Chapter 1
Florienne
— HIGH PRIESTESS ANNOTATIONS
“Smile. It’s your wedding night.” The High Priestess yanks the brush through Lenora’s knotted blond hair, snapping her head back.
Lenora’s sobs ricochet off the Pen’s glass dome and churn my stomach.
I focus on my embroidery, my fingers trembling.
None of us dare look up. Twenty Vespers kneel around the bride-to-be in our white robes, heads bowed over our tasks.
The pain of Lenora’s beautification ceremony pierces deeper than skin.
Even the trees in the vast stone Labyrinth outside seem to shudder in response. Or laugh.
“At least stop your sniveling,” the High Priestess sighs.
The Huntsman delivered Lenora a week ago, half-feral, pale as moonlight, and dehydrated. I doubt she can even speak or read. But her tears are proof she understands.
“Listen carefully,” the priestess lectures, “and soak in as many lessons as you can before midnight, starting with this—A female’s ultimate skill is to laugh delicately in the face of humiliation or danger.
” Her encouraging eyes sweep over us, a look we know too well.
“Girls, explain to Lenora why we should mirror the Laughing God’s mirth. ”
Every Vesper except Demaya, a particularly rebellious seventeen-year-old, recites without missing a stitch. “Our laughter is a prayer, our humiliation his delight.”
Demaya smirks beneath her curtain of brown ringlets.
I flatten my lips. We’ve talked about this. I’ve been here for ten years and know better than anyone that there’s a time and place for defiance. It’s not now. Fortunately, the priestess is too busy untangling hair to notice Demaya’s slip.
Lenora clutches her robe and stares at the wedding dress on a rack between her and the window.
Calling it a dress is an overstatement. It’s nothing more than two long strips of white silk meant to drape over shoulders and cinch at the waist with a pink sash.
Her only other accessories will be her underwear and the veil we embroider with silent prayers.
“If you won’t laugh, at least smile. Like this.” The old priestess’s lips stretch, changing her sour expression into something almost kind. Almost.
Lenora hiccups.
The priestess sighs again and exchanges her brush for scissors. Snip. Snip. Golden strands of hair drift to the floor in surrender. When she moves behind Lenora, her facade cracks. “What else, girls?”
“Praise his conquests?” Demaya offers with a note of sarcasm in her tone. Her large doe eyes give her an innocent look, but I know better. The young woman can’t wait to get out of here.
Unlike many Vespers, Demaya arrived at the Pen with skills already honed—hiding, stealing, archery. The High Priestess never knew that during our quiet moments, Demaya taught me to pick locks while I taught her how to survive learning the feminine mysteries with her dignity intact.
“Is that a question, Vesper Demaya?” the priestess asks. “Or are you mocking us?”
Thunder growls outside. Everyone jolts as if they genuinely believe the Gods echo the priestess’s displeasure.
I exhale through my teeth, shaking my head at the absurdity as I weave my needle through the silk. The last thing I want is to prick my finger—one wrong move, one drop of blood, and—I force my hands to steady.
“Um.” Demaya wipes her palms down her pale robe, her embroidery slipping. Her eyes find mine, pleading for support. If the misfit pushes too much, she’ll be punished. As will we all.
I motion for her to collect herself, then straighten my spine.
The Huntsman found her hiding beneath a trapdoor in a barn two months ago.
Though my blue hair and boyish frame contrast her brown curls and curves, something in her reminds me of myself.
I was far younger when I was thrown in here and just as irreverent.
Meeting my steady gaze, her uncertainty hardens into resolve.
She answers the priestess. “I meant that men bloom under flattery.”
I give a slight nod and return to my work, hating that after a decade, I can only help others avoid punishment. We’ll all have a laugh and giggle when our chaperone turns in, but it’s better to avoid conflict for now.
The priestess applauds Demaya’s advice and demands more. Vespers tumble over each other with their learned advice, eager to please. Lenora listens avidly.
“When dining, let him take the first bite,” Vesper Kallie offers beside me. “When resting, warm his bed before he lies down.”
