Chapter 7
Alette
The castle that looms before us is smaller than I imagined, nestled into the landscape as if it’s part of the labyrinth itself.
The stone walls have an ancient quality, their surfaces weathered and covered with creeping vines that seem to reach out like fingers, attempting to reclaim the structure.
Its sharp spires rise toward the stormy sky, jagged against the backdrop of swirling clouds.
Lord Ferngull is quick to explain, his voice smooth and inviting. “Most of it is underground. Like much of the labyrinth. What you see here is just the surface. The true beauty lies below.”
I glance at the others. Sylvian just shrugs. Okay, alright, if this is yet another crappy trap, we’ll be ready. We’re always ready for trouble now.
As we step inside, the storm outside worsens, the wind howling like a restless spirit as rain lashes against the tall windows. The doors shut behind us with a heavy finality, muting the chaos outside.
Servants appear almost immediately, silent and efficient. They wait for their orders, their expressions blank in a way that makes it hard to tell if they’re avoiding our eyes or simply trained not to meet them.
“Dry things, we have guests,” Lord Ferngull says lightly, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.
At once, more servants step forward carrying folded clothing. Simple, but clean. Dry. Warm-looking.
“We’ll get you into clean, dry clothes, and then have your clothes ready for you in the morning,” Lord Ferngull adds with a small, courteous incline of his head, like this situation is an everyday occurrence.
There’s a brief hesitation between us, a shared glance passing between the five of us.
No one says it out loud, but the same thought lingers, this leaves us exposed.
Vulnerable in a place we don’t understand.
But we’re soaked through, shivering, and the cold is starting to bite deeper than our pride.
“We stay close,” Oberon mutters under his breath, low enough that only we hear.
Always.
Servants move quickly, leading us to a room with racks of clothes and separate changing areas behind screens, giving each of us our own small pocket of privacy. Not far apart. It’s perfect.
I slip behind mine, the fabric shielding me from view, and then I just stand there, dripping onto the polished floor, my hands slow as I reach for the hem of my clothes.
Peeling them off is worse than I expected. The wet leather clings stubbornly to my skin, cold and heavy, and I have to force it away inch by inch. By the time I’ve gotten everything off, I’m shaking harder, my teeth chattering as the air hits my damp skin.
I dry my body with a blanket that was folded along with the clothes, then grab the dry clothes quickly, pulling them on with clumsy fingers.
The moment the fabric settles over me, the difference is immediate. Soft, dry, blessed warmth that feels almost unreal after the cold. It sinks into my skin, chasing away the worst of the chill, and I let out a slow breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding.
I just stand there, letting it happen. Letting myself feel it. Then I strap my blade to my hip, straighten, and push past the screen.
I glance down at myself first, almost startled by the sight.
The dress they’ve given me is soft and flowing, the fabric a deep, rich color that catches the candlelight with every movement.
It drapes over my body in a way I’m not used to, fitted just enough at the waist before falling in gentle layers to my ankles.
The sleeves are light and loose, brushing my wrists, and I realize how nice it is to not be dressed for survival.
I feel… almost pretty. The thought catches me off guard.
One by one, the others emerge as well.
I lift my gaze as Sylvian steps out from behind his screen, his broad frame wrapped in earthy tones that somehow suit him perfectly, the fabric fitted across his chest and shoulders.
His long black hair is still slightly damp, curling faintly at the ends, and his green eyes find mine almost immediately, softening in a way that makes my stomach twist.
Ashton follows, and of course he looks like he was made for a place like this.
The clothes fit him like they were tailored for him alone, darker in color, sleek and effortless.
His long blond hair falls just slightly into his face, his sharp features highlighted by the warm light, and when his gaze slides to me, his mouth curves in that familiar, wicked smile.
Oberon emerges next, and the room seems to shift with him.
The clothing does nothing to soften him, only emphasizes the strength of his build, the hard lines of muscle beneath the fabric.
His short, dark hair is still damp too, his blue eyes flicking over me briefly before he looks away, jaw tightening like he doesn’t quite know what to do with what he sees.
Cassius is last. He moves slower, still recovering, but there’s something composed about him even now.
The pale tones of his clothing echo his white-blond hair, leaving his pale blue eyes all the more vivid against the softness.
