Page 5 of The Labyrinth and the Threaded Daughter

As they came upon an opening in the walls, Corin stopped. He wanted one more glance, one more feel of the sun on his skin. It could be his last chance to feel the warmth of the sun, and he was not eager to pass up the opportunity.

It was the early morning sun, weak and bright, but it was better than nothing. He held his hands over the railing as the warmth beat down onto his skin like a welcome brush. He breathed in the warm fresh air a few times, feeling the rush of air waft through his body and hoping to hold onto the sense of calm that raced through him.

He only had a few moments to bask in the warmth—too little time—before he was rushed along again by Horal. They had a schedule to keep, after all.

The doors to the Hall of Due were thrown open at the end of a long, torch-lit passage. The sounds of the crowd reached his ears first, despite the lowness in tone—shifting silks, muted whispers, clinking of gold. Lords and ladies filled the chamber, arranged in careful tiers along the walls. Where the hall had been muted and bare only last night, it now stood transformed and dressed in reverence and wealth.

As though the decadence might soften what stood at its heart.

Purple and deep gold draped the walls with heavily embroidered spirals and bulls worked in gold thread. Incense burned thickly, sweet and cloying, coiling upward toward the vaulted ceiling where it darkened the stone. The air pressed close, so unlike the cold bare silence of the night before. A small hearth stood in the back corner, and Corin made sure to pay his respects to Hestia as he passed.

At the far end of the hall stood his uncle. It was the first time Corin knew his uncle had entered into the hall since… his own trial probably.

King Theros was robed in imperial purple, the fabric layered and luminous, fastened with golden clasps shaped like coiled horns—those of the Minotaur he had defeated only twenty years prior. Gold glinted at his wrists, belt, and crown. So much so that Corin would have chuckled at the extravagance if not for the tone of the room around him.

The king’s face was carefully composed, solemn and dignified, but his eyes flickered toward the arch of stone behind him.

That archaic entrance—the arch—for its sake, remained unchanged. The ancient stone drank in the light from around it. The symbols were half-obscured with the shadows from the garlands and offerings laid at its base. Bowls of grain, cups of wine, small tokens of gold and bone all laid out in plethora as gifts to Olympus.

A hush fell as Corin stepped forward. He swallowed at the sudden silence and clenched his fists even tighter.

Searching, he found Mirelle’s eyes in the crowd. She smiled genuinely, as if hoping to transfer her faith in him straight into Corin. Her eyes, her confidence in his abilities, calmed him greatly as he took the final steps to meet his uncle.

The servants had fallen off once he had stepped into the hall, and he now walked alone. Only a few more heavy steps before he was within arm’s reach of his uncle and some of the priests.

“The heir approaches,” Horal announced, his voice echoing loudly in the crowded hall. Corin was tempted to glance back at the man who he had known most of his life, but he wasn’t sure what kind of response he would even receive. So instead, his eyes remained forward.

Corin’s feet stopped moving where the floor dipped slightly. He hadn’t noticed it ever before, but then, his senses had never been this heightened before now. He briefly wondered if the floor had been designed that way intentionally, as if to lead the way for him to enter the Labyrinth.

He eyed the seal of the Labyrinth, at the giant slab covered in the great three spirals of Knossos and surrounded by what looked like veins. That was where he was going. That was where his fate laid.

“Today,” his uncle declared, “the Labyrinth will measure its due!”

The words were met with bowed heads and murmured assent of all in the room except for the two priestesses who had kept watch over the entrance last night and Corin.

Corin’s eyes remained on the arch as his throat ran dry, at the dark that lay beyond it, and understood with sudden clarity that all this—this wealth, this reverence, this pageantry—existed to keep the fear contained.

It wasn’t working, he scoffed.

King Theros’s hand remained raised as the priests stepped forward, their robes whispering against the stone. Corin noticed then that they were chanting lowly, and as they moved closer, the chant became quieter and quieter until it was but a mere vibration against his bones. The incense thickened then, nearly choking the heir. He coughed once, catching the slanted eye of one of the priests.

“Stone remembers,” the High Priest intoned.

“Stone counts,” the others finished.

A rhythm of words pressed inward, each phrase echoing against the arch as though it were being weighed. They rushed back against Corin, pressing against his skin, and the air grew warmer as they reached him.

“The blood of kings was given,” the High Priest called out, his hands raised above his head in ceremony.

The other priests bowed slightly. “And returned.”

The lords and ladies lining the hall repeated the final words.

At that, the priestesses—nearly still as stone the previous night—moved. They began with the slightest tilt of the head, then a deep breath drawn. Their eyes, once dull and watchful, turned sharp and dark. The air around them thickened with curls of incense twisting around them, drawn in like the tide.

“The threshold opens,” one of the priestesses said, her voice thin with age and a fragility that came with rare use.

“When debt is named,” said the other.