by Kyla Stone
“Gallus isn’t tasked to protect you. I am.”
I graze the leaves of the vines as we choose yet another tunnel. The walls are rough, pocked with fissures and crevices. Instead of mortar and stone, the walls and ceiling seem to be carved from solid rock. The chill burrows into my bones.
“You saw him, Theseus. He is bigger, stronger, and fiercer than you ever imagined. You need cunning to defeat him more than brute strength.”
Theseus scoffs.
“Do not let your pride blind you,” I snap. “You know it’s true.”
He doesn’t respond.
“So, be cunning, as cunning as Heracles. Plan a trap to surprise him and overpower him. But for a trap, you need bait.”
“Do you not listen, girl? I will not—”
“The Minotaur recognized me. He responded to me. He could’ve killed me, but he didn’t. He didn’t want to. You would be a fool not to use me against the monster.”
I shake my head. All this time, I’ve wrestled with the puzzle of how to reach a monster who would sooner rip out my throat with his jaws than let me show I’m here to rescue him. But now, I feel the first hint of real hope.
Seven summers ago, he tried to murder me. But I saw no murder in his expression that moment in his lair. I saw a flicker of humanity in his eyes—I know it.
Confusion fills me. If he wanted to kill me back then, why hesitate now? Was it simply surprise that stayed his hand? My scar itches, and I rub it absently.
I don’t believe that. He knew me.
The ugliness of the thing I must do festers beneath my skin like rot. I hate myself for it. But I will not be dissuaded. I lost my brother, but now I’ve found him again.
I can’t put it off any longer. I must plot my betrayal. Together, Theseus and I will get the tributes to safety. Then we’ll return to the Minotaur’s lair, where Theseus will believe I’m bait. There, I’ll wait for Theseus to turn his back, his guard down as he faces danger from without, not expecting it from right beside him. I will slip out my hidden dagger and stab him in the back.
Shame and dread tangle in my gut. It’s no way for a hero to die. It’s a cowardly act, one that fills me with revulsion. I already know it’ll haunt me for the rest of my days.
A terrible ache spreads through my chest.
I focus on the aftermath. When the grisly deed is done, I’ll mix a droplet of Theseus’s lifeblood with the elixir and offer it to Asterion. When he drinks it, he’ll shed his grotesque form of dank, matted fur, twisted, knotted muscle and malformed bone, his lethal horns shrinking into his skull, malformed features peeling back to reveal the face of a man, the face of my brother, the red mist in those crazed eyes clearing to a soft brown as he sees me with his human eyes for the first time.
He’ll know I am his sister. He’ll know I’m here to rescue him. I’ll offer him light, and life, and he will finally love me like he never could before. I see it all in my mind’s eye, so bright it’s almost real, the crown my mother will place on his handsome, oiled head. The darkness swirling inside me fades before the shining glory of my vision.
This is what I am here for. Why I was spared. This is my quest, blessed by the goddess herself: to return my brother to the glory always intended for him. In my mind, he’s a younger version of Androgeus, with his jovial smile and warm, crinkling eyes.
My father will be enraged, but I push that thought away. I concentrate on my mother and brother. They’re the ones who matter. They are everything.
I miss my mother with a sudden, sharp ache in my chest. Or rather, I miss how she used to be, before she grew cold and distant and unknowable. I long to be gathered into her arms as when I was a child. I long to hear her laughter bubbling over me, to listen to her sing the songs of our people.
How I wish everything could go back to how it was before, when Androgeus was still alive, Asterion was not yet a ravenous killer, and my mother still remembered how to smile.
Dizziness washes over me. I lean against the wall and double over, sucking in air. Hot tears burn my eyelids. I blink them back fiercely.
Theseus puts his hand on my shoulder. “Ariadne? Are you all right?”
His touch is warm and comforting. My blood hums. I shake the feeling off and force myself to stand. I can’t think like this. I can’t let myself feel anything, not for myself, not for Theseus. “I will be.”
