I bowed with a flourish, hiding my revulsion. “As you wish, my lord.”
A sound from the tunnel snaps me back to the present. Just water dripping, but it’s enough to set my nerves humming. I shift closer to Syrrah, one hand on my sword.
She looks younger in sleep, the careful mask of control softening slightly. A knife twists in my chest—guilt perhaps?
It would be easier if she was what I expected. A pampered temple flower, fragile and helpless, and selfish beyond words. Instead she’s….
Magnificent.
I force myself to remember Keo, locked in the Underworld King’s dungeons. Remember why I’m here, what’s at stake.
The plan is simple enough. Gain a bride’s trust. Offer protection, then affection. Let her think she’s choosing to follow me willingly into my world, then hand her off to Gorbain, collect Keo, and be on our way.
Simple. Clean.
I watch Syrrah’s chest rise and fall as she sleeps, her trust that I’ll keep her safe so innocently placed in my hands.
I shouldn’t care—she’s only a pawn, a means to an end.
I curl my hand around the ivory cubes, stiffening my resolve.
One wrong move, one misplaced step, and it’s not just Keo’s life on the line.
Beside me, Syrrah sleeps on. She may fear the hunters out there, but she doesn’t realize the truth—she’s already been caught.
One throw brought me into this maze. I’m beginning to wonder what it will cost to find my way out.