Page 70 of The Labyrinth and the Threaded Daughter

The healer handed him a goblet. “Drink. You’re dehydrated and exhausted.”

Corin took a sip greedily, even as the healer warned him to proceed slowly. He listened, only slightly, because the cool liquid felt so good against his rough throat.

Had it only been hours before that Ariadne had offered him ambrosia in such a similar way? A day, at most.

He realized the sharp injury from the Minotaur, his arm that was cut in his first fight, still burned. There was no muscle or blood showing through the cloths covering him. Only an intense pain from the inside.

All of his injuries seemed to only be inside him, nothing clear to show the small crowd that eagerly awaited his words.

He wouldn’t heal as quickly here without the help of the ambrosia, and gods, how Corin wished for a small drop at that point. Just something to tide him over while he recovered.

When he felt like he could speak again, and the intense gaze of everyone in the room felt too impossible to ignore, Corin spoke again. “Why wasn’t anyone waiting for me?”

Out of all the questions that plagued him, that was the one that came out.

The room went very still.

Corin thought that perhaps they didn’t hear him. He went to ask the question again, but Mirelle stopped him with a warm hand tightening around his arm.

“What do you mean?”

He cleared his throat. “At the entrance,” he said slowly. “In the Hall of Due. There should have been… someone, right? I remember… waiting for Uncle Theros as a child. When an heir exits… the court waits. It’s tradition.”

Uncle Theros exchanged a glance with the healer.

“Right?” Corin repeated softly.

“Corin,” Mirelle drawled out his name. “You weren’t expected.”

A chill slid down his spine. “What?”

When neither Mirelle nor his uncle replied, the healer spoke up. “You were inside the Labyrinth for seven days, my prince. You emerged on the seventh. Not the expected three days and nights.”

The words didn’t fully land at first. It took a moment for them to catch up to Corin’s ears.

“Seven?” he repeated slowly, though the word sounded hollow even to his ears.

“A full week,” Uncle Theros confirmed after clearing his throat. “The rites accounted for three days and three nights. When you didn’t emerge, we…” he trailed off, jaw tightening. “We began preparing for mourning.”

Corin stared at him, stunned.

Seven days.

In the Labyrinth, he knew that time had folded in on itself. It stretched and twisted until three days felt like a lifetime but also as if no time at all had passed. He understood that time had moved differently inside. He felt it every time he journeyed. Accepted it.

Still, he imagined he was in there for only a few days. Not an entire week.

He thought of Ariadne, of how the light had shifted and healed his wounds, of how the maze had breathed around them.

She had been there alone for centuries.

How long had it felt like for her?

It was then that Corin truly understood the dark garb that those around him wore. Every garment had the echoes of purple, but there was a distinct black piece to everything: Uncle Theros’s black cloak, Mirelle’s black gown with only hints of purple lace. Similar garments to what was worn when his father passed all those years ago.

Mirelle laughed softly, breathless and shaky. “Gods,” she breathed out, tears in her eyes. “I knew you’d make it out. I told them you would.” She leaned down and pressed her forehead gently against his, an intimate and familiar gesture born from years of trust. “I’m so glad you’re back.”

Corin managed a weak smile for her as she straightened.