His gaze lands on me, sharp and observant, like he’s taking in every detail at once, but there’s something quieter beneath it. Something warmer.
None of us speak. We just… look. Take each other in, as if seeing one another like this is something new. Something different.
“Much better,” a smooth voice breaks in.
I turn to see Lord Ferngull watching us, his expression pleased, as if we’ve somehow met his expectations.
“If you’ll follow me,” he continues, gesturing toward the doorway.
We move as a group, instinctively staying close as we follow him out of the room. The warmth lingers, but so does the quiet tension beneath it, the awareness that no matter how comfortable this place appears… we’re still in the labyrinth.
And not everything here is what it seems.
The next room opens before us, and I can’t help but feel like we’re stepping deeper into something we don’t fully understand.
Firelight dances across the room, warm and reliable, illuminating the plush chairs and long couch gathered around the hearth.
A table is already laid out, filled with food that looks impossibly rich after days of survival.
Bread still warm from the oven, fruit glistening, steaming dishes that smell of spice and comfort. Wine poured and waiting.
Hunger flares hard at the scent, despite the caution still knotted low in my stomach. It feels unreal. Too easy and definitely too perfect.
Lord Ferngull gestures gracefully toward the seating. “Please,” he says, his voice smooth. “Make yourselves comfortable. You must be exhausted.”
I just stand there, caught between the pull of warmth, food, and rest… and the quiet voice in the back of my mind reminding me where we are. The labyrinth doesn’t give without taking.
Still… I step forward.
Lord Ferngull describes the dishes on the table, his voice smooth, laced with an undertone of humor that feels just a little too practiced. Oberon eyes him warily but sits, his hand settling near the hilt of his sword.
None of us have given up our weapons. We weren’t fools, and Oberon was making sure the lord was aware of our armed status.
Sylvian and Ashton sit next, their movements controlled, tension still threading through their posture.
Cassius lowers himself more carefully, pain evident in his face as he does so.
I sit last, my dagger resting with a familiar weight against my hip.
Somehow, I’d gotten more than accustomed to the weapon. It’s become a part of me.
When did that happen?
The food sits untouched for a long moment, the scent of it thick in the air, warm and tempting. No one reaches for it. Oberon doesn’t even look at it.
“You first,” he says, voice low, direct.
Lord Ferngull’s smile deepens, as if he expected nothing less.
Without hesitation, he reaches for a piece of bread, tears it cleanly, and eats.
He takes a piece of everything on the table, sets in one his plate, and eats a little of everything, his expression amused.
Then, he takes a sip of wine. Calm. Unbothered.
We watch. Wait. Nothing happens.
Then Ashton exhales softly. “Well. That’s reassuring enough for me.”
That’s all it takes.
We move almost at once, the restraint breaking. Hands reach for bread, fruit, onions, potatoes, treats, anything within reach. Even though I notice a lack of meat, I’m not about to be ungrateful. All of it piles high onto our plates.
Sylvian swallows a bite, then inclines his head politely. “Your home is… impressive,” he says, his voice sincere. “And your staff is remarkably efficient.”
“They’ve kept you alive this long,” Ashton adds, flashing an easy smile. “That alone deserves praise.”
Lord Ferngull dips his head slightly, clearly pleased. “I will pass along your compliments.”
His gaze lingers on us a moment longer than necessary before he speaks again, curiosity sharpening his expression. “And you?” he asks, folding his hands loosely in his lap. “What brings you into the labyrinth?”
The question hangs in the air.
Oberon doesn’t hesitate. “We’re heading for the end,” he says plainly. “To break the curse over the fae and restore their powers.”
For a heartbeat, Lord Ferngull goes still. Then something flashes across his face.
“Restore them? With no word from the outside, we’d given up hope of such things,” he says, leaning forward slightly, interest sparking to life. “You believe that’s possible?”
Cassius answers this time, measured and calm. “We don’t believe. We know.”
Lord Ferngull exhales softly, almost like a laugh, though there’s something unsteady beneath it. “Gods,” he murmurs, shaking his head once. “What an important mission.”
His gaze drifts, then sharpens again, something waking behind his eyes. “As you know, nothing can change the fact that I’m an earth fae.” His fingers flex on the table. “But I miss the connection to life.”