Chapter 16 Syrrah
Syrrah
A kingdom without brides is a kingdom without sons. And a kingdom without sons is already dead.”
— FROM THE SACRED RIGHT OF THE HUNT
Dawn brings no comfort, but it does bring clarity. I need food, water, and better weapons than a single stolen sword. I need to learn this maze—not just run blindly through it.
The first day, I focus on survival. I find water in a small spring, testing it carefully before drinking. Some of the plants growing between the stones are edible, others poisonous, but I harvest these too. Even poison has its uses.
I spot other brides occasionally—fleeing shadows in fine dresses, some alone, others already claimed by hunters.
Once, I see a bride fall to her hunter’s blade when she refuses to submit.
Her scream echoes through the maze, but I force myself to watch from my shadowed hiding spot.
To remember why I can’t let my guard down.
The second day, I begin to learn the maze’s patterns. The walls shift, yes, but not randomly. Certain paths remain constant—anchors in the ever-changing Labyrinth. I mark these with small symbols scratched into the stone.
Danger here.
Safe passage.
Water source.
I sleep in different hiding places each night, never staying too long in one area.
Sometimes I hear voices below—hunters calling to each other, brides weeping, the occasional clash of steel on steel.
Once, I heard the passionate cries of a male and female—and I silently wished them the good fortune I didn’t have.
Twice I hear Rooke’s voice, calling my name. Both times, I stay silent.
My purpose is to find the end of the maze. I must win this terrible game. I must go home.
The third night, I dream of him. Of his blunt but gentle hands and wicked, mischievous smiles, of promises whispered against my skin. I wake aching and angry, hating that even now, knowing what I know, my body still yearns for his touch.
But the anger is good. Anger keeps me moving, keeps me thinking. Anger reminds me that I am no one’s prize to be won or traded.
Dawn of the fourth day finds me gathering more plants—both for eating and for less savory purposes.
I’ve started carrying various poisons, learning to coat my blade with extracts that will slow or sicken an attacker.
It’s a violation of every healer’s oath I’ve ever taken, but those oaths seem to belong to another woman now.
A woman who still believed in rules and vows and men who kept their word.
I’m so focused on selecting the right leaves that I don’t hear him approach until it’s too late.
A massive hand tangles in my hair, yanking me backward with brutal force.
I try to draw my sword, but another hand catches my wrist, squeezing until my fingers go numb and the weapon clatters to the ground.
“Found you, little bride.”
Magnus’s voice sends ice through my veins. He spins me around to face him, his grip never loosening. His face is exactly as I remember—all brutal edges and cruel eyes, like something carved from stone by an angry God.
“You’ve led quite a chase,” he says, his breath hot against my face. “But now it’s time to claim my prize.”
I drive my knee up, aiming for his groin, but he anticipates the move. Laughing, he slams me against the maze wall hard enough to knock the air from my lungs.
“Still some fight in you. Good.” His hand slides down to my throat, squeezing just enough to make breathing difficult. “Breaking you will be so much more entertaining this way.”
“I am no one’s to break,” I snarl, clawing at his arm.
He laughs again, the sound like stones grinding together. “Look around, little healer. Your protector isn’t here to save you this time.” His grip tightens. “I killed him, you know. Found him searching for you like a lost puppy.”
He’s lying, I tell myself, even as fear claws at my chest. Rooke is too skilled, too clever to fall to this brute.
But doubt whispers through my mind. How long since I’ve heard Rooke’s voice in the maze? How long since I’ve seen him?
The man’s grip bruises my arm as he draws me closer, his breath hot against my face. “Should I tell you how he begged at the end?”
I stiffen, hope filling my chest. “You lie.” Because if there’s one thing I know about Rooke with absolute certainty—he would never beg. Not even for death.
Magnus’s grin widens. “Denial? No. I’ve killed all hope you may have of escape. No one is coming for you, my poor little bride,” he mocks. “But don’t worry—I’ll take good care of you.”
His free hand moves to my breast, squeezing painfully. I try to bite him, earning a backhand that makes my head spin.
“That’s right,” he growls, pressing his body against mine. “Fight. Make it interesting.”
