Page 69 of The Labyrinth and the Threaded Daughter

Someone gasped.

Something glass shattered.

“Gods above–”

“The heir–”

“Is it truly–”

Corin swayed.

The room rushed toward him in fragments: dark banners hanging from stone pillars, long tables crowded with nobles, goblets half raised and forgotten. He could have sworn the air felt familiar, like when his father had passed—the air of loss.

His uncle surged to his feet from the high table, purple and black robes sweeping behind him and gold flashing at his throat.

“Corin?” Uncle Theros called out, disbelief sharp in his tone. Gods, it had been so long that he was unused to hearing his own name. It felt so foreign to him. “Corin!”

Mirelle was already moving when Corin caught sight of her.

She crossed the hall faster than Corin had ever seen her move before, skirts gathered in her hands. Her composure was cracking entirely as she reached him.

“You’re back!” she breathed out, gripping his arms as if afraid he might vanish again. A rush of pain flashed through him. “You’re actually back.”

“I–” Corin tried to get the words out, but the effort sent a wave of dizziness through him.

“Get a healer!” someone shouted.

“Water!” someone else cut in.

Corin only faintly saw the hall erupt into motion as his strength gave out. His knees buckled, and he would have hit the stone floor hard if Mirelle and two nearby guards hadn’t caught him.

The last thing he felt before darkness pressed in was her hand tight around his, grounding him.

He came back

to soft voices. Urgent. Overlapping.

“...dehydrated—no, more than that–”

“Gods, look at the state of him–”

“How long was he inside?”

Corin forced his eyes open at that. The ceiling above him swam into focus as he took in the arched stone, familiar and foreign all at once. He was laid out on a table or a low couch, something padded beneath him.

So different from the last time he had awoken after exhaustion, yet for half a moment, he wished he was back in the chamber with Ariadne.

A healer hovered at his side, hands brisk and practiced as they checked his pulse and pressed cool cloths to his skin. It was a welcome distraction from the pounding in his head.

“There,” the healer muttered. For the life of him, Corin could not remember his name. “He is awake.”

“Corin.” His uncle’s voice cut through the noise, sharp with relief and something else—hunger, perhaps? “You collapsed. What happened in there? What did you see?”

Corin swallowed, his throat painfully dry. “Why–” His voice cracked. He cleared it and tried again. “What’s wrong?”

“Wrong?” A female voice echoed out from somewhere. Mirelle, he thought.

“I’m so…” Corin fought against the words that laid heavy on his tongue. “Tired.”