Chapter 37
ChApter
Thirty-Seven
Istare in awe at the trial Mersos has constructed for Dante.
The labyrinth sprawls beneath us, carved deep into the raw earth like an open wound.
From the covered, elevated platform where the court is seated, I can see every snaking corridor, every moss-covered stone wall, every twisting passage that coils back on itself.
It’s a maze designed not to test memory or logic—but endurance. Sheer, punishing endurance.
The sky overhead is thick with storm clouds, bloated and bruised. Lightning dances across the horizon, illuminating the maze in brief flashes of silver. The air hums with tension, heavy with the scent of damp soil and the storm that threatens to strike.
Dante stands at the mouth of the labyrinth. Alone. At his feet lies a massive sack, bound in rope. I don’t know what’s inside—stones, iron, potatoes—but it drags his shoulders low the moment he lifts it onto his back. The muscles beneath his tunic tighten, his jaw clenched with the effort.
At the maze’s center, a monstrous bull paces.
Its hide is dark and gnarled like scorched bark, rippling with raw muscle.
Curved horns gleam in the growing storm light.
It snorts, breath steaming like fog, ears flicking toward every sound.
It stands behind a weak-looking wooden barrier, and it knows Dante is coming.
King Birchus stands, his broad silhouette outlined against the storm.
“In Mersos,” he says, his voice a deep, gravelly rumble, “we do not measure a man by the blood he spills, but by the burdens he carries and his perseverance to get the job done. You must bring the sack to the finish line of the labyrinth intact. Let the weight break your back or prove your worth beneath it.”
Beside him, a fae dressed in green and brown leathers steps forward. He’s tall, wiry, his long fingers wrapped in vine-woven gloves. He lifts one hand, palm to the sky. And the vines around the maze stir like snakes waking from slumber.
I go still. My eyes snap to the creeping edges of the labyrinth—roots, vines, and thorned tendrils winding tighter, coiling like a trap.
I’m not sure if Dante has seen them or if he has a plan on how to avoid getting trapped.
A bell tolls, signaling the start.
He hauls the sack onto his back with a grunt and steps into the maze.
The bull lifts its head.
And the vines move.
Dante walks steadily at first, carefully, his boots landing in the shallow indentations of the path.
The sack sways with each step, dragging at him, threatening to throw him off-balance.
A trickling of rain begins, and the dirt flanking the stone paths turns quickly into mud.
The vines twitch at the corners of each junction, reaching out, ready.
From above, I can see what he cannot. A wall of thorns curls toward his right. If he turns that way, they’ll tear into him.
My hands curl into fists against the railing.
“Dante, you must go left.”
The magic hesitates inside me, thick and sluggish. I push harder, the thought forming sharper in my mind.
“Left. Now.”
A spike of pain drives behind my right eye. My vision blurs with a sudden white-hot bloom. But that familiar hum pulses through me that tells me my magic has found him. Then he veers left.
My breath stutters. But we’re far from safe.
Beside me, Nadya takes my hand.
A thunderclap echoes through the space, loud and aggressive.
The bull bellows and crashes through the wooden barrier at the maze’s center, hooves kicking up clumps of dirt and mud as the creature barrels forward.
Dante spots it and falters, shifting the sack’s weight.
He bends, regaining his footing, and begins to run.
But the vines have begun to lash out, writhing across the path.
One curls around his ankle.
“No.” I stand and throw out my hand, and this time, the magic erupts like a lightning strike. It slams into the vines—not gently, not delicately, but violently. With a crack, they snap, and he wrenches free.
The recoil hits me harder. As Nadya urges me back to sitting in my chair, a stabbing pain jolts through my stomach like something sharp twisting inside. I double forward, gasping, one hand pressed to my abdomen.
“Celeste!” Nadya puts an arm around me, steadying me.
I shake my head, unable to answer. A hot sting burns my nostrils so much that it makes me pinch my nose. My vision flickers again, and when I blink, I see blood on my fingertips.
The bull reaches the turn, its hooves scrambling for purchase, and charges.
Dante can’t outrun it.
I don’t know if I can stop the creature, but I don’t have time to think. I shove sideways with every ounce of strength I can muster. The energy barrels through the maze, catching the beast just enough to make it skid off-balance. Its horn scrapes stone inches from Dante’s shoulder.
He stumbles—then pushes forward.
And the storm breaks.
Rain lashes at the world, transforming the dirt into thick sludge.
The walls of the labyrinth glisten, rainwater pouring down like the earth were weeping.
Lightning splits the sky overhead, followed by the angry crack of thunder.
The crowd gasps and mumbles—whether for the storm or the show, I don’t know.
The final wall looms ahead.
Ten feet high. No ladders. No handholds. And completely drenched, falling apart in the downpour.
Dante braces and hurls the sack upward. It slams onto the ledge, just barely catching.
He jumps.
Slips.
Crashes into the mud.
The bull, now recovered, charges toward him.
Dante jumps again. And again. The sack begins to slide.
Fuck!
I raise both hands, ignoring the scream inside my skull. The magic splits from me, part of it coiling upward, reaching into the clouds themselves, the other part reaching for the path in front of the bull. The pressure builds behind my ribs, behind my eyes, threatening to tear me open.
I stare at the sky. Clear. Just enough. Please.
A patch of light breaks through the clouds, streaming above the far wall. The rain dissipates. Sunlight spills like a blessing onto the upper stones. Just enough for purchase.
Dante leaps again, his hands catching on dry stone. He pulls.
I focus on the tendrils of thorns between the bull and Dante. They shudder as they move away from the wall, just enough to block his path. The bull bellows, its hooves digging into wet ground, but it isn’t able to stop in time. It lets out a loud groan of pain as it crashes into the thorns.
My eyes go back to Dante. The vines by Dante’s feet coil again, snaking up now, sharp with thorns. They tear at his boots, his calves.
I grunt to myself, pushing again.
The burst is white-hot agony. My stomach knots, and I fall back, clutching my side. It feels like something inside me is splitting apart.
But the vines fracture, falling away from Dante’s legs.
Dante scrambles over the wall. He grabs the sack and pulls it with him.
Then he collapses beside it, gasping.
The Mersosian court explodes in applause. King Birchus rises. For a moment, I think he might actually smile. His movement is followed by King Gallor and Queen Shaylin.
King Silas stands, a proud smile on his reddened face. Dante has just passed the final test, and Silas is clearly pleased with his son’s accomplishments. If I know Silas, he’ll be taking full credit for it.
I sag into my seat, shaking. Nadya presses a cloth into my hand so I can wipe the blood from my nose. My head pounds like a war drum.
But he made it. Dante is safe.
Even if I feel like I’m falling to pieces.