Page 24 of The Labyrinth and the Threaded Daughter

Her smile quickly shifted back to a concentrated purse as she worked to heal Corin. He instantly missed the warmth her smile brought to him, and he ached to see it again, the need overpowering the pain lacing his body.

But Ariadne moved quickly to heal him—efficiently. Her hands were steady as she bound his ribs and checked for any additional fractures.

Corin found himself watching her despite himself—the way she seemed wholly present in the moment. He felt as though they were the only two inside the maze, as if no other being was pacing the halls. As if all he needed to heal was her.

She was…unreal.

Not ethereal, not distant. Solid. Intentional. Like something that survived centuries by force of will alone. Perhaps she had.

Her eyes lifted suddenly, catching his stare. “Stop that.”

Heat crept up his neck. Corin turned his head away at once, pretending sudden interest in a particular pile of discarded items strewn together not far from him—a collection of old pottery, stones, and metal fragments. “I wasn’t–”

“You were,” she corrected flatly. “There is no use in lying, heir.”

He cleared his throat and studied the space more closely as she worked, grateful for the momentary distraction.

In the softened light of the open ceiling, the chamber revealed itself as more than a crossing point. Along the curved walls were shallow alcoves filled with the remnants of a hundred lifetimes: chipped pottery, tarnished jewelry, rusted weapons, scraps of fabric embroidered with symbols as he half-recognized from old histories. Some items were clearly offerings. Others looked… kept.

Near one wall lay a simple pallet of woven reeds and furs, arranged neatly as though used often. A low stone that had been manipulated into a shelf held bowls, candles long since melted into themselves, and a handful of small golden trinkets—rings, clasps, coins worn smooth with age and long forgotten.

At the far edge of where they rested sat a pallet full of cloths and comfort. A bed, it seemed, hastily made with torn garments and ancient tarps.

“This is where you sleep,” Corin said quietly.

Ariadne sat back on her heels. “Sometimes.”

“You live here?”

She hesitated and then stood. “I exist here.” She moved across the chamber and grabbed something from a different pile of trinkets. It was only when she brought it over that he realized it was a final bandage.

Corin frowned, eyes drifting over the collected fragments of centuries. Every object told a story. Every story had passed through her hands.

“You keep their things,” he said. “The heirs.”

She tilted her head as she finished with the final bandage. “Yes. And other items I find.”

“You find?”

She shrugged. “There are things that enter the Labyrinth on occasion. They come in blindly, and I collect.”

“Why?”

Ariadne followed his gaze, something unreadable flickering across her face. “Because no one else would remember them.”

The words settled heavily between them.

Corin leaned his head back against the stone, exhaustion pulling him under even as wonder kept him awake. Above him, the sky stretched endlessly blue. The lack of answers settled heavy in his gut, but at least at that moment, he felt like he wasn’t in danger.

Hours passed without

Corin meaning them to.

He woke to warmth.

Not the suffocating heat of the corridors, nor the cold bite of stone, but something much gentler—sunlight filtered thin and gold, the air faintly sweet. For a disoriented moment, he thought he was still dreaming, still staring up at an impossible sky.

Then he heard a soft click of stone against stone.