Page 40 of Labyrinth of Broken Vows
The doors don’t budge. The guards don’t even flinch.
I stand there for a moment, my chest heaving, feeling the weight of defeat press down on me again. The cold realization hits; I’m trapped. I can feel her eyes on me, burning into my back like a brand, and I force myself to turn around, slow and deliberate. I walk back into the center of the room, trying not to stumble, not to let the exhaustion swallow me whole. I’m ondisplay for her now, like some spectacle she’s waiting to pick apart.
Nyria lounges on a throne made of shadows, her body draped across it with a kind of sinister grace. The dark smoke swirls and coils around her like living things, twisting into the shape of a seat, I tilt my chin up, refusing to cower. I’ve had enough of feeling weak. If I am to die at the hands of this wretched woman then I will die still clinging to my defiance.
Her sharp eyes meet mine, and for a long, agonizing moment, there’s only silence. Then she chuckles, a low, cruel sound that grates against my nerves. "Ahh," she says, her voice like honey dipped in poison, "Look at you, chin held high, a little girl trying to play make-believe. How charming. But we both know you’re weak. Don’t we?"
Her words slither into my chest, coiling around my insecurities, trying to suffocate me. But I won’t give her that satisfaction. My fear, my pain has somehow transformed into nothing but pure blinding hot rage. I want to tear her apart where she sits. I want to cut her down. I clench my fists and snicker, the sound a mix of defiance and venom. “Better than a bitter, discarded woman playing make-believe on her fake throne.”
Her eyes darken, and for a split second, I see the anger flash behind her calm façade. Good. Let her seethe. She tries to keep that smug smile, but there’s a crack in it now, a subtle shift that makes her shadows pulse like something alive, feeding off her anger. She can kill me now but I won’t go silently, I will not be quiet, ever again.
She leans forward, her gaze narrowing as if she’s studying me, her voice lower now, more dangerous. "You think you’re clever, don’t you?" Her fingers trail through the air, and the shadows respond, thickening around her, growing darker. Her smile twitches, her eyes narrowing into dangerous slits. “You thinkI’ve been discarded? Foolish girl. I am still the queen here, not some whimpering little stray who got lost in the maze.”
The shadows around her throne twist tighter, and I can feel the power in the room shift, the air turning heavier. But I hold my ground, despite the creeping chill that raises the hair on my arms. I’m tired of being cornered, tired of feeling like prey. If this is the end, I’m ready.
“Queen?” I say, the word sharp on my tongue. “Is that what you tell yourself while Thorne marches on you? While your quadrant crumbles and you're hiding down here in your little pit? Once Thorne gets here, he will bury you under it.”
Her smile vanishes entirely now, and I can see the fire building in her eyes. I’ve struck a nerve, and I don’t stop.
“You had a chance,” I continue, my voice stronger now, surprising even myself. “You could’ve been something more. But instead, you’ve turned yourself into this… a coward pretending to be a ruler. Thorne’s coming, and he’s going to tear this place apart. You know it.”
Nyria stands now, her shadow-throne dissolving into a swirl of darkness as she steps toward me, her eyes burning with cold fury. The air around us seems to hum with energy, crackling with the force of her magic. Don’t back down. Not now. I’m too far gone to retreat.
“You think you’ve won because that king of yours has claimed you?” she hisses, “You think you’re special because he looks at you like some kind of savior?”
She circles me, her gaze never leaving mine. “You’ll end up just like the rest. Broken. Forgotten. Thorne doesn’t care about you; he cares about power, about control. And soon enough, you’ll see that. You’ll be nothing.”
I shake my head slowly. “Maybe you’re right,” I say softly. “Maybe he doesn’t care about me, but the difference between you and I is that I haven’t made that define me as a woman. Whoyou are depends on if he accepts you. You want to prove yourself to him by killing me then go right ahead. But if he didn’t want you before I got here I doubt he will want you now. I can smell the desperation on you and it reaks.” She opens her mouth to say something else, but before she can, the ground beneath us trembles. A distant rumble echoes through the hall, and both of us turn, eyes widening. It’s faint, but unmistakable—the sound of an army approaching.
