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A N IMMENSE FUNNEL OF WIND carves up the darkened sky and plummets toward the earth. It hits the ground with a shattering roar, an incensed mass of air and sand and debris. An uprooted tree crashes to my right. Zainab rears before fleeing into the forest.

Only I am spared the vicious gusts that snag cloth and snap trees. Eyes slitted against the spitting sand, I watch a blurred silhouette materialize behind the swirling cyclone. The South Wind: he who commands the hot summer winds.

The debris peels open, allowing Notus to stride forward through the funnel unharmed, though the wind snatches his headscarf and flings it elsewhere. For the briefest instant, his eyes meet mine. Here, now, I understand that I have glimpsed only the surface of this ageless god. Fool that I am, I had assumed to know his depths.

The terrifying blankness smoothing his expression is wholly new. It is a degree of rage I have yet to witness from the South Wind. Mortifyingly, I feel an unwelcome pulse of desire between my legs.

Prince Balior shouts as he’s yanked skyward, tossed clear across the oasis. He slams onto the opposite bank and is still.

Too still. The motionlessness of broken bones. A budding horror creeps through me. Get up. By the gods, if Notus has killed the prince—

Miraculously, he stirs. I should go to him. He is, after all, an honored guest, my intended. But his earlier behavior has left a horrid taste in my mouth. It is not something I will soon forget.

And so I watch. Prince Balior stumbles upright, swaying. Blood trickles from his hairline. Then, carved silver blurs beneath wavering heat: Prince Balior has drawn his sword.

Notus tosses his hand. A gust of wind knocks the weapon aside. Prince Balior stumbles. Rage whets his features, curls his mouth.

“Will you hide behind your powers?” he spits, fury bleeding across his cheeks as he rounds the oasis toward his adversary. “Or will you fight me man to man?”

I glance between them, wondering if I should interfere or let them tear each other to pieces. I don’t want Prince Balior to come to harm. But Notus is not easy to read. Some part of me is compelled by what may come.

The South Wind levels his fathomless gaze. “I am no man,” he states coldly. “I am a god.”

Prince Balior throws the first punch.

The South Wind ducks. He hits the prince low in the abdomen, forcing him back. That only enrages Prince Balior further. Again, he jabs, teeth bared. Catching the prince’s wrist, Notus swings him in a circle, releasing him so he’s launched through the air.

He hits the ground. The South Wind strides toward him, expression thunderous, his eyes the black of eclipsed suns. The force of his tread cracks the stone underfoot.

Closer he nears. He is shorter than the prince, certainly, yet broader, studier, uncowed. Prince Balior lifts a hand to ward off whatever strike may befall him.

But Notus only grasps the front of the man’s robe and yanks him up, nose to nose. A small, twisted part of me revels in watching Notus having been brought to his lowest instincts. I do not consider him to be a predator, but in this moment, there is no doubt that Prince Balior is prey.

Unfortunately, I am too far away to eavesdrop. Whatever Notus says, it causes the prince’s face to go ashen. Notus shakes him, and the prince grits his teeth, then nods.

Dropping the prince onto the ground, he returns to my side, shoulders bunched, tension knotted beneath his skin. “Are you hurt?” he demands.

I stare at him, too stupefied to process his concern.

“Sarai.” The low growl brushes against me like a physical touch. He takes a step closer. “Are you hurt?”

I look to the prince, splayed out like a discarded rag across the cracked earth. “I’m fine.” I am most certainly not fine. “Though perhaps you should ask the man you flung across the desert whether he is fine.”

“I don’t care about the prince. I care about you .”

To that, I have no words. None.

Actually, that’s not true. I have a handful, a select few. “You were out of line.” In the distance, Prince Balior struggles to his feet. He brushes the dust from his robes. All his limbs seem to be in working order. I should feel relieved. Yet I don’t.

“No,” he says, and his next step eliminates the remaining distance between us. Our bodies all but collide, my chest brushing his as I inhale, the hot, coiling air of the desert calling back the memories of a bygone time. If I were to lean forward a hair, my nose might graze his jaw.