In my periphery, Demaya pretends to vomit when the priestess is turned. My gaze drifts through the glass to two stories below. Hunters crowd the Labyrinth’s stone gates, bristling with anticipation. The entrance hedges stand neat and ordered, but deeper in, chaos consumes the darkness.
“When your hunter claims you,” Marinda calls out, “mirror his desires. Match his fervor with your response.”
Another hidden vomit sound. I roll my eyes, lips twitching. I turn to the window to avoid looking at Demaya. I know if I do, I’ll burst out laughing.
Mist obscures the Labyrinth’s tall nemeton in the distance. Twelve brides will wake there at midnight. One plucked from the Pen, eleven plucked from other worlds. What cruel theater this is. At least the Vesper bride knows her purpose.
Storm clouds growl outside. It always rains on Hunt day.
They claim it’s a sign of fertility, that the Goddess Amara grants us one night of her blessing.
They also claimed a rose growing from my womb’s first blood made me their prophesied queen bride.
When I first arrived in this place, I began to hope that becoming queen meant I could make the Huntsman pay for kill my Dray.
But then I learned I was nothing more than an ornament, a vessel.
Destined to elevate the hunter who claims me to kingship.
My Dray…
Striking blue eyes flash in my memory, alive with mischief. And that handsome face…
My chest constricts.
Gods, the ache of missing Drayven never fades.
I miss his casual optimism in the face of despair.
Miss the trouble that always followed that crooked smile of his.
Miss how his fingers would brush my wrist in our game of Shadow Stalker.
That final chase when he finally caught me…
how I’d felt hot, tight things low down that I’d never known before.
Sometimes, I dream he’s not dead, I’m not here, and we’ve run off to join the military. We’d laugh, have adventures, drink, steal a few cheeky apples, and then, at the end of it all, we’d fall into the same bed and make love. My cheeks heat at the fantasy.
Does love paint him more beautiful in my memory? Or was he truly that good-looking? Or maybe he was just my sexual awakening, unsatisfied, and now nothing will ever compare.
Before grief can drown me, I force my gaze back to the Labyrinth. I should stop fantasizing about it. Women like me don’t get to fall in love. Kasaros might have chosen Lenora for this year’s hunt, but my luck will run out soon. I feel it in my blood.
Hunters swarm the gates while having their entry tokens checked.
I count them—twenty-five more than last year.
That makes almost two hundred. Oh, and what a variety of participants we have this year.
Warriors bearing war scars stand beside merchants in fine clothing.
Magic touched creatures, some more serpentine than man.
Feral men prowl the edges—too cunning to be here by chance.
They must have killed or bribed their way in.
My breath catches at the sight of a familiar figure. The Huntsman looms by the Labyrinth’s wrought-iron gate, one hand caressing his curved sword, the other fondling an apple. The fruit is still rare to find—the fertility of orchards dried up along with the women of this world.
His shadowed hood turns my way. It’s impossible—he can’t see us through the mirrored glass. Yet certainty crawls up my spine, my muscles seizing as his macabre masked smile flutters with his breath.
Every year, he stands guard like a faithful hound, escorting Kasaros’s chosen bride through the lecherous rabble and deep into the Labyrinth to the nemeton.
He returns alone, looks up at the Pen as if to revel in our continued suffering, and then vanishes as the Hunt begins, leaving his untouched apple behind—taunting us with a piece of freedom we’ll never taste again.
Hundreds of hunters. Twelve brides.
The trees are definitely laughing.
Lenora’s renewed wailing pierces the silence. She is waxed bare now, and her face is being painted.
“Do you think she’ll make it?” A whisper slithers across the room.
“No one ever has,” comes the reply.
“What do you mean, make it?” Lenora’s raw voice splits the air.
She speaks.
Nervous glances dart between us. Even the priestess fumbles with the paint beneath Lenora’s eyes.
A smear runs down her cheekbone. No one wants to answer.
Almost everyone in the room looks to me for guidance, and I rage at the injustice of this place.
Maybe if I spent less time schooling the Vespers into obedience and more lessons on courage, more of us would be free.
“You’re free,” I say, rising to shake out the veil, “if you reach the Labyrinth’s end before a hunter sullies your womb with his—”
The priestess’s hand cracks across my face. My head snaps sideways, skin blazing.
