XXV
A week later, the crown sat heavy on Corin’s brow.
Gold threaded his ceremonial robes, stiff with tradition and weighty with expectation. They felt nothing like the armor he was more used to, but he supposed he would have to wear that less and less now.
He stood at the center of the Great Hall where colorful banners hung motionless in waiting. Where nobles packed shoulder to shoulder. Where the priests watched him as though he were a fault line waiting to split the world.
He was.
He had already told them what he intended to do.
At the announcement of his coronation—when Knossos was alerted he would officially be named king—Corin had announced his plans to open the Labyrinth. Permanently. Perhaps destroying the maze at his actions.
The hall had erupted then. Shouts, disbelief, fury thinly veiled as reference. The priests had spoken of balance and divine order. Of trials ordained by gods older than stone. Of tradition so ancient it had become indistinguishable from law.
Corin had spoken anyway. He spoke in direct argument against them.
He informed the court about the true foundation of the trials. He detailed the story that Ariadne had told him—how her father kept her trapped in the maze and only offered heroes to tell her to keep still. How that slowly morphed through the years to the Labyrinth demanding some sort of sacrifice.
He told his people about Taleon, crushed and remade and walking again as he haunted the halls. He told them about Bristle, who was a monster that only wanted to play with his toys and limbs. About the Minotaur—not truly a monster, but a brother.
And about Ariadne.
He did not give her name in the same way the maze strictly forbade it.
Instead, he spoke of the Threaded Daughter who kept the Labyrinth alive because no one else would.
Who guided him out and kept a watch on heirs but was never guided herself.
Who had been loved only for what she could provide.
Who had been betrayed by all those she loved.
Including him.
Admitting that was difficult, to himself and to his people. To hear that he was willing to give up his kingdom to protect this woman who he had only spent less than a week with was hard to accept. To say they were shocked would be an understatement.
But still, his people listened. Of course they did. They were resilient and accepting people.
And now, crowned and sworn, he waited.
His fingers closed around the stone disc hidden in his palm, its edges smooth with time. It fit there perfectly as if it had always belonged to him. His pulse thrummed against it—in nervousness, yes, but also in certainty.
Mirelle stood close at his side. Not clinging. Not distant. Just present. Supporting, even.
He had been incredibly thankful for her.
When he first revealed his plans to her, she was hesitant, which he expected.
It took much discussion and listening, but she slowly accepted his words.
She understood duty in a way not everyone in court did, and she was prepared to stand by his side no matter the consequence.
“You’re shaking,” she murmured.
“Only a little,” Corin admitted.
She smiled—soft, fond, unbroken by jealousy. “You love her.”
He didn’t deny it. It wasn’t the first time that she had said those words to him. Corin never admitted those feelings out loud to Mirelle, but he never argued. He knew where his heart belonged.
He just needed to tell Ariadne first.
“What you feel for her,” Mirelle continued, “is deeper than anything you ever felt for me. And that’s all right.” She squeezed his arm in support. “Do what you need to do, Corin. I know you’ll always do the right thing.”
Her words settled him some, but he was still on edge in anticipation.
Convincing her, and even his uncle, had been easy compared to discussions with the priests. Since they were alerted of his plan, they had attempted to stall and change his mind in any way they could.
None were successful, but it had caused a good bit of trepidation nonetheless.
“This is sacrilege,” one priest hissed from the other side of him.
Mirelle offered him a rude look.
“You would unmake a divine trial,” another warned, undeterred by Mirelle. “Kings have risen and fallen because of that maze.”
Corin had to stop himself from rolling his eyes. “And they will continue to fail,” he explained as it was the most simple thing in the world, “if we continue to call suffering sacred.”
The Head Priest scoffed and waved Corin away.
The new king smiled softly, as if placating the older man. “You may not understand entirely, but the trial started as a way to communicate with those stuck underground. It no longer serves that purpose. It has been twisted into an event that serves no purpose but to control.”
The priests raised their brows at that.
Corin stepped forward, facing his court fully. The room fell into a hush as everyone put their full attention on the king.
“My duty,” he began, voice carrying farther than he expected, “is not to tradition. It is to the living. To those who kneel in this hall—and to those buried beneath it.”
