Chapter 15 Rooke
Rooke
“The Underworld does not frighten those who have already lived within it.”
— A PRISONER’S LAST WORDS
Following Syrrah turns out to be next to impossible. For the first time since entering the Labyrinth, my sense is silent. Whether blocked by Kasaros’s interference or my own chaotic emotions, I can’t tell.
“Syrrah!” I call, my voice echoing off the cold stone walls. No answer comes, not that I expected one. I choose a path at random, moving as quietly as my urgency allows. My dread builds like the shadows around me, my fear for her safety a beating wound in my chest.
Where are you, Syrrah?
Hours pass as I search, calling her name until my voice grows hoarse. The endless turns and dead ends mock me, leading me in circles despite my best efforts to mark my path. Eventually, I’m forced to stop, leaning against a wall as exhaustion drags at my limbs.
Reluctantly, I find a small alcove, defensible with only one entrance, and settle in. The stone is cold against my back as I clean and check my weapons, more from habit than necessity. Sleep is out of the question, but I can at least rest as I consider what is to come.
In the quiet darkness, memories rise unbidden.
“You played with fire and now you’ll burn.” Gorbain had laughed, his foul breath hot against my face as he followed me through the streets to the docks where a boat waited to take me to Kasaros’ Labyrinth. “Remember, bring me a bride pure of body, and your brother walks free.”
I’d nodded, feeling the weight of my decision. “And if I fail?”
“What remains of him will decorate my wall, and he shall die screaming, knowing his brother abandoned him.” Gorbain’s grin widened, revealing teeth filed to points. “Your choice, Captain.”
I rub absently at the scars on my chest, remembering each burn as it formed—punishment for every lie I told Syrrah. I regretted them as they seared into my chest. Yet I’d continued the charade, enduring each new scar as the price of my deception.
For Keo. Always for Keo.
And now I’ve lost both of them.
“Fool,” I mutter into the darkness. The stone beneath me seems to tremble in agreement, the Labyrinth itself mocking my failure.
Sleep refuses to come, but exhaustion pulls me into a half-conscious daze. In that twilight state, I see Keo—not as the prisoner Gorbain holds, but as the boy he was, trailing after me and Craven with books clutched to his chest, eager to share his latest discovery.
“Brother,” he calls, his smile bright. “Look what I found!”
The vision shifts, darkens. Now it’s Craven standing before me, blood seeping from wounds too numerous to count, his hand outstretched.
“Promise me,” he gasps, life fading from his eyes. “Promise you’ll save him.”
I reach for his hand, but it dissolves into shadow.
“I promise,” I whisper to emptiness. “Whatever it takes.”
I wake abruptly, my stomach churning.
I swore an oath as Craven died in my arms. It is that promise that’s driven me through hell and back, that’s made me willing to sacrifice anything, anyone. Even someone as precious as Syrrah.
A soft sound catches my attention—gentle breathing, the unmistakable rhythm of sleep. I follow it to a small alcove concealed by hanging vines. Parting them carefully, I find a woman curled on her side, her back pressed against the stone for protection even in slumber.
Golden hair fans across her face, partially obscuring delicate features.
Her hands, tucked beneath her cheek, bear the calluses of a scribe rather than a warrior.
The simple white garments she wears mark her as clearly as they did Syrrah.
She is temple-trained—exactly the kind of bride Gorbain demanded.
I stand, watching her chest rise and fall. She hasn’t sensed my presence, lost in whatever dreams offer escape from this nightmare. It would be so easy to wake her, to employ the charm that has served me so well. To convince her I’m her salvation in this place of horrors.
Gorbain would accept her. Keo would be free. My oath fulfilled.
My knowing creeps back in, and I can sense where the Labyrinth ends.
So close. So easy to take this one.
My hand moves to my chest, tracing the burn scars hidden beneath my shirt.
The sleeping woman stirs slightly, a small whimper escaping her lips as some nightmare disturbs her rest. The sound—vulnerable and afraid—makes my decision for me.
Moving silently, I retrieve my waterskin and remaining rations from my pack. I place them gently beside her, along with a small dagger I keep strapped to my ankle. Not much of a weapon, but better than nothing in this place.
I take one last look at her—at the path not taken, the bargain I could still honor—then turn away. My choice is made. Has been made since I first looked into Syrrah’s eyes and saw not just a prize to be claimed, but a woman of strength and fire who deserved far better than what I’d planned for her.
Dawn’s gentle light finds me on a ledge in the maze wall. I move cautiously up the stairs, through corridors that seem to constantly shift, following my sense. Turning a corner, I freeze.
There, kneeling beside a small spring, is Syrrah.
Her back is to me, her movements careful and methodical as she fills a makeshift waterskin.
Even from this distance, I can see the tension in her shoulders, the wariness with which she constantly scans her surroundings.
Her hair has been hastily braided, her dress torn and repurposed into more practical attire.
She’s alive. Unharmed. The relief that floods through me is so intense it’s almost painful.
I stay perfectly still, unwilling to disturb this moment.
Part of me—the selfish part—wants to call out, to bridge the distance between us with apologies and explanations.
But I’ve lost that right. Instead, I retreat into the shadows, following at a careful distance as she gathers her supplies and sets off with determined strides.
Close enough to intervene if danger threatens, far enough that she remains unaware of my presence.
I will protect her, whether she wants my protection or not. And when the time is right—if such a time ever comes—perhaps she’ll allow me to walk beside her once more.
Until then, I shadow her steps, my path now clearer than it has ever been.