Page 61 of The Labyrinth and the Threaded Daughter

That action would have been answer enough, but he spoke anyway, “This is what it wants.”

Ariadne recoiled as if he’d struck her. “No,” she whispered. “You do not know that.”

Guilt and resolve warred in his chest. “I do,” he admitted. He tilted his head as he stared into her eyes, begging her to trust him, though he knew this would betray any trust they had built. “I’m sorry.”

The look on her face—hurt, disbelief, and something broken—cut deeper than he’d expected. “You promised.”

Corin went to respond—to say what, he wasn’t sure—but she continued on with a broken voice. “You said you would not use me. You said you did not see me like the other heirs before you did.”

He ached to see the light in her eyes again, but they had gone so dark, so cold, that he wasn’t sure they would heal.

“I’m not using you,” he breathed out, though the words felt hollow even to his own ears.

“You are.”

“I just–” He stopped, running his hand through his disheveled hair. “The thread knows.”

“You have got to–” Ariadne groaned in frustration, taking the ball of thread from his hands and throwing it into the chamber. “The thread means nothing! It has for centuries!”

“Please…”

“No, heir, you do not understand!” Her voice was rising, nearly shouting. “That ball of thread helped the hero, yes, but it has sat here for centuries not leading any being to any sort of exit. All it does is taunt me!”

Corin gulped, knowing he was right in trusting the thread but unsure how to explain it to her. “I do understand, but–”

She shook her head, stepping back as if she no longer recognized him. “I should not have to explain to you.”

Corin blinked once, twice, then shook his head. “Please, listen to me. This is the way.”

Ariadne scoffed and crossed her arms against her chest, squeezing tight. “You have already chosen.”

Corin didn’t trust himself to respond. The hurt on her face would haunt him forever, and if he stood there another moment, he would likely abandon everything he knew to protect her feelings.

Instead, he turned and crossed into the chamber.

The empty chamber.

He wasn’t sure what he expected at that moment—perhaps that the Minotaur had been listening to their argument and remained quiet while hearing the hurt in his kin’s voice. It was unlikely, but he at least hoped the Minotaur would be there, poised to attack.

But the space where the Minotaur should have been loomed silent and still. The air was heavy with anticipation but completely devoid of movement or any life beyond his own. No hooves scraped the stone. No breath thundered through the dark.

Corin followed the thread, seeing where Ariadne had thrown the ball across the room. It led right to the center, clipped short. This was exactly where the thread had led him, and it had done that for a reason.

A reason that was half bull and half man.

Corin frowned and cast a look to Ariadne. “Where is he?”

She stood rigid at the entrance with her arms wrapped tightly around herself. “I do not know.”

“That’s not true,” he argued as softly as he could. “Please.”

She looked away. It took several moments of her hesitation and his gut squeezing painfully for her to finally, reluctantly, say something. “He wanders. He always does. He will come back soon.”

“When?”

Her voice dropped. “Soon.”

Corin gulped and nodded once. “I’ll wait, then.”