“Do you feel no guilt, Vesper Florienne?” she snarls.
“P-pardon?” I touch my throbbing jaw.
“Your skin bears ninety-nine mastery badges while hers is unmarked.”
She says that as if it’s something to be proud of. My fingers trace the thorns etched around my wrist—proof of gracefully enduring pain. The swooping swallow beneath speaks of a darker lesson.
Acid burns my throat at the memory of the sterile education chamber.
A man waits with his pants down, sack over his head. His erection juts out, hard and ready for worshipping. It reminds me of a bulbous, poisonous snake.
“Excellent jaw-span, Vesper Florienne. Now hold that form. No—don’t rise. Kneel as if in prayer. Let him guide you. Good girl. No—”
“These symbols are nothing to celebrate,” I spit.
Thwack!
The second blow sends me reeling. When I catch the priestess’s worried glance at Lenora’s tear-streaked, hopeful face, I realize my mistake.
Hope is a fragile rose, nurtured only to be crushed beneath a cruel God’s heel.
I know this.
I’ve lived this.
Still, I can’t forget Drayven’s final words—Fight. Fight like hell.
No bride from the Pen has ever escaped. None from my kingdom has ever reached the end unsullied. The Labyrinth is a game, but it is fixed. Everyone knows that. Still… what if—?
My stomach twists. No. Hope is a lie, and I’m a fool for entertaining it.
But I can’t help blurting out, “Lenora deserves to know she has a chance. She must only reach the end before a hunter stakes his claim on her. Why would Kasaros offer this path if not to take it? Maybe if the brides band together—”
“Enough!” The priestess’s voice cracks like a whip. “You’re our longest-serving bride. Every year, whispers of your turn ripen, and yet another takes your place. Do you see us asking why?”
Unspoken accusations press against my skin until blood roars in my ears.
It wants me to stand up to her, to rage.
I swallow hard, face blank, as I wrestle with urges.
Everyone knows a rose grew from my blood a decade ago, but few know it still holds power.
It can heal, and it can destroy. And it hates being ignored.
But it is still blood. Without it, I die.
The fewer people that know about it, the better. I’ve kept this secret for a decade for good reason.
“It is the will of the Laughing God,” I murmur, the lie bitter on my tongue.
The priestess’s smile turns serene. “Indeed. And His will is not yours to interpret.”
I bow, the familiar dance of submission easing the room’s tension. Inside, my thoughts burn.
The will of the Laughing God. The Trickster God. Kasaros.
His will tore me from my family, from Drayven. His will branded me, trained me, and displayed me like cattle. His will sends Lenora to face hunters who’ll shred her body and soul.
The priestess works at fitting Lenora’s veil while advice drones on, but I barely hear it. My thoughts spiral, sharp and tangled.
This isn’t guilt. This isn’t fate.
Kasaros plays with kingdoms, hunters, and brides, weaponizing hope and cursing love. The Labyrinth isn’t just survival—it’s a fixed game designed to dangle freedom while ensuring capture.
Fight like hell.
Dray’s last words hit differently this time. That look in his eyes before he fell—I witnessed the same triumph when he caught me in our final stalker game. He didn’t give up, even in the face of certain death, which made him the true winner. Kasaros can’t take that away.
I blink until my tears disappear. Each tattoo on my skin becomes focused and sharp.
From worship to submission, honeyed words to ego-stroking praise, I know everything about pleasing a husband and being the perfect bride.
But everything has a flip side. What if we could turn the tables?
What if we use the skills they forced on us to take control of our lives?
What if they can be weapons instead of chains?
I look at Lenora’s terrified face, the way her lips tremble, the way her fingers claw at her robe like she can still hide beneath it. This is what it means to be powerless. To be prey. To be nothing.
I convinced myself that submission is survival. I can outplay the game if I play it well enough. But no matter how many lessons I learn, no matter how well I obey… it’s always going to end like this.
Lenora won’t survive. None of us will. Not unless something changes.
“I volunteer,” I say, rising to my feet. “I’ll take Lenora’s place.”