He would have opened the maze earlier. He tried to do so the day after he completed his trial, but there were so many arguments. So many people he needed to speak with, that demanded his time.
It was exhausting, waiting for so long. All he wanted to do was see Ariadne again, to hear her say his name, to feel her press her lips against his. It took everything in him to follow procedure—what little of it there was to answer to.
Corin gestured towards the floor, toward the stone beneath which the Labyrinth slept. “We call the Labyrinth trial a test of worth,” he continued. “But what honor is there in demanding blood to prove leadership? What justice is there in trapping souls so that others may rule?”
Silence answered him.
Taking a shaky breath, he went on, “If I am to be your king, then I must serve all of you. Not just the ones who survive.”
Corin let his words settle. He had been practicing what he would say to his people when this happened, though none of those words seemed to find him in that moment. Instead, he spoke from the heart. The emotions that ran through him were true and deep.
At the pause of his words, the priestesses seemed to understand their duty. They had been frozen, as was their usual stance, but now that he had quieted, they moved.
Their feet struck the floor in unison, the sound echoing like a heartbeat. A wave of air rushed into their lungs as they inhaled sharply, their entire body rolling upward. Their eyes blinked a few times, moving from unfocused to centered directly on Corin.
“What is bound must one day be unbound,” the one on the right spoke. It wasn’t loud, but the sound seemed to resonate through the stone itself.
Gasps ripped through the hall.
“Threads fray,” the other added. “Doors open.”
Then, together, they said, “This path was always meant to be walked by one who would choose love over leaving.”
The words shocked all in the hall, including Corin. He knew that this was what he needed to do—finding the disc had been fate—but he had no idea this was intentional. That this was what was meant to happen from when the Labyrinth was created.
Or at least from when the trials began.
He did not wish to question it too much. All he wanted to do now was see Ariadne, and no amount of gasps or confusion from the priests around him would deter his plan.
He stepped to the stone dais where the Labyrinth’s seal was set: a great slab etched with spirals and veins long gone dull. And to the side of it was the empty socket he had noticed only a few weeks ago, the absence that had followed him through the maze like a whisper.
He palmed the disc he had found in Ariadne’s chamber, taking a single deep breath.
This is it. He prayed he was right.
He placed the disc into the stone, making sure to line up the rigid lines to perfection.
He expected an immediate reaction from the Labyrinth. It had always been so quick to react when he was inside its halls. Yet, that wasn’t the case. There was no immediate transformation. Instead, there was silence.
Nothing was happening.
For a few breaths, unease rippled through the crowd. Someone laughed nervously. Someone else swore. There were murmurs of doubt Corin tried hard to ignore.
His heart was nearly beating out of his chest. He was so sure this was what he needed to do. If he was wrong… No. He wasn’t wrong. This was meant to be.
Just as his thoughts were beginning to take off, it happened. The stone groaned.
A low, grinding sound rolled through the hall, deep enough to be felt in his bones. It was louder than when it had been opened for his trial, more ancient sounding, but it sounded eerily similar to when passages would open and close inside the Labyrinth.
The veins carved into the floor that had been long dull began to glow faintly, light bleeding through cracks no one had ever seen before.
The ground shuddered beneath them.
He felt for his people at that moment. He was, at least moderately, used to the Labyrinth’s reactions. He knew of the vibration in stone and glowing veins that came with the maze. His people were unfamiliar. Their only experience being that of the trial, and this was different from then.
“King–” someone shouted out from behind him.
Corin did not turn to face the voice.
The rumbling grew louder, harsher. A familiar voice screamed. A priest stumbled back, falling into the crowd. A banner fell from above, landing on a gathering of his court in the corner of his eye.
Then—crack.
The seal split.
Cold air rushed out, sharp and ancient, carrying the scent of old stone and iron and something alive, reminding Corin of the chamber where he had fought the Minotaur. The opening continued to yawn wider, darkness spilling upward like breath after centuries held.
Corin stood firm at its edge, heart pounding. Fear and hope collided in his chest.
He had done it. He had opened the maze. A wave of relief washed over him.