Chapter 5
Alette
The hedge turns and opens up into a space that’s so wrong it takes my mind a full minute to register it as real.
The first thing I notice is all the light.
It’s blazing, not dim and gray like everywhere else in the labyrinth, but torch-bright and flickering, from dozens of paper lanterns that dangle from the hedge branches like overripe fruit.
Each lantern is painted with a different face, some laughing, some crying, some stretched in a scream so wide you could fit your whole fist inside.
The faces glow orange and blue and green, casting shadows that twitch even when there’s no wind.
The second thing I notice is the table. It’s set dead center, stretching the length of the clearing, so white it burns my eyes.
On top, every kind of food I can imagine has been laid out.
There's roasted meats, sugared tarts, whole fruits bursting with wetness, pyramids of bread, even tiny candies glittering like rocks. The food piles up and overflows, tumbling off the table’s edge, smearing grease and juice into the moss.
Cups and teapots, a dozen different shapes, all steam beside glasses of brandy and I don’t know what else.
And then there’s the people. If you can even call them people.
The ones at the head of the table have bodies like men, but their legs are covered in black fur, ending in cloven hooves.
Horns, twisted and gold-ringed, curl up from their temples.
Their ears are longer and sharper than Sylvian’s, and their eyes burn amber, a kind of hungry warmth that feels more animal than anything I’ve ever met.
Satyrs. I know the word from stories, but I never thought they were real. They just seemed like another lie parents told to make kids behave.
Next to them sit women… if women is the word.
They’re the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen.
It’s impossible not to look. Their skin glows in the lantern light.
Their hair has been braided with living vines and sparkles with dew.
Every smile is a secret, every laugh a melody.
Some have flowers blooming in their hair, others have fingernails the color of fresh blood.
Their dresses flutter like moths’ wings, and when they move, petals and pollen drift from their bodies.
Nymphs. Water, air, and earth. Every variety is present. There’s a sharp flowery smell, and the sense that any moment, a thunderstorm or a flood or an avalanche could break out, just from their laughter.
I freeze, because I have no idea what to do, but I know whatever I choose will be wrong.
Ashton, to his credit, doesn’t hesitate. He steps up, pulling me with him, and bows deeply, arms spread as if this is all perfectly ordinary.
“Greetings, lords and ladies of the feast,” he says. His voice is rich and smooth. “We’re honored to have stumbled upon the table of such legendary beings.”
A dozen heads swivel, and for a second, all the talking and music and eating stops. I feel the weight of their attention like a fist around my neck. Are they happy about our presence? Angry? I can’t tell.
The biggest satyr, the one at the head of the table, stands and raises his cup. “At last!” he bellows, voice cracking through the silence. “The guests of honor! Come, come, there’s room at the high table!” He gestures grandly to the two empty seats on his right.
I glance at Ashton. “Guests of honor?”
“Just go with it,” he whispers back.
A pair of nymphs stand. One has a mane of bluebells, while the other’s skin glows faintly gold.
They flutter over to us, tugging at our arms, guiding us into seats near Zomas, Ashton beside me.
The satyr settles himself at the table’s end, thumping his goblet in rhythm to a song that begins to play at his guidance from nearby satyr musicians.
Is this okay? Normal? Or will we be the next item they consume?
I scan for an escape route, but there are only hedges and paths—I’m exactly sure where they lead—and a circle of satyrs and nymphs blocking the path. Behind me, Ashton whispers, “Don’t eat or drink anything unless I say.”
“Why?” I whisper back.
“Satyrs are tricky. They love playing games. Nymphs even more. If you break the rules, they’ll make up new ones.”
I nod, trying to look like I’ve known this my whole life.
The satyr leader beams at us, teeth yellow and huge. “I am Zomas, Lord of the Feast! These—” he sweeps his arms— “are my dearest friends and children. We celebrate The Feast of the Hungry Soil tonight. You are heroes, are you not? Champions of the goddess?”
His words are thickly accented, but his meaning is sharp. He knows who we are, but he wants to hear it from us. Which is either a good thing or a bad thing, I’m not sure which.
Ashton answers first. “We are merely pilgrims, my lord. Lost and lucky to be found.”
Interesting. He’s not telling him anything.
The nymph beside me giggles, high and thin. “He lies, Zomas! This one is a king. See how his eyes shine?”
Zomas leans in, studying Ashton. “A wind prince!” He laughs, slapping the table. “Delightful. And the girl—” He turns to me, eyes narrow and calculating. “Who are you, beauty? I smell human on you.”
I fight the urge to shrink under his gaze. “I’m nobody,” I say, which is mostly true.
