Chapter 7
Florienne
The forgotten temples hold secrets best left buried beneath the roses.”
— WARNING CARVED AT AMARA’S RUINS
I’m unsure how long I stumble in the darkness, blindly tracing the wall for direction. Every sound makes my heart race. Rocks rattle when I trip. A creature howls in the distance. A woman’s agonized cry pierces the night—or was that a cry of abandon?
Just when I think I know the game, it shifts.
This is the most terrifying experience I’ve ever had, and that includes the night I spent at the bottom of a well.
I touch something sticky—a cobweb. Thunder claps, and I almost scream but bite my lip and force myself to breathe.
The spiders aren’t on me.
Are they?
No.
I’m fine. Keep walking.
But my feet are rooted to the spot because it hits me—my life at the Pen was so sheltered. The adventurous side of me ended with Drayven’s death. I misjudged the difficulty of this. Didn’t expect to be reminded of ghosts around every turn.
Icy rain lashes down, faster and heavier.
I force myself to refocus on my friends in the Pen. For better or worse, they’re my family now. My brows pinch. That’s if any of them are still alive.
Not all Vesper lessons were horrible. Some were fun, like when we role-played being different types of hunters. Oh, how we mocked them. My favorite game was and always will be hide and seek. Demaya was the best. She has an innate talent for sneaking around unseen.
For all of its faults, the worst part of my year at the Pen was the week leading up to the Hunt and the week afterward… when one of us left for good.
I never had to deal with spiders, monsters, or a growly Huntsmen I hate. Who reminds me of someone I loved.
Despite the Pen’s cruel lessons, at least there I had a purpose, an identity. Out here, stripped of everything familiar, who am I really? The scared little girl in the well? Or a lost queen?
My thoughts flitter to the Huntsman again. A sense of—something—quickens in my chest. He seemed so insistent on saving my life. Maybe he died. Maybe that creature ripped him to shreds. Oh, Gods. A whimper shoots from my lips, and I cover my mouth.
Why do I feel sick at the thought? Worse, why do I feel the urge to turn back and find him? He’s my enemy. I owe him nothing.
Whatever the case, losing it now will not help. If anyone can survive this, it’s me.
Stick to the plan. Get to the end of the Labyrinth unclaimed. Win my freedom. Win every bride’s freedom. Or Kasaros takes mine.
No more games.
Dashing my tears, I set my feet to walking and consider adjusting my plan.
It’s highly unlikely I’ll make it to the end of the Labyrinth alone. If the Huntsman is dead, I’ll need to find another protector.
Maybe I should track down another bride.
Kasaros never forbade me from seeking their help.
As if hearing the challenge, air shudders, and the Labyrinth shifts.
I clutch the dagger’s hilt, bracing for whatever comes next.
The walls groan, stone grinding against stone.
The floor tilts, and I stagger. Then, silence.
The downpour has stopped. When I open my eyes, I see I’m at a massive, ancient courtyard, its edges lost in the mist. Though the sky is thick with clouds, a momentary break reveals the stars. My breath catches. Amara’s stars.
The Goddess who abandoned this world might look down on me now. Maybe it’s just wishful thinking. Either way, the sight steadies something within me.
I step forward beneath creeping vines along a moss-choked path.
Remnants of an old pantheon linger. Marble columns rise like fractured ribs, some split in half, others only stumps.
A broken sundial at my feet is missing its gnomon.
A scorched scar marks where time was measured.
The last recorded hour is midnight—the hour the Bride Hunt begins.
I swallow hard and step over it.
Four fountains sit at the courtyard’s edges, their once-pristine basins slick with moss and decay.
Water trickles from the stone mouths of forgotten Gods, the sound unnervingly soft after the roar of the shifting Labyrinth.
My scratchy throat is thumping, but as I near the closest fountain for a drink, something pale and brittle shifts beneath the surface.
Bones.
Tiny ones. Not animal. Not human, either. Something else. A shudder runs through me, and I step back. At the center of the courtyard stands an altar veiled in vines. It’s low and wide, with a smooth surface, except for thick, rusted chains dangling from its sides.
Whatever this place was, whatever it became, it’s not a sanctuary.
Wind tickles my skin as I continue walking. On a ruined wall, I read ancient carvings—warnings and prayers. From one bride to another, The sooner you stop fighting, the happier you’ll be.
Another, fresher—Never cry before your husband.
I exhale and shake my head. It sounds like something a Vesper would say. If brides have accepted their fate for centuries, who am I to rage against it?
Perhaps it’s time to face facts.
Once, Drayven asked me if being infertile would make me sad. Back then, I cared nothing about starting a family. I only wanted adventure, freedom, and the chance to see the world. I wanted a choice.
At this moment, I can’t help but feel how lonely my life will become without a companion to share it with.
If the other Vespers are dead, if I lose, I could end up with a despicable hunter who only visits me to impregnate me.
I shudder when the Baron comes to mind. He increasingly found ways to volunteer for my lessons over the decade I was in the Pen.
Even the Huntsman is preferable to the Baron.
Who knows what Kasaros will do with my blood—or me.
If I don’t secure my freedom, that’s my fate.
My intrepid fingers bring me to a message nearly erased by time, Your tears are a weapon to be wielded, not spilled.
A chill skates down my spine, and I brush away vines to read more carved words.
Rise, even when they drag you down.
You are not their prize. You are their reckoning.
No cage can hold a storm.
Survive. If not for yourself, then for the ones who come after you.
I exhale a shaky breath and touch my stomach. One day, it will swell with a child, a girl who could be fertile like me. What kind of world do I want her to grow up in?
My pulse is a steady drum against my ribs. These women—these brides—left behind more than fear. They left behind fire.
This isn’t a place of defeat. It’s a graveyard of defiance.
I press my dagger’s tip to the first message, scratching a line through it. Then, above it, I carve my own.
NEVER STOP FIGHTING.
A bitter smile tugs at my lips as I cross the courtyard to the altar, my boots squelching in the wet grass.
I step over fractured stone and roots that claw through the ruins.
The scent of damp earth and something metallic lingers in the air—blood, long since dried.
It only solidifies my resolve. If they want me on my knees, they’ll have to break me first.
Until then, I fight.
I climb onto the altar, its cold surface slick beneath my palms. When I settle, I tilt my head back and stare at the heavens, hoping for another glimpse of the stars before sunrise.
I’m halfway through my rations of soggy crackers when a blade flashes against my throat.
“You’re hard to find. I’ll give you that.”