A heavy silence descends over us as we follow the twists and turns of the Labyrinth. I stay near the wall, my fingers trailing the rough-hewn surface, seeking the curling stems of the vines I pray will lead us to safety.
Every time the passageway branches and splits, I pause to find the vine. It’s growing thicker, stronger, sprouting more soft leaves. Occasionally, a second vine punctures through a crevice and twines with the first.
We’re going the right way. I must believe that.
The torchlight dims again, its feeble glow barely illuminating the ground ahead of us.
“Don’t be afraid, Princess,” he says gently.
But he mistakes my expression. It’s not fear I feel, but a complex tangle of emotions I can hardly unwind or understand myself. I feel ripped to pieces, torn apart by the two sides warring within me. I shake my head.
“You are my bride,” Theseus says. “I—I cannot risk you. I will not.”
I blush and flinch at the same time, anger flushing through me to cover my shame. “You don’t have a choice.”
He growls in frustration. “Do not order me about! I am no servant, no plaything for you and your father to abuse, do you understand? I am Theseus, son of Poseidon and Aegeus, prince of Athens, heir and future king—your future king!” He exhales an angry breath. “And your future husband. You would do well to remember that!”
I bite back a sharp retort. This sham of a marriage is becoming a heavier burden than it’s worth. I should tell him it was naught but a trick, that I’d never bind myself to the likes of him, with his stubbornness and backward ways.
But I still need his trust. That’s all it is.
I ignore that something inside me that flutters and twists at the thought of sharing a marriage bed with this infuriating prince. That he thinks of me as his bride fills me with guilt, but also a traitorous rush of pleasure.
“And I am not one of your pretty Athenian noble girls,” I say instead, my voice rising. “I’m the daughter of the mighty King Minos, granddaughter of Helios the sun god himself. My place is to rule at your side, not at your feet!”
Theseus snorts. “You are quite mistaken.”
“I’m sure I am not.”
“A poor queen you will make, then.”
Again, I almost snap that I’ve no wish to be his queen. “You’ll see the truth,” I say between gritted teeth. “This is the best way.”
Theseus turns toward me, scowling like he’s about to lecture me further, only he doesn’t. His jaw twitches as if he’s holding himself back. Then he sighs. “You are the most stubborn, ill-mannered girl I’ve ever met. Do you know that?”
“Thank you,” I growl.
His face clears. He lets out a low laugh. “We shall see, Princess,” he says finally, his mouth tight but a spark of amusement flaring in his eyes. “We shall see.”
Before I can reply, our last torch sputters and goes out.
Chapter Thirty-Three
We are plunged into darkness.
Everyone freezes.
“Keep going,” Theseus orders. “Use the walls. Touch the vines. Hold hands or the shoulder of the person ahead of you.”
“I can’t walk anymore,” Zephyra moans. “I’m starved and dying of thirst. My feet are bleeding.”
“Just a little further,” Charis says. “We’re almost there.”
“You don’t know that! We could be walking in an endless circle!” Zephyra’s voice screeches in panic. Something slumps to the ground with a soft, scraping sound. “I told you, I can’t!”
“Get up, you lazy oaf!” Leda snaps.
“Every second we wait fo
r you puts the rest of us in danger,” Kalliope says.
“We should just leave her,” Gallus says.
“We aren’t leaving anyone!” Charis’s voice rises. “Come on, Zephyra. Get up!”
I listen to them as if from a great distance. The darkness presses in around me, thick and stifling as black fog. I’m so tired. Leaning against the wall is a relief, easing the ache of my thighs and the sting of the blisters on my heels.
It feels like I’ve lived my whole life in darkness. The sun and the sky are distant memories. I try to conjure a picture of the harbor, the glittering, wave-tossed sea, the packed sand and cushioned seats of the arena, but I can’t.
They feel like dreams, like the tales the poets tell of faraway journeys, of heroes and kings, gods and monsters. Beautiful stories, but not real.
“I can’t,” Zephyra gasps, tears in her voice. “Please.”
“Maybe just a short break,” I say.
“She’s right,” Kalliope says, surprising me. “We haven’t slept, Theseus. If we don’t rest, we’ll only make things worse.”
