Page 73 of The Labyrinth and the Threaded Daughter

He told his people about Taleon, crushed and remade and walking again as he haunted the halls. He told them about Bristle, who was a monster that only wanted to play with his toys and limbs. About the Minotaur—not truly a monster, but a brother.

And about Ariadne.

He did not give her name in the same way the maze strictly forbade it. Instead, he spoke of the Threaded Daughter who kept the Labyrinth alive because no one else would. Who guided him out and kept a watch on heirs but was never guided herself. Who had been loved only for what she could provide. Who had been betrayed by all those she loved.

Including him.

Admitting that was difficult, to himself and to his people. To hear that he was willing to give up his kingdom to protect this woman who he had only spent less than a week with was hard to accept. To say they were shocked would be an understatement.

But still, his people listened. Of course they did. They were resilient and accepting people.

And now, crowned and sworn, he waited.

His fingers closed around the stone disc hidden in his palm, its edges smooth with time. It fit there perfectly as if it had always belonged to him. His pulse thrummed against it—in nervousness, yes, but also in certainty.

Mirelle stood close at his side. Not clinging. Not distant. Just present. Supporting, even.

He had been incredibly thankful for her. When he first revealed his plans to her, she was hesitant, which he expected. It took much discussion and listening, but she slowly accepted his words. She understood duty in a way not everyone in court did, and she was prepared to stand by his side no matter the consequence.

“You’re shaking,” she murmured.

“Only a little,” Corin admitted.

She smiled—soft, fond, unbroken by jealousy. “You love her.”

He didn’t deny it. It wasn’t the first time that she had said those words to him. Corin never admitted those feelings out loud to Mirelle, but he never argued. He knew where his heart belonged.

He just needed to tell Ariadne first.

“What you feel for her,” Mirelle continued, “is deeper than anything you ever felt for me. And that’s all right.” She squeezed his arm in support. “Do what you need to do, Corin. I know you’ll always do the right thing.”

Her words settled him some, but he was still on edge in anticipation.

Convincing her, and even his uncle, had been easy compared to discussions with the priests. Since they were alerted of his plan, they had attempted to stall and change his mind in any way they could.

None were successful, but it had caused a good bit of trepidation nonetheless.

“This is sacrilege,” one priest hissed from the other side of him.

Mirelle offered him a rude look.

“You would unmake a divine trial,” another warned, undeterred by Mirelle. “Kings have risen and fallen because of that maze.”

Corin had to stop himself from rolling his eyes. “And they will continue to fail,” he explained as it was the most simple thing in the world, “if we continue to call suffering sacred.”

The Head Priest scoffed and waved Corin away.

The new king smiled softly, as if placating the older man. “You may not understand entirely, but the trial started as a way to communicate with those stuck underground. It no longer serves that purpose. It has been twisted into an event that serves no purpose but to control.”

The priests raised their brows at that.

Corin stepped forward, facing his court fully. The room fell into a hush as everyone put their full attention on the king.

“My duty,” he began, voice carrying farther than he expected, “is not to tradition. It is to the living. To those who kneel in this hall—and to those buried beneath it.”

He would have opened the maze earlier. He tried to do so the day after he completed his trial, but there were so many arguments. So many people he needed to speak with, that demanded his time.

It was exhausting, waiting for so long. All he wanted to do was see Ariadne again, to hear her say his name, to feel her press her lips against his. It took everything in him to follow procedure—what little of it there was to answer to.