He roars with laughter, the sound echoing off the hedge. “Nobody! That is a new name for the Chosen One.” He leans in, crowding me. “Do you know what they say about Chosen humans?”
I shake my head, wishing I could vanish.
“They say the goddess picks only the prettiest. The bravest. The most…” His eyes flick up and down, and I realize he’s undressing me with his mind. “Delicious.”
The table erupts into laughter, and a wave of nymphs claps and shrieks. It’s all too much after days with just the kings and the silence of the hedge. Maybe I should be excited to see such rare fantastical creatures, but I’m on edge.
Ashton puts a hand on mine, squeezing just enough to ground me. He lowers his voice, speaking to the table, “We are grateful for your hospitality, Lord Zomas. But we are weary. Perhaps a little food, a little rest, then we will be on our way.”
Zomas nods, solemn for a moment, then pours tea into my cup from a jug the color of amethyst. “Please! Eat, drink! You must be starving.” The tea smells like nothing I recognize—sweet, but also sharp, with a bite underneath.
I look at Ashton, and he gives a tight, almost imperceptible nod.
I take a sip. It’s not poison, or if it is, it’s a kind that works slow. Warmth floods my chest and makes the world shimmer a little at the edges.
The nymph next to me drapes herself over my shoulder, hair falling like silk. “You’re so quiet,” she says in a voice that’s soft as moss. “Are you afraid?”
“Yes,” I say, because it seems like the right answer.
She laughs. “You should be. But not of us. The maze is much crueler.”
She says it so lightly, I can’t tell if it’s a joke.
Zomas claps his hands and two more satyrs appear, bearing trays of roasted potatoes covered in a ridiculous number of toppings. The scent is overwhelming—smoke, fat, and something herbal. I try to keep my hands in my lap, but my stomach betrays me with a loud, undignified growl.
The whole table hears it. Even Zomas looks delighted.
He forks a hunk of meat onto my plate, then tears one off for himself. “Eat,” he says. “In the maze, a meal is a victory.”
Ashton leans in, murmuring so low only I can hear, “If he wants you to eat, do it. Satyrs hate a bad guest.”
I taste the meat, and it’s… fine. Better than fine. It’s the best thing I’ve ever had. Tender, perfectly seasoned, the fat melting on my tongue. I close my eyes, and for a second, the world isn’t a nightmare. It’s just this moment and this meal.
When I open my eyes, the nymph is watching me, her pupils huge and dark. “Isn’t it perfect?”
I nod, cutting another slice of meat off my plate. “Yes, it is. Thank you.”
Zomas beams. “Good! You see, my dear, the labyrinth is not cruel. It only wants to be understood. Here, we celebrate. We laugh. We fuck. We do not fight, unless it is for fun.”
The word hangs in the air. The nymphs giggle, and the satyrs thump their hooves on the ground.
I feel Ashton squeeze my hand again. He’s smiling, but the muscles in his jaw are rigid.
Zomas raises his cup. “A toast! To our honored guests. May their journey be long, and their memories even longer.”
The whole table drinks. I sip my tea again, and the heat rushes straight to my head.
Zomas leans over, staring at me with that impossible intensity. “Tell me, Chosen One, what do you wish for, in this place?”
I nearly laugh. What do I wish for? To get out? To stay alive? But is that the proper answer?
I remember Ashton’s warning, and I play along. “I wish… to survive the labyrinth. I wish for peace.”
Zomas grins wider. “A human wishing for peace, surrounded by fae and beasts! That is poetry. I like you.”
“Uh… thanks.”
“You are beautiful,” he says. “Like a goddess herself. Are all human girls so lovely, or only the ones the goddess takes for herself?”
I don’t know how to answer, so I just stare at the lanterns, hoping for rescue.
The nymph beside me giggles, “She doesn’t know she’s beautiful, Zomas. That’s why the goddess picked her.”
He laughs, leans even closer. His breath smells like wine and honey. “You are very lucky, Chosen One. Tonight, you are the Queen of the Feast. Ask for anything, and it will be yours.”
I glance at Ashton, and his face is unreadable. He’s doing his best to be charming, but his knuckles are white.
The rest of the table is watching us, silent, waiting for me to make a move.
I swallow hard. “I just want to survive the night,” I say.
Zomas laughs so loud my ears ring. “A modest queen! That is a new thing. Most would ask for power, or love, or fortune.”
“Survival is more valuable,” I say, and it’s not meant to be clever, but the nymphs squeal and clap.
A satyr further down the table shouts, “Hear hear! The Chosen One is wiser than we thought!”