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Most of the island was so deep into their bottles, they wouldn’t be able to read the scroll come midnight. Clark kept behind me as I pushed through the masses, climbing higher through the town where all the streets spilled into one triangular focal point. Lanterns like diamonds were strung between shops, competing musicians played on each corner, and distilleries kept their doors open to collect as many coppers as they could.

Bjorn sat on a barrel outside his parents’ butcher shop, a satchel already packed at his feet.

“I’m leaving as soon as that scroll is read,”

he told the crowd at his heels. A few companions lingered by his side, their bags prepared as well. He’d undoubtedly promised them some reward for their assistance in the labyrinth, which was a common practice when you entered the maze with helpers. It wasn’t against the rules to have help. But only one could win.

Stories of those who took their victory and shared none of the spoils were more common than not. As were tales of helpers who killed their leader when the center drew near.

Other stories about the labyrinth spoke of magical shops that aided wistful journeyers, wolves that prowled the maze, and paths strung in the air for those brave enough to take them. We greedily soaked in every story we could about the mystical labyrinth that appeared only once every four years. It materialized overnight, always at a new location. There were a hundred islands to search for the labyrinth, and only a fraction of those who sought it ever found its doors.

Callahan had been hosting the labyrinths for as long as anyone could remember, the ritual carried down by his father and grandfather before him. They used their vast wealth to bless the islands, then once every four years they delighted in watching us scramble through the new game they’d created—all to win whatever prize was written on the scroll.

My gaze went to the scroll. It’d been pinned to the post in the center of the square, glinting gold in the firelight and rustling with the breeze off the sea. Our island’s name was written on the side.

To the island of Haven. May you find yourself in the labyrinth.

My mind tagged on the unspoken completion to the saying. At least, may you not lose yourself.

“There’s around ten skiffs in the docks, all with sails tied down already.”

Clark faced the opposite direction, looking to the seas. I refused to look too far, lest my eyes wander back to the rocky pass in hopes of seeing my father.

I counted the ships. Twelve were prepared, with many more queued in the harbor.

My traitorous eyes snuck to the rocky pass.

Still no sign.

I turned back around.

“I bet none of them find it. No one is rich enough to buy a clue or a key.”

“Aksel was,”

Clark said, his eyes lit up like this was a secret he shouldn’t be sharing, yet it pleased him to do so. Aksel and his father were good friends, so I trusted Clark’s word on the matter. The tawny man with hard-set eyes and peppered hair stayed to the edge of the crowd, one hand resting on a knife at his side while the other played with a coin. He’d gone after the labyrinth before—twice if the rumors were true. He never found the doors.

Apparently, this time he was determined.

“Those clues cost a fortune.”

I gave a low whistle.

“Whatever is in the scroll must be worth it.”

“Probably an invite to the Sea Glass ball,”

Clark said, laying down a dull copper coin on a windowsill before selecting two tarts for us from the tray. The apple marmalade drooped from the sides as he passed one to me.

“That would be a horrid prize. I bet it’s a caravel of your own, fitted with custom sails. Or rights to the new mines found in the outer islands.”

Clark’s red brows drew down.

“I thought your… Gerald was claiming those.”

“He put in a claim,”

I recited words from news clippings Mother found, ignoring how Clark almost let my biggest secret slip in the middle of a crowded square.

“But it’s adjacent to Vincent’s region. Vincent would rather die than see Gerald lay claim to those, and Callahan won’t wish to further disrupt peace between those two by upsetting either one. He will likely give Vincent the mines and lower levy by a point for Gerald.”

It was all speculation on my part, pieces of stories picked up from gossip or from tales that Mother had told me about the bloody relationship between Vincent and my father. Vincent was a big part of why Mother and I were hidden. But until I was at Father’s side, I would never know the full story of these matters.

Clark took a bite of his tart, then shrugged.

“Maybe the prize is one of the Lord of the Isle’s magic trinkets.”

Doubtful. He wouldn’t relinquish those easily.

Just as we finished our sticky tarts, the Warden of Haven appeared on his horse—the only horse on the whole island—and trotted to the post before dismounting. Musicians halted. With great fanfare, the Warden straightened his padded vest, stomped invisible dust from his leather boots, and cleared his throat.

