Chapter 5 #2
The food keeps coming. Every bite is better than the last. Everything blurs into a pleasant haze of flavor and sound.
But even so, I can’t help but think of Cassius, Oberon, and Sylvian.
Are they safe wherever they are? Are they eating?
Are they sitting? Somehow I picture them frantically searching for us, and guilt settles in my belly, even though I’d rather be with them than at this strange table any day.
Every so often, Zomas squeezes my hand or touches my face.
He tells stories about his time in the maze, how he’s outwitted monsters and seduced beautiful creatures, how the nymphs are his family and the satyrs his brothers.
He asks a hundred questions about me. My village, my family, my lovers (none, and he seems to like this answer best of all).
With every answer, he laughs harder, drinks deeper. The nymphs pet my hair and call me sister. It’s all so strange, almost sweet, that for a moment I let myself relax.
But then, I see the way their eyes slide past me when I stop talking, the way the nymphs grip the silverware too tightly, the way Zomas’ hooves never quite stay still. The way the hedge pulses and hums, like a living drumbeat.
This is not a party. This is a performance. I just don’t know why or for what end game.
Ashton doesn’t let go of me all night. He smiles, he jokes, but his hand is always there, on my knee, on my arm, or on my hand, ready to pull me back if anything goes wrong.
I watch the lanterns, counting the faces. Some are beautiful, some are hideous, but none of them are real. It’s all a mask, and I’m the only thing in this clearing that isn’t pretending.
When Zomas leans closer to me, I try to smile, but my nerves are raw. His voice is low, just for me. “Be careful, Chosen One. Not everything in this maze is as it seems.”
He says it like a joke, but the warning is real.
I sit very still, and let the party roll over me like a tide. In the end, it’s not the food or the music that unnerves me. It’s the way they all look at me, eyes hungry, waiting for the moment I let my guard down.
They’re waiting for something, although I’m not sure what.
I lose count of the courses. At some point, the meat gets swapped for roasted roots, then for salted fish, then for pyramids of pastries dusted in something like powdered gold.
Every few minutes, another nymph appears with a new jug of wine or a fresh pot of tea, each poured with a sly smile and a whisper in my ear.
I never see them come or go. They just exist, bright and impossible, wherever I’m not looking.
I try to pace myself, but the tea is more than tea.
Every sip makes my skin hum, my thoughts a little lighter, the sound of music sharper.
I keep waiting for the poison to kick in, for the blackout, the madness, but it doesn’t come.
There’s just a lazy, stupid warmth that makes me want to trust everyone.
I don’t, of course. Not even a little. But I drink slowly and carefully. Just enough not to insult anyone, but not so much that I lose my wits.
Ashton plays along, but I see his sips are measured too.
The nymphs adore him. They drape themselves over his shoulders, stroking his hair, whispering jokes into his ear.
He laughs and flirts back, but every other word is about me, about my bravery, my wit, or my beauty.
The nymphs pretend to swoon, but it’s clear they don’t care about the stories. They just like the way his lips move.
Zomas is relentless. He’s always reaching across Ashton, refilling my plate, feeding me bits of fruit from his own hand.
He tells stories about ancient feasts, times the goddess herself came down from the sky to dance naked with the satyrs.
He flatters me until my ears ring with it, always coming back to my eyes, my hair, my “delicate” hands.
It would be sweet, if I didn’t know he’d probably eat my liver if he got bored.
Between bites, he peppers me with questions.
“Is it true,” he asks, “that human women cannot shapeshift?”
I swallow, not sure how to answer. “That’s… true, I guess.”
He shakes his head in disbelief. “So cruel, to make you live a whole life in just one shape! You must be so lonely.”
I want to laugh, but the sadness in his eyes is real as he asks his next question. “Did you really live alone, with no sisters? No one to comb your hair? To pick the burs from your fur?”
He says it like it’s the most tragic fate on earth. I shrug. “I didn’t really have a say in the matter.”
He pulls a face, as if I’ve confessed to eating dirt.
A nymph leans across the table, cleavage spilling, and tells Ashton, “We’ve never met a fae king before. Is it true you can make the wind obey you?”
Ashton winks and makes a little show of swirling the air around her with one finger. The nymph gasps, delighted, and claps her hands. “He’s so powerful!” she declares to her friends, who all titter behind their hands.
Ashton gives me a helpless look. I roll my eyes, but I can’t help smiling.
Zomas watches us, fascinated. “You two are… what’s the word? Lovers?”
The question is so direct that for a second, I choke on my wine. Ashton recovers first. “Partners,” he says. “In every way that matters.”
Zomas beams. “Partners! How lovely. The goddess must be so proud. She hates when fae and humans fight.”
I wonder if he knows about the wars, the blood, the centuries of hate. He acts like it’s all a game, like none of it ever really mattered.
The night gets louder as it goes. The satyrs stomp and sing, pounding the table with fists until the plates bounce.
The nymphs spin each other in dizzy, ecstatic dances, their laughter rising over the music.
More guests arrive, including a fox-headed woman in a dress of leaves, a trio of little stone-skinned men who speak only in rhyme, a boy with antlers and a mouthful of fangs.