“Let me be absolutely clear, Sarai.” He peers unblinkingly into my eyes, and I dare not look away for fear of missing the reshaping of his emotion into something new. “If I were not certain that killing the prince would mean all-out war against Ammara, I would have done so without question.”

His rage renders me breathless. “Oh.”

Notus frowns, and his gaze slips to my mouth, which parts of its own volition. “You cannot marry him,” he says.

I struggle to swallow. “Excuse me?”

“A man who does not respect your boundaries, who threatens your safety, whose impudence may bring misfortune onto Ammara?” He tugs free a strand of hair caught behind my ear. It is so natural a gesture I fail to recognize what he has done until he has already dropped his hand. “He’s not good for you, Sarai. I saw the fear plain on your face. Tell me, is that the sort of man you wish to bind your life to? What of your people? Your realm?”

My shield is forged from unbreakable iron. It cannot be broken, not even by the fear that he is right, the fear that I am wrong.

“You overstep, Notus. As you can see, I am safe.” I sweep an arm toward our surroundings. The land, the sky, the rising trees, and me. Alone, as I have always stood. “Now, I must collect our horses, and my guest. Father will have my head should I return without them.”

The moment we enter the palace stable yard, Prince Balior dismounts, his face a motley of streaked sweat, sunburned skin, and grit creasing the lines bracketing his mouth. Dust dulls the vibrant cobalt of his robe.

Father will be furious.

In what ways will Prince Balior retaliate? Will he demand a meeting with the king? Will he pack his bags and return to Um Salim, our courtship dissolved before it was made known?

“I wish I could say the trip was enjoyable,” the prince bites out, passing the reins to one of the hostlers, “but we both know that’s a lie.”

I’m sorry, I might say, though am I really? While I may not condone Notus’ assault against Prince Balior, my husband-to-be did not respect my boundaries. Indeed, he viewed them as obstacles to overcome.

I quickly dismount. Zainab noses the ground for bits of dried grass sprouting through the cracks in the stone. Hours in the saddle have left my legs sore, my patience thin. Whether or not I agree with his behavior, Prince Balior has his use. “On behalf of King Halim,” I say, “I wish to extend my sincerest apology.”

“Apology?” Terse, disbelieving laughter belts across the stable yard. “Begging your pardon, Princess Sarai, but I do not care for an apology. What I want,” he says, “is justice.”

Justice . The word drips cruelty.

“I understand,” I say, hoping to soothe his boiling ire. “The South Wind will be punished for this. You have my word.”

Prince Balior cuts a glare in Notus’ direction, though the ruddy tinge to his cheeks suggests embarrassment over his speedy defeat at the oasis. The South Wind has dismounted and proceeds to unsaddle his horse. He remains at the perimeter of the stable yard to offer us privacy. His hearing, however, is keener than most.

“If this were Um Salim, your chaperone would never have returned to Ishmah alive. I question King Halim’s integrity, that he would allow an untrained animal into his service.”

My chin lifts, spine steeled, legs braced in aggression against the prince. Personal insults I am well equipped to handle. Insults against the king? Unacceptable.

“My father is the greatest king Ammara has ever known,” I snap. “Take care with the words you speak, Prince Balior.”

He meets my glare with one of equal ferocity, though I’m almost certain a bit of fear lurks beneath his outrage. Standing paces away, his guards await their orders. For once, I am thankful for Notus’ presence. He possesses the strength of a hundred men. Now that the prince has witnessed the South Wind’s power, it is unlikely he would risk an assault.

In the end, Prince Balior looks away first. “Do you want me here?”

I’m so blindsided by the question that I do not immediately respond. “Of course I do.” What else is there to say? The truth will not extend my life. It will not save my realm.

“I know when I’m not welcome.” Again, he looks to Notus. “The South Wind was prepared to drive his blade into my heart. It makes me question whether he is a mere guard, as you claim, or something more. I do not like to share what is mine.”