We all hushed. Even the sea seemed to hold its breath.

Half of me still thought of Father, somewhere on the sea, trying to reach me. But Clark had been right. The excitement of the night bled into my skin, soaking my body with a tingly anticipation as if I were one of those setting off tonight. What stories would they bring home? Who would win this year? What magical adventure awaited them?

My toes sank into the dirt to guide me closer to the man like a marionette on a string. We all pressed together, hungry for his words. Across the seas, a hundred other islands were just like us, eagerly waiting for the tick of the clock to announce we could open the scroll.

“Another Quarter Labyrinth is upon us,”

the Warden spoke, eyeing the clock tower behind him. One minute away.

“And it is about time to hear what we play for.”

Down the street, Bjorn stood casually and slung his satchel over his shoulder as if he were headed out for another day of fishing. But his almond eyes gleamed with the adventure of it all.

I looked back to the Warden.

“Remember, we want to see all of you alive. So travel safely. Play fairly. And keep your wits about you.”

Play fairly. Stories differ about the labyrinth, but one thing rang clear. People didn’t play fair in the Quarter Labyrinth. They played to win.

The clock struck. A buzz went through the crowd.

“Five coppers say it’s the rights to that mine,”

Clark whispered.

The Warden pulled the string on the scroll. The enchanted seal wouldn’t have allowed it to loosen before midnight, but now it fell easily, and the scroll unwound.

“Best of luck to all,”

he sang out. He left the scroll on the post, opened for all to read.

The Warden mounted his horse with a glance at the writing. As he did, his eyes widened. But he recovered himself and trotted away.

As he left, the islanders swarmed forward. Clark and I waited back to watch it all.

“I bet six coppers that Bjorn never finds the island,”

I said. Bjorn had one of his friends struggle through the crowd to read the scroll, and the friend returned to whisper to Bjorn. His mouth flattened, then he nodded and set off down the hill to the pier.

Aksel read the scroll then meandered toward his house without a word. Clark must have been right—he’d paid for a clue to the location of the labyrinth and was downplaying his interest. He’d have to wait an hour for that clue to be delivered, and then he could set off. Even with the hour delay, he’d have a much easier time finding the maze. Those with clues often reached the labyrinth, but they’d still need to figure out a way in on their own. You had to buy a key to walk through the doors.

I leaned toward Clark.

“And I’ll bet seven coppers that Aksel—”

“Gerald Montclair won’t like that,”

someone said.

My gaze whipped around. Whoever had spoken moved away, their voice getting lost in the flurry of noises. I shifted closer. Gerald wouldn’t like what?

As I listened, I heard his name again. Followed by the word, missing.

I was moving, barreling into the crowd as Clark grabbed for my hand. I ripped my fingers free. Elbows jabbed at my gut and feet collided with mine, but I heaved through, making my way to the scroll.

Someone shouted as I stumbled against them, but the noise faded when I saw the scroll.

The words were scrawled in black ink flecked with gold.

The winner of the Quarter Labyrinth claims the right to the Shallows, as well as the Silver Wings. May you find yourself in the labyrinth.

“Oh, Ren. I’m so sorry.”

Clark stood behind my shoulder, placing a tender hand on my arm.

I jerked away.

“Looks like the Silver Wings is getting a new captain,”

someone cheered. I clenched my teeth together, shoving past them. The chill of the night wasn’t enough to soothe my fury. I let it carry me away from the heat of the crowd and those who were already claiming that fleet was as good as theirs.

Uncertain footsteps told me that Clark followed.

“Ren, wait!”

I broke into a run. He ran too. Down the hill. Into the dark night. Toward the spot where we foolishly waited for Father to appear, though now I realized he was never coming. There was a reason Father’s notes stopped two years ago. He needed help. And I needed to finally have my father.

I’d waited long enough.

“There’s nothing you can do. The decree is already written.”

I spun on my heel, and Clark almost tumbled into me. I waited for him to right himself so he could see the determination in my eyes as clearly as I saw the pity in his.

“The Shallows are my birthright. I’m going to take them, even if I have to enter the labyrinth to do it.”