Thorne’s army.
Nyria’s expression hardens, and her lips curl into a sneer. “Looks like your king has arrived,” she says with a bitter edge. “Let’s see if he can save you now.”
The guards seize me roughly, but I barely feel their grip. My pulse is too loud in my ears, drowning out everything else. Nyria, with a flick of her wrist, drifts back into her throne, the swirling shadows curling up around her like serpents, forming the twisted, inky throne beneath her. She reclines as though she’s in control, but I see the flicker of anticipation in her eyes.
Time stretches, the air thick with a tension that makes every second feel longer than the last. The cawing of crows echoes through the stone walls, and beneath it, the rhythmic thud of approaching boots reverberates, growing louder, closer. Each stomp is a countdown, and with each beat, my heart hammers harder.
I hold my breath, nerves coiling tighter with every second. I've never seen him before. The Maze King, the one who’s been the shadow haunting my every step, his voice both cruel and alluring. He made me run through this nightmare of a maze, testing me, mocking me with his words. Sometimes tender, sometimes cutting. Always watching through the eyes of those crows.
What will he be like in the flesh? The man everyone whispers about ,the one who’s supposedly been pining for me, who’sdrawn me into this hell. Is he handsome? Or a monster, as the legends paint him? The air shifts, and the weight of his presence presses down on the room. My breath catches as the doors slam open with a resounding crash, armored guards spilling into the space like a flood of shadows. The clang of their boots echoes in unison, a haunting rhythm that thrums in my chest. They’re not fully human, crow-headed warriors, their beady, black eyes gleaming beneath helmets shaped to resemble twisted, sharp beaks. Their wings, dark and glossy, flutter behind them like a cloak of death, casting long shadows on the stone floor. I’ve never seen anything like them.
And then, they part.
He walks in with a measured, commanding pace, his movements fluid and precise, like a predator that knows exactly how to strike. His armor is blacker than the darkest night, absorbing the light around him, its edges shimmering like polished obsidian. Spiked feathers cascade from his pauldrons and chest plate, rippling with the slight motion of his steps, as if they’re alive. His presence makes the room feel smaller, the walls closing in as if bowing to his will.
His horns curve wickedly from his head, framing his face, a face that is both beautiful and terrifying. His features are sharp, chiseled, with skin pale as bone, contrasting against the dark inkiness of his raven-black hair. His eyes, cold and calculating, are the color of storm clouds, framed by long lashes that would be almost delicate if not for the intensity of his stare. His lips are set in a thin line, unmoving, yet his gaze speaks volumes—danger, power, obsession. The sight of him stuns me. He is beautiful.
A crow, just like the one I’ve seen in the maze, is perched on his shoulder, its beak clicking, its dark eyes fixed on me as if it, too, are a part of him, an extension of his command. The shadows around him seem to bend and twist, drawn to hispresence like moths to a flame, as if he is not just a man, but something more. Something far more dangerous than I could have imagined. My skin flushes and I feel my chest expand with a heat I’ve never felt before.
He stops in front and center, and the silence in the room becomes unbearable.
This is the Maze King. "Thorne..."
I thought I had spoken his name in my mind, but the faint reaction in his eyes tells me otherwise. His gaze flares briefly, and his expression hardens immediately as if he regretted even allowing a glimpse of vulnerability. His attention snapps away from me, his features sharpening as they zero in on Nyria, who sits smugly on her throne of shadows, her eyes gleaming with mischief.
Her smirk deepens but I can see the fear lying close beneath the surface. "Mighty King Thorne," she drawled, her voice thick with venomous mockery. "So nice of you to stop by."
Thorne doesn’t respond. He just stares, a deadly silence stretching between them like a drawn blade.
