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“Are you expecting me to change?” Ryn challenged.

“All Tributes must wear appropriate ceremonial garments, or they will not be permitted to enter the Outer Rings.” An artist with unnaturally bloodred hair bowed so low, her face nearly touched the floor.

Ryn sighed and glanced at herself in the mirror one last time before peeling off the armour she’d spent the morning putting on. She handed her mask to a servant last, watching as it was carried away to an end table and put on display.

Artists fitted a red chiffon face veil that came over her nose, leaving the bottom half of her face covered. It was transparent enough that Ryn could still see her freshly red-dyed vibrant lips. Black liners and inky things were brushed over her eyelashes, turning her irises bright. Her hair was left mostly loose, so she stole a ribbon off the table when the artists weren’t looking and crumpled it in her fist to tie her hair up later.

When she was turned toward the mirror, Ryn gaped. She hadn’t been given any armour apart from a bronze pectoral over her chest that didn’t cover much. The rest of her body was decorated in a scarlet silk dress unreasonable for running, a golden belt at her waist where her sheathed sword was attached, and bronze cuffs up her arms.

“Do I at least get a shield?” she asked.

“The Per-Siana hero should be grateful she even gets a sword.” The red-haired artist knelt down and fastened bell-covered anklets to Ryn’s legs.

“Wait… what are those? Everyone will be able to find me if you put those on—”

“This is how the Tribute is done, Commander Adassah of Per-Siana.”

Ryn closed her mouth, her hand falling on the handle of her sword as she studied the anklets in the mirror. The first thing she had to do in the Rings was get those off. Her shoulders dropped when the artist clicked a tiny lock mechanism that held them fast.

Guards ushered Ryn to a twisted staircase and down into the torchlit belly of the palace. A masterfully carved door took up the end of a tunnel which she guessed was the entrance to the layered walls outside. Men in bronze lined the tunnel with spears and curved blades, torch flames flickering silently above. Everything was quiet apart from the soft rattle of bells on Ryn’s ankles. A servant addressed her as she approached, “The Tribute commences when you hear the horn blast. Find your way back to the palace first to win. A guide will bring you by chariot to your starting point. Do you have any questions?”

Instead of replying, Ryn settled her attention on the massive doors before her, stretching her leg muscles, her arms. She wondered if a stone would be enough to bash the anklets off. Her hand found her stomach as warm nausea trickled in. It was just a race. She could do this.

Torchlight reflected off the servant’s bald head as he glanced at a guard beside him and mumbled, “What is with these Per-Siana Tributes neglecting to acknowledge us when we give instructions? King Xerxes was the same.”

Ryn’s attention tore to the servant. “What did you just say?” Her words boomed through the tunnel.

The servant angled back with a snake-like swivel of his head. “Ah. Didn’t you hear, Gold Maiden? Your King was arrested last night. He’s been offered as a Tribute to the Ring Cobra. He’s already inside the labyrinth.”

Ryn thought her ears betrayed her, but as she gazed at the servant’s gloating smile, all the hope she’d stored up for the task ahead fizzled out like a news scroll burning to ash and falling at her feet.

Sunlight glistened over the white walls, and an icy mist seeped from the cracks to carpet the ground. Veins of thick green ivies crawled down the blocks, braided with dark stalks of thorns that wrapped stone statues of snakes and sphinxes. Ryn stood in an alley with a cold breeze tearing at her scarlet garments, the mist seeping through her sandals and numbing her toes. She shifted from one foot to the other, moving to keep warm. If she ran fast enough, she would survive this, even with her weak body and unimpressive stature. And maybe, maybe if things got really bad, El would show up to save her.

She opened her mouth to ask the God Original if he was there, lyrics of Dolem’s songs racing through her mind and briefly lifting her spirit, but she closed it again. Heva would have scolded her for being in this situation. Bastone would have, too. She couldn’t picture either of them here in this foreign labyrinth, attempting what she was about to do. She couldn’t picture Xerxes here either, and her jaw tightened. She’d set all this up to save Xerxes, and now he was trapped in this maze. Her fingers danced along the hilt of her sword, wondering if it was still best to try and win to seal his survival outside the Rings, or if it was best to get to him before anyone else in here to keep him alive. Her hands dragged down her face, ruffling her veil.

The sun illuminated sparkling fruit trees a short distance away. A slow, deep hunger rose in Ryn’s stomach as she imagined plucking an apple and eating the fruit. She could almost taste the sweet crispness on her tongue, and she found herself wandering toward them, eyeing the bright red, shiny skin. She’d sworn off breakfast and lunch, and her insides groaned as she studied the soft emerald leaves ruffling in the chilly breeze like gems among the fruits. How could such a beautiful place be so evil? Her gaze flickered to another fruit tree beyond; dark, curled branches with plump golden fruit hanging off the ends…

Pears.

Ryn took a step back. Wind ruffled another tree of red leaves beyond, and a single leaf detached and twirled down. It sailed gently into her shoulder, and she gasped at the burning sensation. She blinked down at a thin trail of blood seeping from a fresh cut.

“Open your eyes, Adassah. Open your ears.”

The voice was distant, muted, and she turned her ear toward the maze. She could hardly decipher the words, like someone called from far away. But when she glanced at the trees again, she yelped.

The trees were smothered in shadows curling around black, crooked arms of branches and dripping with dark moisture, whispers rolling off in waves that buzzed in Ryn’s ears and made her eyes water. She spun, finding shadows slithering over the walls, drenching each stone and pooling at the ground. Some crawled toward her feet, reaching for her ankles. She scooted backward, her bells clanging. Dark and light flickered in her vision as the shadows vanished and reappeared, and she blinked as she stumbled backward.

“There you are.”

Ryn whirled, barely registering the silk-smooth voice.

The sunny day returned, and there, in the misty morning glow stood the young white-haired woman with claret lips and missing pinky fingers. Red gashes marked her ankles where the bell-covered anklets were supposed to be. Ryn slammed a palm against her thudding chest. “What are you doing here? The horn hasn’t sounded yet—”

The ring of a swinging blade hit Ryn’s nerves, and she ducked. The woman’s curved sword missed her throat by an inch, slicing her veil, the wind of the instrument tickling Ryn’s cheek.

Ryn drew her sword, sheath detaching from her belt and tumbling into the grass, and she raised it as the curved blade came down again. The slap of two colliding metals bellowed down the walls, and Ryn found herself driven backward, the woman’s strength overpowering, black eyes wild as she marched. “I shall avenge the Sphinx Elite today,” she said through tight red lips as Ryn’s bells clamoured. “You think you can insult us? You think you’re better than those who have sacrificed to discover our truest identities?” The silk was gone from her voice. “You claim to be a hero, but you look weak to me.” She thrust so hard, Ryn tumbled backward over her heels, and the woman dropped to a knee upon her rib cage, pinning Ryn down and raising her curved blade high.

Ryn swung her sword with a yelp, the weight slamming into the side of the woman’s head. The woman’s hair whipped to the side, and her knee slipped off Ryn’s stomach. Ryn rolled away, scrambling to her feet.