Page 25 of The Labyrinth and the Threaded Daughter

Corin shifted, expecting pain—and felt almost none.

He froze.

Slowly, he lifted his injured arm. The bandage was still wrapped around it, darkened where blood had soaked through earlier, but beneath them, his muscles moved smoothly. There was no pain. No sharp ache.

Even his ribs, which had been screaming at him before his rest, now felt…distant. Like a memory rather than a wound.

“That’s not possible.”

Ariadne followed his gaze and signed, as though she’d been waiting for him to notice. “It is here.”

Corin flexed his fingers, then pressed carefully against his side. Still nothing. He sat up and looked over at her, unsettled. “I should barely be able to sit up.”

“You would be,” she replied, “outside.”

He frowned. “How long was I asleep?”

Ariadne hesitated, then answered, “Long enough.”

“That’s not comforting.”

“No,” she agreed. “But it is honest.” She gestured upward toward the open sky that still shone impossibly bright. “Time does not quite move cleanly here. It folds. Stretches. The Labyrinth decides what lingers and what passes.”

“And my wounds?” he asked.

“It kept you,” she said simply. “So it mended what it broke.”

Corin swallowed and straightened his spine, stretching out his remaining limbs. “How much time has passed out there?”

Her eyes softened. “More than a night, I assume. Less than a lifetime.”

That answer chilled him far more than blood loss ever had.

“So I could be healing,” he said slowly, “while the world keeps moving on.”

“Yes.”

He gulped, deciding he didn’t like that answer one bit. “And you?” he asked. “Is that how you are here? You haven’t aged at all.”

Something unreadable crossed her face. “Not the way you mortals do.” Then, into herself, she whispered, “Not anymore.”

Corin blinked a few times, watching her as many emotions seemed to rush through her, each passing as quickly as they appeared. He felt as if he was imposing on a personal moment and forced himself to look away, back at the sky. At that, his awe returned, even though it was now threaded with dread.

“The Labyrinth didn’t just trap you,” he mused. “It changed the rules.”

Ariadne watched him closely. He could feel her measuring whether he was ready for the truth behind her words. “It always does.”

She knelt near a shallow stone bowl set between her hands. Within it, Corin could make out something luminous pooled—thick and honey-bright. It glowed faintly as if lit from within. The scent wafted over him, rich and familiar, floral and sharp all at once.

“What is that?” Corin asked, shaking out his previously injured arm once again to test it out, but still, there was no pain. It was… incredible.

“Ambrosia,” Ariadne answered.

His brows shot up. “That’s–”

“For gods,” she finished calmly. “Yes.”

“That’s not reassuring.”