Theseus groans. “Only a few moments.”
Everyone takes care of their bodily needs as best they can, privacy a luxury we can no longer be bothered with. As soon as I slump to the stone floor, a great weariness descends over me.
“I’m out of food!” Zephyra cries beside me.
“Here. Take these.” I pull two figs—my last—from my satchel and hold out my hand toward her. I have one piece of flatbread left. And then I’ll have nothing.
Her fingers close over mine. “Thank you,” she whispers.
“I’ll stay awake and stand guard.” Theseus sounds exhausted. His body shifts beside me in the dark, his hands fumbling over mine, raising the hairs on my arms and sending sparks shooting through my fingertips. He presses a thick square of goat cheese into my palm. “Take this.”
The delicious smell fills my nostrils and makes my mouth water. I swallow even as I try to give it back. “Theseus, no. You must keep your strength.”
“I said take it,” he says in a low, gruff voice. “I’ve seen you give away your food at every meal. What good will it do us if you faint, or worse? How will we escape then?”
I nod, forgetting he can’t see me. I wish I was strong enough to resist, but my stomach knots with hunger. I accept his gift. “Thank you.”
Theseus only grunts.
I inhale the cheese in four bites. It’s gone far too quickly. I lean my head back against the wall and try to keep my eyes open, but it doesn’t matter. Sleep comes for me, and with it, a deep unsettling dream plagued by slithering shadows and stalking creatures—gorgons and harpies and daemons. I flee from each monster, only to be chased and attacked by another. The king-bull charges me, trampling my body to dust beneath his churning hooves.
And then the looming shape of the Minotaur lunges out of the darkness of my nightmare, indistinct and terrifying. I hold out my hands, dripping blood, so much blood, terror gripping me, cutting off my breath, my voice.
I try to roll away, but the heaviness pushes me into the ground, matted fur pressed against my skin, a low desperate snorting filling my ears—
I jolt awake, breathing hard, sweat filming my chest, my scar burning.
But that isn’t what woke me.
An immense presence shifts in the darkness.
The hairs on my neck prickle.
Something is in the chamber with us.
Chapter Thirty-Four
The snuffling, snorting breath from my dreams comes again. Only I’m no longer dreaming. I stiffen, not daring to move or breathe. I hear no other movement. Everyone has fallen asleep. One of the tributes is snoring. Even Theseus has succumbed in his exhaustion, his body slack beside me.
Something scrapes and scuffles against the stone. The musty, meaty scent of animal fills my nostrils.
The Minotaur is here.
My body flushes cold, my heart slamming against my ribs. I should scream. Yell some warning. Scramble for the dagger beneath my tunic.
But no. No one could defeat the Minotaur in complete darkness, not even Theseus. If I bring out the knife, the Minotaur will see it as an attack. He’ll attack in return, and my little blade will offer no defense against his deadly horns. If Asterion chooses to take my life, no dagger will help me.
My hands remain still—for now.
The Minotaur doesn’t attack. He doesn’t growl or roar. He doesn’t do anything.
He is waiting.
Waiting for me.
Another soft scraping sound scuffles over the stone, this one farther away, just outside the chamber. He wants me to follow him. Maybe this is my chance. My chance to find my brother within that raging beast.
I must be stronger than before, braver than the arena, braver than the lair. I take in a ragged breath, calming the panicked flutter of my heart, and whisper a prayer to the goddess. I might doubt, but I haven’t lost my faith altogether. I want to believe—need to believe—that someone is watching over me, guiding me, blessing me. That I am not completely alone.
Because I’m going to do this.
I’m going to follow the monster.
I take out the ball of thread and feel around for something with which to anchor it. The floor is bare and flat. I bind the thread to the dagger sheath at Theseus’s waist, careful not to wake him.
Slowly, I rise to my feet, fumble along the wall, and take a hesitant step.
It feels like stepping over a cliff.
Keeping one hand on the wall for balance, clenching the ball of thread with my other hand, I pause, listening, barely able to hear over the roar of my pulse in my ears.
