Chapter 18
Syrrah
Blessed are the hunted, for their beauty is worthy of the chase.”
— BLESSING OF THE TEMPLE OF THE brIDES OF THE IRON KINGDOM
Dawn comes slowly, the night’s shadows reluctant to relinquish their grip on the ancient stone. I wake to find Rooke already alert, his gaze fixed on something I cannot see.
“Sleep well?” he asks, noticing my movement.
“Better than expected,” I admit, stretching sore muscles. The small fire has died to embers, casting a faint orange glow across his features. “Though I’m not sure I’ll ever get used to sleeping on stone.”
His laugh is soft, genuine in a way his usual sardonic chuckles aren’t. “The Silver Storm has proper beds. Fine feather mattresses I’ve collected from ports across the realms.” The wistful note in his voice speaks of homesickness, of longing for something familiar.
“Tell me about your ship,” I say, accepting the waterskin he offers.
“She’s the most beautiful vessel to ever sail the Twilight Seas,” he replies.
“Three masts with sails woven from silk gathered from the moth-spinners of the Forbidden Isles.” His hands move as he speaks, sketching the ship’s dimensions in the air.
“Fast enough to outrun imperial galleons, nimble enough to navigate the Shattered Straits where larger vessels flounder.”
I watch him, entranced by his enthusiasm. “And your crew?”
“Outcasts and wanderers, mostly. Those who didn’t fit within the rigid structures of their birth realms.” His eye softens.
“Tahrin, my first mate—he was cast out of the Iron Kingdom for refusing to sacrifice his daughter to their winter rituals. Meera was a scholar at the Crystal Cities before her experiments drew unwanted attention. And Jael….” He smiles.
“Well, Jael simply enjoys hitting things, preferably heads.”
“They sound interesting.”
“They are.” His gaze turns distant. “We’ve faced sea serpents together, weathered storms that would shatter lesser vessels, outrun the Royal Navy more times than I can count.” Pride colors his voice. “We’re family, in every way that matters.”
The concept stirs something in me—envy, perhaps, for that sense of chosen kinship. At the temple, despite years together, we were colleagues rather than family. Competition kept most healers isolated from one another.
“You miss them,” I observe.
“Every day.” He stirs the embers with a stick, watching sparks rise like fireflies.
“And what would I be in your world?” The question slips out before I can stop it.
His eye meets mine, and for once, there’s no charm, no artifice in his gaze. Only raw honesty. “Whatever you wish to be.”
The simple answer steals my breath.
“You’re a healer,” he continues when I remain silent. “Your skills would be invaluable. But if you chose another path—navigator, scholar, hell, even Raider—no one would stop you.”
I look away, unsettled by the possibilities he offers. “It sounds too good to be true.”
“Most things worth having usually do. But hard work can make it so.” He stands, brushing dust from his clothes. “We should move. The maze has yet to shift and I’d rather not be caught in the transformation when it does.”
We gather our minimal supplies in comfortable silence. As we prepare to leave, Rooke hesitates, then pulls something from his pocket—the bone dice from our game. It feels as if it has been a lifetime since we played.
“One more throw?” he offers, a small smile playing at his lips. “For fortune’s favor.”
I accept the dice, their familiar weight settling into my palm. We both watch as they tumble across the stone, landing with silver symbols glowing upward.
“What does it mean?” I ask, studying the markings.
“Journey,” he translates, his expression thoughtful as he collects the dice. “And change.”
As if in response, a low rumble echoes through the tunnels—the maze beginning to shift.
“Time to go.” Rooke offers his hand.
I take it without hesitation, and together we step from our sanctuary into the Labyrinth beyond.
The maze shifts around us as we travel, corridors narrowing and widening unpredictably, stairways appearing where moments before there had been solid walls. Rooke navigates with his uncanny knowing, leading us through the chaos with surprising confidence.
“Here,” he says several hours later, pulling me into a small courtyard overgrown with strange blue vines. “We can rest.”
A fountain stands at the courtyard’s center, clear water bubbling from the mouth of a stone creature I’ve never seen before—something between bird and serpent, its wings spread as if frozen mid-flight.
“Is it safe?” I ask, eyeing the water warily.
Rooke approaches the fountain, dipping his fingers into the spray. “Seems to be.” He catches some in his cupped palm, sniffs it cautiously, then takes a small sip. After a moment with no ill effects, he nods. “Clean. Tastes like mountain snowmelt.”
I follow his example, the cool water refreshing after hours of walking through the maze’s dusty corridors. As the liquid touches my lips, something strange happens—a memory surfaces, vivid and unexpected.
Mother’s garden in summer, sunlight dappling through apple blossoms, her laugh like music as she teaches me the names of the flowers.
I gasp, pulling back from the fountain. “Did you—”
“See something?” Rooke’s expression confirms he experienced the same phenomenon. “A memory. Of my brothers and I swimming in a lake near our home.” His brow furrows. “How strange.”
“Memory water,” I murmur, recalling ancient texts from the temple library. “In my world, some springs are said to be connected to the past. The water carries echoes of what once was.”
Rooke eyes the fountain with new respect. “Are they dangerous?”
“Not physically. Though some can become lost in the memories—particularly those who have lost a lover.”
He meets my gaze. “That I can understand.”
We fill our waterskins cautiously, both of us braced for more memories. None come, suggesting the effect cannot be ported.
