Page 34 of The Labyrinth and the Threaded Daughter

The Labyrinth twisted again. A side hall yawned open to Corin’s left just slightly ahead without warning, stone sliding apart wide enough to offer an alternate route. He didn’t hesitate. He threw himself into the opening, crashing into the wall, as one of the harpies reached out right where he had been standing.

Corin kept running. It took a moment for the monsters to turn down the hall, giving him a bit of momentum to escape them. Where he was going, he wasn’t sure, but he needed to get out of their sight as quickly as he could.

If he made it away from these winged beasts, he would never say another name again.

The hall marred sharply, forcing Corin to angle his shoulders and duck low. It would be too low for the harpies to comfortably fly through, but the relief that realization brought didn’t last long enough. They tore through the stone.

“Move, move!” Corin begged of himself, his lungs burning. “Go!”

Another harpy shrieked his name as the passage twisted, dipped, rose. Corin’s legs screamed. His vision blurred. Behind him, the winged beasts were slamming into the walls and each other as they chased after him. They were undeterred. Unstoppable.

Then Corin saw it. Another door appeared just ahead.

It didn’t slide against the stone this time. One second it wasn’t there and the next, it was wide and open and welcoming. It was an opening rimmed faintly with gold, light spilling through it like a held breath first released.

Once again, Corin didn’t question it. He dove.

And this time, he was lucky. The moment he crossed the threshold, the door slammed shut behind him with a thunderous crack. The impact knocked him forward, and he hit the floor hard, skidding across smooth stone as the harpies’ cries cut off abruptly as if strangled.

Silence followed.

Not the heavy, hostile quiet he experienced before, but something softer. Familiar. Safer.

Corin lay there for a moment, chest heaving and palms burning as every muscle trembled. He had never run that fast before, and his body was clearly protesting.

Once he managed to somewhat catch his breath, he glanced around hurriedly, awaiting the next punishment. But there was none. He knew this space.

He pushed himself upright.

The open air chamber stretched around him, light filtering down from the impossible open air above. It was evening light now, not the beautiful daytime as when he had left. The trinkets were still scattered along the edges. A pallet was in his direct line of sight.

The stone was smoother here. Warmer. Less angry.

It was Ariadne’s chamber.

Corin sucked in a shaky breath and laughed once—short, breathless, almost hysterical.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

The Labyrinth had chased him. And, for some reason he could not understand at the moment, it had returned him to her.

Whether that was a mercy, warning, or something far more dangerous, Corin didn’t yet know. But as he rose unsteadily to his feet, one truth settled cold and certain in his chest:

Ariadne was no longer just watching him. She was part of his story.

XIII

Corin tried the first entrance with purpose. He chose the narrow archway to his right, where the stone was much darker and the air smelled faintly of iron. He stepped through without looking back, jaw set and blade gripped tightly. The corridor beyond twisted sharply left, then right, then dipped into shadow.

Then he emerged into open air.

Light spilled down from the gaped ceiling. The stone floor curved gently beneath his boots. Ariadne stood near the edge of the space, exactly where she had been only minutes before, her posture loose and her expression unreadable.

Corin stopped short and grunted in frustration. “No,” he grumbled.

He eyed the entry to his left. It was brighter than the others, and he hoped that meant it would take him further on his journey. He turned on his heel and entered quickly.

This one was wider than the previous. Its edges threaded faintly with gold brighter than those he had seen earlier. He passed through this one at a jog, then a run, counting his steps, tracking each turn, refusing to let his focus slip.