He moves down the passageway to the right, making soft, barely perceptible noises. He can be silent if he wishes—we heard nothing in his lair until he was already upon us. I shiver at the memory of his red, crazed eyes, his horns plunging into Nikolaos’s soft body.
And yet, I follow him, the thread unraveling and trailing loosely behind me.
Every time my fingers feel open space, I pause and wait for his direction. He remains the same distance ahead, close enough that I can make out the sounds of his movements, far enough away that I don’t smell the stench of him.
In this way, the Minotaur leads me through the Labyrinth.
With every step, my certainty grows. My brother remembers me.
My own mind is a tangled cobweb, my memories like shadows glimpsed in deep waters, sleek and glinting as minnows. When I reach out to grasp one, it slithers out of my reach.
Asterion leads me through an archway to another chamber. Even in the pitch-black, I sense the scale of it, the air circulating above and around me. I feel along the wall a little way, unsure what he wants. Why did he bring me to this place? What am I supposed to do, see, or find in complete darkness?
The sounds of his movements cease. I hesitate. Somewhere in front of me, he waits, completely still.
He’s waiting for me to do something. Against all instinct, I slide to a crouch. My fingers trail gingerly over the cold stone floor around me, dreading what I might find—more bones, the soft, squishy remains of a half-eaten body, a malicious rat ready to sink its sharp fangs into my flesh.
What I discover is something else entirely.
My fingers close over something smooth, rubbery, with many repeating shapes, like petals. I pluck it from the floor and cradle it in my hands, breathing in the sweet fragrance. The petals are wide and connected at the base, with a curled fringe along the edges.
A moonflower.
I sink back on my heels. Hope ignites within my chest, but the tension of the moment keeps me focused. I’m blind, trapped in a room with a monster who may or may not wish to devour me. A monster who brought me a flower.
My whole life, I’ve heard that my brother is a monster. He looks like a monster. He acts like a monster. He is one. He tried to kill me, after all. The shadow of my nightmare swims beneath the surface of my mind, slinking up from the deep, its cold fingers snak
ing around my throat, cutting off my breath.
He’s trapped in a beast’s twisted body, but does that make him a beast? Or is he also human?
Even after I decided to save him, I’ve doubted. In the darkness of the Labyrinth, with monstrous roars echoing all around, anyone would believe him a monster. Anyone would be terrified, would doubt.
Now, though, I wonder.
“Do you remember me, Asterion?”
Deeper in the room, my brother shifts, snorting uneasily.
“I am Ariadne. I am—your sister.”
He is silent.
I breathe in the scent of the moonflower, and a memory floats to the surface of my mind again. Asterion beside me in the gardens, collecting flowers, him turning to me, holding out a mangled blossom in his hairy fists, snorting in eager delight. I suck in my breath. “Mother loves white lilies. Is that why you brought me this?”
Asterion shifts again in agitated, jerky movements. He grunts, snorting restlessly.
Touch him to calm him. Stroke his head, the spot between his horns.
I don’t know where the thought comes from. But there’s an image in my mind—me sitting amid madder red silk bedding, a hulking, brown-furred creature beside me, smaller than he is now but still twice my size, slumped patiently as I comb the matted fur around his horns.
I reach into the dark, my hand trembling.
He gives a muffled growl and scuttles back, his hooves scraping the floor. He’s skittish, like the new bulls who shy from human touch, their eyes rolling in terror. He’s afraid of me. The thought is ludicrous, but I think it all the same. He’s confused, uncertain, maybe as nervous as I am.
“Easy, easy now.” I lower my hand and speak to him like I speak to the bulls, low and calm and soothing. “I won’t hurt you.”
Incredibly, I hear him take a step closer. And then another.
My ears strain in the darkness. Is he a pace from me? Two? Less? Hot, stale breath strikes my face. And then the smell hits me—fetid and foul, but he also smells earthy, of hay and grass, though those things grow far from this place. That, and the animal smell of wet fur and manure, mingled with something meaty and rotting.