My vision blurs, but I force myself to focus. I’m not the same woman he first cornered in the maze. I’m not helpless anymore. My fingers find the small pouch at my belt—the one I’ve filled with crushed leaves and bitter moss.
If I can just—
Magnus jerks back suddenly, his head snapping around at some sound I can’t hear. His grip on my throat loosens enough for me to gasp in air.
“Let her go.”
Rooke’s voice cuts through the haze of fear and pain. He stands at the end of the corridor, his sword already drawn. Blood stains his shirt—whether his own or someone else’s, I can’t tell.
My stomach clenches. Is it his? Is he hurt? I shouldn’t care. I’m furious with him. And yet—the sight of him sends hope crashing through me, tangled with bitter anger and relieved confusion.
“You’re supposed to be dead,” Magnus snarls.
Rooke’s visible eye blazes with fury. “Let her go.”
“Or what?”
“Or I’ll take great pleasure in showing you exactly how many ways a man can die slowly.”
Magnus laughs, but I feel tension ripple through him. “You couldn’t beat me before, little man. What makes you think you’ll succeed this time?”
“You touched Syrrah.” Rooke’s voice drops to something dark and terrible. “Now you die.”
Before Magnus can respond, Rooke moves. His blade flashes in the dim light, impossibly fast. Magnus shoves me aside, drawing his own weapon just in time to parry a strike that would have opened his throat.
I hit the ground hard, my head cracking against the stone.
Through blurred vision, I watch them fight.
It’s nothing like the elegant duels of my world—this is brutal, desperate combat.
Each clash of steel echoes off the maze walls like thunder.
Magnus has size and strength, but Rooke moves like water, like shadow.
He seems to flow around his opponent’s attacks, each movement precise and deadly.
But Magnus is no amateur—he matches Rooke strike for strike, his massive blade cleaving the air where Rooke stood moments before.
Blood flows freely now, though I can’t tell who’s winning. They break apart, circle, clash again in a dance of steel and death. A lucky strike from Magnus opens a gash along Rooke’s ribs, but Rooke’s counterblow leaves a deep cut across Magnus’s chest.
“You’ve lost to me once, Raider. In the ring, do you remember? Craven had to save you from my wrath.”
Rooke whirls, landing a blow. “Don’t you dare speak my brother’s name.”
“I’m going to enjoy this,” Magnus pants, blood dripping from his blade. “Going to kill you slow, make her watch. Then I’m going to take her while your blood cools.”
Rooke’s only response is a smile that holds no warmth. He moves again, his blade singing through the air. Magnus parries, but something shifts. Rooke’s attacks come faster, more furiously, driving the larger man back step by step.
Magnus’s boot catches on an uneven stone. It’s only a small stumble, but it’s enough. Rooke’s sword flashes once, twice, three times. Magnus’s weapon goes flying, along with several of his fingers.
“Wait,” Magnus gasps, falling to his knees. “Please—”
Rooke’s blade takes his head in one clean stroke. The massive body topples, blood flowing on the ancient stones. Rooke stands over it, his chest heaving, before turning to me.
“Syrrah?” his voice cracks. “Are you hurt?”
I try to stand but my legs won’t cooperate. He catches me before I fall, pulling me against his chest. His heart hammers against my cheek, his arms trembling as they wrap around me.
“I thought…,” I sob, clutching his shirt. “He said you were dead.”
“Lies.” His hand cups my face, tilting it up to examine the bruises Magnus left. “I’m so sorry, Syrrah. For everything.”
“You’re bleeding,” I say, feeling the warm wetness seeping through his shirt.
“It’s nothing.”
“Let me look.” I pull back enough to examine the wound, instincts taking over. “Sit before you fall down.”
It’s an echo of another conversation held only days before when my entire world was different.
His laugh is shaky. “As my lady commands.”
I help him sit against the maze wall, then carefully peel back his blood-soaked shirt. The wound is deep—not immediately fatal, but serious enough to need attention. Without proper supplies, I’ll have to improvise.
“This will hurt,” I warn, examining the plants I’ve collected for anything useful.
“I trust you.”
“Like I trusted you?”