“May I ask you something?” I finally venture, curiosity overcoming caution.
He raises an eyebrow. “Of course.”
“Your knowing… is it magic?”
Rooke considers the question. “Not exactly. At least, not in the way your world might define it.” He gestures vaguely. “In my realm, certain bloodlines carry... gifts. My mother’s family had trackers—people with an innate sense of direction, of paths and possibilities.”
“And your father?”
A shadow crosses his face. “Charm. The ability to persuade, to make people trust you even when they shouldn’t.” His laugh is without humor. “Not actual magic, mind you. Just a natural talent for deception.”
The bitterness in his tone catches me off guard. “You don’t speak of him often?”
“There’s little worth saying.” He tosses a leaf into the fountain, watching ripples spread across the surface. “He used his gift to swindle, to seduce, to acquire wealth and power without doing the work to earn it. When that wealth vanished—as it inevitably does for men like him—so did he.”
“I’m sorry.”
Rooke shrugs, but the casual gesture doesn’t mask the old hurt in his eye. “My brothers and I did well enough without him. Mother made sure of that.”
“Tell me about her,” I say gently. “Your mother.”
His expression softens. “She was... extraordinary. Tall as a ship’s mast, with hair like fire and eyes that could strip the paint off a hull when she was angry.
” A genuine smile tugs at his lips. “She ran a dockside tavern after Father left, kept us fed and clothed through sheer force of will. Taught us to read the stars, to navigate by currents, to find our way home no matter how far we wandered.”
“She sounds wonderful.”
“She was.” Pride and loss mingle in his voice.
“When the plague came, she sent us away on a merchant vessel—paid our passage with her wedding rings, the last valuable thing she owned. Said we’d be safer at sea.
” He falls silent. “By the time we returned, she was gone. It is one of my greatest regrets that she died alone.”
I reach for his hand without thinking, my fingers curling around his. “How old were you?”
“Fourteen. Craven was sixteen, Keo barely twelve.” He doesn’t pull away from my touch. If anything, his grip tightens slightly. “We lived on the streets for a while, until Craven won us passage on a Raider ship by besting the captain in a duel.”
“At sixteen?” I can’t hide my shock.
“Craven was built like a mountain even then.” Pride colors his voice. “He looked the captain straight in the eye and said, ‘I’ll best you with blade or fist, your choice.’ The old man was so impressed he took all three of us on as cabin boys.”
I try to imagine it—three orphaned brothers making their way in a world that sounds as harsh as it is wondrous. “And that’s how you became a Raider.”
“Eventually.” His thumb traces circles on the back of my hand with casual intimacy.
“Turns out I had a knack for it. Rose through the ranks, saved enough to buy my first ship when I was twenty.” Pride resonates in his voice.
“Named her The Tempest, after Mother. She wasn’t much—more patches than original planking—but she was mine. ”
“And now you have the Silver Storm.”
“And a crew I’d die for.” He entwines our fingers together. “What about you? Who taught you to heal?”
The question catches me off guard. Few in my world ever asked about my training, assuming all healers followed the same path.
“High Saint Eliah,” I reply, the name bringing both warmth and bittersweet memories. “She was unconventional. The other masters taught by rote, expecting perfect recitation of traditional methods. Eliah believed in understanding why remedies worked, not just how to prepare them.”
“She sounds wise.”
“She was.” I smile at the memory. “She would take me to the gardens at dawn, when dew still clung to the leaves, and teach me to listen to the plants. ‘They will tell you their purpose,’ she’d say, ‘if only you learn their language.’”
“And did you?”
I pluck a leaf from one of the blue vines, rolling it between my fingers. Its texture is unfamiliar, but something about its scent speaks to me—a subtle bitterness that suggests protective properties.
“In a way. Plants have... signatures. Ways they tell you what they’re good for.” I offer him the leaf. “This one, for instance, the bitter oils would make it effective against infection. Crush it, mix it with fat or oil, and you’d have a salve that could prevent festering in wounds.”
Rooke examines the leaf with new appreciation. “A useful skill.”
I look down to find our hands still joined, his callused palm warm against mine. “What a pair we make. Both shaped by fathers who failed us.”
“And maternal figures who made us strong.” His mouth curves in a gentle smile so unlike his usual rakish grin. “My mother would have liked your Eliah, I think.”
“I think so too.”
We sit in companionable silence for a time, the fountain’s gentle burble a soothing backdrop. Eventually, Rooke sighs and stands, reluctantly releasing my hand.
“We should keep moving,” he says, looking up at the changing light. “We’re not far from the end I think.”
I nod, gathering our supplies. As I rise, something compels me to dip my fingers into the fountain one last time. The memory comes instantly.
Eliah’s face is turned to the moon.
“Your time at the temple will be short,” she says, laying a hand on my head. “But fear not. Your adventures await, young maiden.”
The vision fades, leaving me momentarily disoriented. Not a memory of rejection like I’d assumed at the time, but of love.
“Syrrah?” Rooke’s voice pulls me back to the present. “Everything all right?”
“Yes,” I say, joining him at the courtyard’s exit. “Just... remembering.”
He studies me, then nods, understanding without requiring explanation. His hand finds mine again as we step back into the maze, a silent offering of support that asks nothing in return.
As we navigate the ever-changing pathways, I find myself thinking not of the dangers that lie ahead, but of the unexpected gift this cursed place has given me—the chance to find myself.