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And I see it clearly now. The permission. The implicit approval.
He knows. He knows exactly why I'm here, what I'm planning, what's about to happen in the maze. And he's giving me his blessing disguised as a philosophical observation.
Because James has something on him. Some leverage that makes official action impossible. But unofficial action—an angel in the maze, an accident during the chaos of the final trial—that's different. That's deniable.
That's justice wearing a mask.
"I understand," I whisper, and I see the smallest flicker of satisfaction in his eyes before he steps back, his hand falling away from my spine.
"Enjoy the maze, Mrs. Draven." He gestures toward the entrance—a towering archway formed by living hedges that must be fifteen feet tall, the opening already swallowing initiates who disappear into shadows and manufactured terror. "I look forward to seeing what revelations you discover inside."
I nod once, then turn toward the entrance, my heart hammering so hard I can feel it in my throat, in my fingertips, in the pulse points at my wrists.
This is it. This is actually happening.
The maze swallows me immediately.
One moment I'm in afternoon sunlight, surrounded by the murmur of faculty and the nervous energy of initiates preparing to run. The next, I'm enclosed by walls of dense hedge that block out almost all natural light, leaving only the eerie glow of strategically placed lanterns to illuminate the path ahead.
The air inside is different—cooler, damp, carrying the scent of earth and crushed greenery and something chemical I can't quite identify. Fog machines, probably. Creating atmosphere, obscuring vision, making everything feel more disorienting.
The path branches immediately—left or right, no clear indication which is correct. I go right because that's where the angel and devil section should be according to the floor plans I've memorized, the routes I've traced a hundred times on paper until I could walk them blindfolded.
The corridor twists, narrows, opens into a small clearing where a performer dressed as a plague doctor stands motionless, the bird-beak mask turned toward me with empty eye holes that should be terrifying but just register as theatrical. I move past without acknowledging him, my wings rustling softly against the hedge walls.
Another turn. Another branch. The sound of running water somewhere to my left—artificial probably, another sensory element designed to confuse and disorient. Someone screams in the distance, followed by laughter that sounds more manic than amused. An initiate discovering one of the maze's tricks, or performers doing their job too well.
I keep walking, following the mental map, taking lefts and rights with the kind of certainty that comes from obsessive preparation.
The maze shifts around me as I go deeper. The Greek mythology section gives way to what looks like medieval torture—iron maidens that are clearly props but still disturbing, wooden stocks, a gibbet hanging from a frame built into the hedge walls. Another performer here, this one dressed as an executioner, standing beside an ax embedded in a chopping block.
Then Victorian gothic—all dark velvet draping and ornate mirrors positioned at angles designed to create the illusion of endless reflections. A woman in a period dress stands in one corner, perfectly still, and it takes me a moment to realize she's not breathing, not real, just an incredibly lifelike mannequin.
And then—
The angel and devil section.
The atmosphere shifts immediately. The hedges here are taller, denser, creating a cathedral-like quality with the way they arch overhead. Lanterns cast dancing shadows that look like wings, like halos, like horns depending on the angle. The fog is thicker here too, swirling around my ankles, making the ground disappear beneath the white fabric of my dress.
Alcoves are cut into the hedge walls at regular intervals, each one styled differently. Some have statues—marble angels with serene faces, stone demons with grotesque features. Others contain performers in elaborate costumes, standing so still they might as well be statues themselves until an initiate gets close enough to trigger their programmed scare.
I count them as I pass. One, two, three, four—
The fifth alcove is empty. Just like the plans indicated. Just like I knew it would be.
I step inside, the hedge walls closing around me on three sides, the opening facing the main path. It's larger than it looked from outside—maybe ten feet deep, eight feet wide, with a small bench built into the far wall. Lanterns hang from hooks embedded in the greenery, casting warm golden light that makes the space feel almost cozy despite the macabre surroundings.
I settle onto the bench, arranging my wings carefully so they fan out behind me, positioning myself so that anyone approaching from the path will see me in profile first. Beautiful and serene and perfectly angelic.
The perfect trap.
Now I wait.
Time moves strangely in the maze. Without natural light or any clear sense of progression, minutes feel like hours. I hear initiates running past, breathing hard, occasionally crying out when they encounter something unexpected. I hear performers delivering their lines, the same scripted frights over and over. I hear the distant sounds of the observation platforms—laughter, conversation, the clink of glasses.
And then I hear footsteps. Deliberate. Unhurried. Coming closer.
I don't move. Don't turn. Just sit perfectly still like another statue, another prop, another piece of atmospheric decoration.
