Page 37 of The Labyrinth and the Threaded Daughter

“Do you mean… is she your betrothed?” Something about the way her voice hitched when she asked had Corin’s gut coiling.

He glanced away. “She is.”

Ariadne studied him for another moment, then nodded, as if filing the answer away somewhere. Corin wondered how many conversations she had had like this before. How many heirs she had questioned their lives.

A selfish part of him wished it was none. He wanted to be the only one who spoke to her about his life. But the other side of him knew that was terrible to wish for. What a horrible existence that would be for her, living in this place and never having a calm conversation about the outside.

“And what do they say about me?” she asked lowly.

Corin stilled. He opened his mouth—and stopped. He cleared his throat. “The Threaded Daughter,” he started, barely remembering to not say her name. Heat crept into his cheeks. “Your part of the story is… not spoken of often.”

Ariadne’s expression softened at that. Not pleased. Just relieved.

“Threaded Daughter,” she echoed in thought.

“It’s… out of respect,” he tried to assure her.

“I suppose.”

“They say you were clever,” he continued, adding on quickly. “That you helped Th-er… that you helped your hero and were betrayed. Left. Some believe you became a warning. Though none really imagined you were here. At least, not to my knowledge.” He ducked his head, rubbing the back of his neck. “Truthfully, our legends were not where I paid the most of my attention.”

For a long moment, she was quiet. Her head was tilted in thought. “And what do you think?”

He hesitated. “I think legends flatten people. They turn them into lessons instead of letting them be human.”

Something unreadable passed through her eyes. “You are careful with your words now.”

“I’m learning; it’s never been my strong suit,” he replied, glancing at the walls again. “But this place has some nasty opinions.”

A corner of her mouth lifted. “It always has.”

They were both quiet for a bit after that, Corin’s mind racing with all of the questions he could ask, but he wasn’t sure how to form any of them into words.

Finally, he sighed, and when he ran his fingers through his hair, Ariadne’s eyes tracked the movement carefully. “You managed to learn the maze. How?”

Ariadne’s shoulders dropped. “My thread… helped, I suppose, but I…” she stopped to take in a deep breath. “It started to go through me at some point.”

“Go through you?”

She shrugged and refused to meet his eyes. “I find it hard to explain truly. I cannot control the Labyrinth, nor can I always understand why it acts the way it does. I just… can understand where paths went.”

“Have you always been able to do that? With The—with your hero?” he asked.

“No,” she answered. “It came over the many years.”

“And you never tried to leave with an heir? No one tried to save you?”

Ariadne scoffed, and Corin could have sworn he saw a tear form in her eyes. “No one ever asked.”

The answer wrecked Corin. He felt it through his body as the words rushed over him. His heart fell into his stomach. He clenched his fists on instinct, feeling his nails biting into his palms to relax him.

How could no one have thought to leave with her, he questioned.

He wanted to go back to each of the heirs, take them out of Tartarus and shake them. Yell at them until they apologize profusely. He simply could not understand why none of the future kings tried to help her at all.

Corin attempted to school the emotions running through him, releasing his fists to try to act as if he was unbothered. He did not want Ariadne to be scared of him for any reason, certainly not over his emotions.

They sat in companionable silence after that, the kind that didn’t demand to be filled. Corin forced his breathing to steady as he found himself watching the way the light caught in her hair, how she held herself as though she’d learned long ago not to take up too much space.