Mine . A pretty bird in a cage. I swallow the words bristling on my tongue.

“I promise you,” I say. “There is nothing between us now.”

“You said now . Does that suggest there once was something between you?”

I do not seek to lie. It is too complex a web. But I fear the truth will drive Prince Balior, and his research, back to Um Salim.

“Please.” It is painful, this word, yet I voice it nonetheless. “It has been a difficult morning, and I don’t wish this miscommunication to sour negotiations. The attendants will draw you a bath. You will feel better once you have washed and rested. Then we will talk.”

Irritation is creased in the lines pleating his features. But he nods and quits the stable yard, his guards accompanying him back to the guest wing. After passing Zainab to a hostler, I veer toward the palace as well, eager for a hot bath and peace.

“Sarai,” Notus calls.

I remind myself of who I am: Princess Sarai Al-Khatib of Ammara. My time is not an obligation.

As expected, his heavy footfalls trail me, sturdy, yet with that unexpected swiftness that mirrors the wind. To my left, the labyrinth gleams alabaster white, thin cracks clambering up its eroded walls. My attention momentarily falls onto the entrance, and I pause, eyeing the swirling symbol carved into the door.

Hello, Sarai. Won’t you step into the dark?

Notus catches my wrist. “Don’t touch,” he warns.

I startle and come to. Somehow, I stand less than an arm’s length from the veiled, ancient doorway, a dry chill pulsating against my outstretched fingers.

The first threads of apprehension ooze through me. I do not remember approaching. Nor do I remember reaching out my hand. The voice that invaded my mind has since dissolved.

Pulling free of Notus’ grip, I continue toward the palace. Cool, jasmine-scented air plumes in invitation as I pass one of the gardens. Moments later, Notus cuts off my path. Color flushes the wind-roughened skin of his cheeks. He has yet to replace his headscarf after the incident at the oasis.

I find myself studying the planes of his face, the heavy shape of his jaw, the slope of his forehead. It is unfair for something so loathed to be wrought with such splendor.

“Will you ignore me for the rest of the day?” Notus demands.

I quirk a brow. He is absolutely livid. What does that say about me, that I find him all the more compelling for this display of emotion?

“For the rest of the day, and for all the days after, until you are gone from my life.” With a neat sidestep, I turn a corner, taking a shortcut to my chambers.

Notus’ footsteps follow. “Did he touch you? At the oasis?”

I halt in the middle of the corridor. My pulse beats a tattoo against my neck. “And if he did?” Slowly, I turn to look at him. “Would you care?”

The South Wind hesitates before stepping closer. The breadth of his shoulders eclipses the sunlight filtering through the high, circular windows. “Maybe I would care. Have you thought about that?”

Of course I have thought about it. And that is exactly the problem.

I’m about to respond when movement draws my focus farther down the hall. A small group of noblewomen loiter near one of the marble statues, heads bent in conversation. My stomach drops. I recognize Dalia immediately.

“Not here,” I mutter. “Someplace private so we’re not overheard.”

Notus looks to where Dalia flutters her fingers in our direction. The way she drinks in the South Wind makes me want to claw out her eyes.

Thankfully, Notus trails me without question, lengthening his strides to keep pace. “Well?” he quips, as soon as we are out of earshot.

“Well what?” I snap.

“You didn’t answer the question. Did he touch you?”

I shake my head in frustration. As if he needs another reason to attack the prince. Anyway, answering truthfully feels a little too much like defeat. “No, he didn’t,” I growl, more maliciously than I intend. “Now would you drop it?”

“I’m only trying to protect you. I cannot do so if you do not let me in.”

“I let you in once,” I choke, the words like shattered glass in my throat. “I will never make that mistake again.”

I turn away, but the South Wind slips in front of me, grabs my arm. “Stop. Just… stop.”

His hand is so large it completely swallows my upper arm. And yet, it is gentle. It has always been gentle, his touch.

My gaze lowers, drawn by the glimmer of gold circling his wrist. All goes still inside me. “What is that?” When he attempts to retreat, I pull up the long sleeve of his robe, revealing a delicate bracelet of hammered gold, shaped like an arrow.