None of them seem to care that I’m a stranger, a human, even a Chosen One.
They treat me like royalty, at least for tonight.
But the whole time, there’s a pulse under it all. The sense that everyone is performing, that at any moment the curtain might drop and the real show will begin.
Part of me doesn’t want to see it.
As the feast drags on, I find myself drifting. The food, the music, the endless chatter… it blurs together. I laugh more than I mean to, and my words start to slur. Ashton catches my hand under the table, squeezes, and leans in close.
“You okay?” he asks, his voice suddenly serious.
I nod, but I can’t focus on his face. “Just tired,” I say. “And maybe a little drunk, even though I was careful.”
He gives me a lopsided smile. “Don’t let them see weakness. Start pretending to drink until your head clears.”
I grit my teeth and try to look sober.
Zomas is still watching us, his eyes flicking from me to Ashton and back. When I meet his gaze, he smiles so wide it almost splits his face. “You know,” he says, “you remind me of someone.”
“Who?” I ask, genuinely curious.
He taps his horns, thinking. “There was a girl fae, a long time ago. Not royalty. Just a wandering fae. She challenged the labyrinth, just like you. Refused to be afraid. She made it all the way to the center.”
“What happened to her?”
He shrugs. “No one remembers. Some say she became a star. Others say she became part of the maze itself.”
I don’t know what to say to that, so I just pretend to sip my tea and watch the lanterns. They look like faces I almost recognize, but every time I try to pin one down, it changes. That’s right… they’re changing. That’s why I can’t see to peg them.
The air gets heavy, close. The laughter turns meaner, a little too sharp.
The satyrs argue over who can drink the most without passing out.
The nymphs start a contest to see who can seduce the shyest guest. Someone throws a whole pie at someone else, and the room explodes in food and shrieking.
I duck, but a gob of cream hits me in the face.
Zomas roars with delight. “Alette! You are officially one of us now.”
He wipes the cream from my cheek with a clawed finger and licks it off. “Perfect,” he purrs. “Human flavor, with just a hint of sweetness.”
I try to laugh, but I just feel frightened. How does he know what human tastes like?
Ashton stands suddenly, pulling me up with him. “Thank you for your generosity, Lord Zomas, but we must go. The maze will not wait for us.”
The table hushes. Every eye swings to Zomas.
He looks sad, almost. “So soon?”
“Afraid so,” Ashton says. “The goddess does not forgive late arrivals.”
Zomas thinks about it, then shrugs. “Very well! But before you go, one last toast.”
He stands, and the room rises with him. He grabs his goblet and raises it high. “To the Chosen One! To her beauty, her courage, and her future with us.”
With us? The table drinks, and the sound is deafening.
Then he lowers his cup and fixes me with that amber stare.
“One more thing,” he says, and the world seems to hush. Even the lanterns flicker out for a second. “I have made a decision. Alette will be my bride, and tonight we shall wed!”
There’s a split second where no one moves, and then the whole room erupts in applause and hoots and animal shrieks. The nymphs crowd around me, kissing my cheeks, stroking my hair, already weaving flowers into a crown. The satyrs stomp and clap, chanting my name.
I stand there, dumbstruck. Bride? What?
Ashton is at my side, tense as a bowstring. “Thank you, but—”
Zomas cuts him off with a laugh. “Don’t worry, Wind Prince! You will be the best man, or perhaps the flower girl. Whatever pleases you.”
He winks at me, so pleased with himself that my stomach churns. No matter what happens tonight, I’m not marrying this frightening creature. Even if I have to fight him myself.
The nymphs grab my hands, pulling me away from Ashton. For a second I think he’ll fight them, but he hesitates. Something in his eyes says to play along, for now.
I let the nymphs lead me, their hands cold and soft. They spin me in a circle, drape me with petals and pearls, all the while singing a song in a language I don’t know.
Zomas watches, eyes glittering. “Tonight, we make history,” he says. “A human and a satyr will be joined by the will of the goddess herself. What could be more beautiful?”
I try to pull away, but the nymphs are strong. They spin and twirl, and the world becomes a blur of color and sound.
I catch Ashton’s eye across the room. He’s trying to get to me, but the crowd is too thick.
The lanterns spin, the faces stretch and melt. The music gets louder, faster, wilder. The nymphs lift me off my feet, passing me over their heads, laughing and chanting.
I see Zomas, arms wide, ready to catch me.
I brace for impact, for whatever comes next.
But in my chest, beneath the panic and the exhaustion and the haze, something else burns. Rage. Cold and clean. I have lived my whole life obeying others. I will not do that now. I will not be forced into a marriage with a monster.
I land in Zomas’s arms. He smells like wine and wildflowers and sweat. His grip is gentle, almost reverent.
He bows, then lifts my hand to his lips. “You are a miracle, Chosen One. Let us celebrate you.”
The room explodes in applause, but I don’t move. Strange and angry thoughts are filling my mind. Anger that I’ve spent my whole life pretending wasn’t there.
Let him try to marry me.