He winces, and not from pain. “I deserve that.”
“Yes, you do.” I pull a handful of herbs from my sack, crushing them between my palms. “Why didn’t you tell me the truth?”
“Would you have remained with me if I had?” He hisses as I begin cleaning the wound. “Would you have trusted a man who admitted he meant to trade you to the Underworld King?”
“No. But I might have respected your honesty.”
His hand catches mine, stilling my movements. “I told myself it was easier this way. That I could protect you, guide you safely through the maze, and then….” He trails off, pain clouding his expression.
“And then hand me over like one does a shoe?” The words come out sharper than I intend.
“At first. But then I grew to know you, and I knew I needed to find another way.” His gaze searches mine. “Somewhere along the way, the thought of giving you to anyone else became unbearable.”
I resume cleaning his wound, using the familiar motions to steady myself. “Tell me about your brother. The truth this time.”
“There are two, I didn’t lie.” Rooke’s eye closes briefly.
“Craven is dead—killed trying to rescue Keo from Gorbain—the Underworld King. Keo was always the clever one. Brilliant with magic and mechanics. He created something Gorbain wanted—a way to reach between worlds without the Trickster God’s games.
But it went wrong. People died.” His hand fists against the stone.
“The king took him. I offered a bargain—my brother in exchange for a bride.”
“I see,” I say softly, pressing herbs into the wound.
His laugh holds no humor. “I told myself it was worth it. That one life traded for my brother’s was a fair price.”
“And now?”
His hand cups my face, turning me toward him, his palm rough, warm, grounding. His eye searches mine, open, unguarded, heavy with something deeper than regret, deeper than apology—desperation.
“Now I know there is no price worth your freedom. No cause worth seeing you caged.”
I want to believe him. Want to fall into his touch, his words, his promises. But trust, once broken, is not easily mended.
“I need to bind this,” I say, pulling away. “Hold still.”
I tear strips from my already-ruined dress, using them to wrap his ribs. His skin is warm beneath my fingers, and now familiar to me in a way that makes my heart ache. When I finish, he catches my hands, pressing them against his chest.
“I love you,” he says again, his voice rough with emotion. “I know I have no right to say it. No right to ask anything of you. But it’s true.”
The words hit me like a blow, knocking the breath from my lungs. My stomach swoops, my pulse kicks up, a spark of reckless yearning igniting in my chest. I need them to be true.
“Truth in the Labyrinth carries weight,” I remind him, forcing the words past the tightness in my throat. I fix my gaze on the bindings around his ribs, anywhere but his chest. My hope and my heart cannot take finding another burn scarred into his skin.
“Yes. That’s why I’m saying it here, where lies burn like poison in the blood. I love you, Syrrah. And I’ll spend every day proving it, if you’ll let me.”
I should push him away. Should run again, protect my heart from more pretty lies and prettier liars. But the Labyrinth does not allow falsehoods. And he knows it.
I summon my courage and look at the marks over his heart, the place where lies would have seared into his flesh like punishment.
His skin remains as it was when I first saw him naked—no new marks burn his flesh.
A breath shudders from my lips as relief crashes through me, sharp and overwhelming, leaving me lightheaded. It shouldn’t matter. It shouldn’t change anything. And yet, my knees weaken, my grip on my resolve slipping, because it does.
His truth changes everything.
“If you ever lie to me again,” I whisper, “I’ll poison you myself.”
His laugh rumbles through both our bodies. “Fair enough.” He tilts his head, brushing his lips against mine. “Syrrah.”
I kiss him then, because it’s easier than examining my feelings. His hands tangle in my hair as he pulls me closer, careful of his wounds but desperate in his need to touch. When we break apart, we’re both breathing heavily. I rest my head against his shoulder.
“What now?”
“Now,” he says, pressing a kiss to my temple, “we find the end of this cursed maze.”
“And your brother?”
“We’ll find another way to free him. One that doesn’t involve flesh trading.” He starts to stand, wincing slightly. “Ready to face whatever comes next?”
I help him up, letting him lean on me until he finds his balance. “Together?”
His smile holds no trace of its usual mockery—just warmth, and love.
“Together.”