A gulf opens inside my mind. Its roar swells, dousing all rational thought. For I, too, have a bracelet identical in shape, only fashioned of lead. Notus bought them from an artisan, years ago. He’d gifted mine to me on my nineteenth birthday. Two arrows. For I had pierced his heart as he had pierced mine.

“Why are you wearing this?” I whisper in a trembling voice. My eyes lift to his, fever bright. “Explain.”

Suddenly watchful, he swallows, lifts a hand to his neck, expression pained. “I have always worn it.”

That cannot be. “You’re lying.”

“It is not a lie.”

I flinch away from him, unable to bear the implication that he has worn this symbol of our shared love these past years.

“Sarai—”

“Stop. I don’t want to talk about this.”

“I am trying,” he grinds out, “to do what is right by you, by your father, by your realm. What more do you want from me?”

Too easily, the noose slips tight around my neck. The truth is, I haven’t an answer for him. What do I want? Not this. Never this.

“Nothing,” I hiss. “I want nothing from you.” Spinning around, I stride down the corridor, my footfalls slapping loud against the tiles.

Notus’ scoff reaches me. “And you call me a liar?”

I halt. Were Father in this position, he would continue onward. He is not someone who needs the last word. But I am not my father. It is a bitter thought as I whirl around, my gaze burning with the potency of a thousand desert suns.

Yet when I look at Notus, all that flame is swiftly doused, for I recognize the sorrow within those black eyes as a reflection of my own.

“I know you, Sarai,” he murmurs. “I know when you’re hurting, when you’re frightened, when you’ve been brought so low as to feel nonexistent. I do not wish to cause you any more grief than I have, but the fact is, I will be here until Ishmah is declared safe from darkwalkers, and I do not know how long that will be. Can’t we at least attempt to discuss what happened between us?”

My spite folds onto itself, small, smaller, a piece of coal that burns hotter and brighter over time. If I could, I would tear my heart free of my body and wander the earth without its insufferable weight. But if I were to discuss my wretched emotions with the South Wind, I fear that I would fall to pieces, unable to find the strength to put myself back together. Some days, it is all I have anchoring me, this ire.

“We cannot,” I say.

He appears pained, yet departs without argument, for which I’m grateful. It is a small grace, this empty corridor. No guards to witness me sag against the wall, eyes closed, body trembling with a combination of rage, confusion, and self-loathing. Five years, and my shields are brought low with but a handful of hurled accusations.

“Lover’s quarrel?”

I startle, snapping upright to face Prince Balior. Arms crossed, he leans against the wall, dressed in a clean gray robe, hair damp from his bath.

I regard him pointedly. “It’s rude to eavesdrop.”

The prince is properly abashed. “These halls are not exactly conducive to privacy. You sounded distressed.”

“As you can see, I am well, though tired after our outing this morning.” And in desperate need of a wash. “Are you feeling rested?”

“I am, thank you.” He gives me a lingering once-over. “You and the South Wind do not see eye to eye.”

I brush my palms down the front of my dress. “You were right before. The South Wind and I have a history. I knew him as a young girl. There was a time when I almost believed myself in love with him.”

“I see.” It is steady, his gaze. “And now?”

Stepping forward, I slot my smile, however hostile, into place. “Prince Balior, if you are as observant as I believe you to be, you must know that the only thing I feel for the South Wind now is revulsion. You have come to request my hand in marriage, and I truly hope that we will soon be betrothed. Might we discuss our impending nuptials over a pot of tea?”

His smile spreads. It is positively triumphant. “Sarai,” he says. “I thought you would never ask.”

“I need your help.”

Roshar glances over at the blue velvet chaise on which I currently lounge. Apparently, the chaise cost him an entire month’s wages. The price is absolutely absurd, but I must admit it’s the most comfortable chair I’ve sat on in my life.

“Of course you do, my dear.” He lowers the square of cloth he’s using to polish his rings. “What is it you need from Roshar?”

I pick at a stray thread on one of the pillows. “You’re adept at conversing with men.”

“ Adept? Sarai, honestly. You are adept at conversing with men. My skills are unsurpassed.”

Well. I certainly cannot argue with that.

“I’m to meet with Prince Balior after dinner tonight. What are some topics of conversation I can broach with him? If we are to wed by the month’s end, surely we should be able to speak of more than just politics.”

“An established man like Prince Balior? Shouldn’t be too difficult.” Lips pursed, he lifts one hand, watching the bejeweled rings spear facets of color onto the wall. “Compliment his hair. Tell him he smells delicious. Fawn over how strong he is, how brilliant and intriguing and clever. Inflating a man’s ego is all but guaranteed to get you into his good graces.”

Except I do not desire to be in the prince’s good graces. I desire for our union to be fair, honest, respectful, supportive. I am aware that I’m leading him astray. But I cannot afford to follow my conscience when death looms.

“What of your hobbies, pastimes?” Roshar asks.

Hobbies? I gave up music long ago. It seemed a pointless pursuit with death just around the corner. Oh yes, let me show Prince Balior my journal of numbers, this obsession with tracking my demise. That would surely be a mistake. “I have no hobbies.”

“What about… horseback riding?” he adds with telltale mischief.

I narrow my eyes at him. “Spit it out, Roshar.”

“I heard you and the prince had a little rendezvous this morning—with Notus as your chaperone.”

“Who told you that?”

“Don’t you worry about where I gather my information from. How was it?”

A gossamer breeze blows in through the open window. I sigh and rub my eyes. The unease I felt earlier hasn’t diminished, but seeing as Roshar is a horrible gossip, I am reluctant to add fuel to the fire by informing him of Prince Balior’s improper behavior. Better to skip that part. “Notus may have… attacked the prince.”

Roshar gapes. His mouth hangs open for one heartbeat, two, then snaps shut. “Do you think he’s jealous?”

“Of Prince Balior?”

“Think about it,” he insists, leaning forward. “You’re to marry this prince from another realm, but if I recall, at one point you were hoping Notus might ask for your hand in marriage.”

A small sting hits nearest to my heart. He’s not wrong. I’d never wanted to marry… until Notus. Then, I’d wished to bind my life to the South Wind in all ways. But Notus is immortal. It did not seem fair to promise him forever when I would live to only twenty-five years of age. To this day, he does not know my secret.

As for the jealousy… It may be petty, but I want to draw the green-eyed rise from the South Wind. Proof that I am not so forgettable as he made me believe. But all I have received in return are reminders of his duty to Father. “As he continually states, he’s just doing his job at keeping me safe. And anyway, he’s the one who left.”

Roshar winces. He was there when I learned the South Wind had departed without so much as a farewell. He gathered my broken pieces and patched the cracks to the best of his abilities. If not for Roshar, I fear I might never have clawed my way free of the dark. It is something I will never be able to repay him for.

“You’re right,” he says with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Why are we talking about Notus when you’ve a delectable man wanting to marry you? Tell me more about this prince of yours.”

Later that evening, I arrive at Prince Balior’s chambers. Ten soldiers guard his door. It is more than Father posts at his own quarters, though I suppose when one finds oneself in an enemy nation, one cannot be too careful.

Before I’m able to knock, the door opens. Prince Balior is dressed in a knee-length robe, brown trousers, and bare feet.

“Princess Sarai.” He dips his chin in greeting. Surprisingly, no flattery sweetens his tongue. I cannot blame him, after what he endured in the desert.

“Prince Balior.” Brushing past him, I take a seat in the sitting room, and the prince selects a chair adjacent to mine. Two of King Halim’s men join the sentries outside. Technically, as an unmarried woman, I am not allowed in his rooms unaccompanied, but my guards know better than to speak against me.

A small tea set graces a round table placed between the two chairs. The prince pours the scalding liquid into a hammered copper cup. “Sugar?” he asks.

“No, thank you.”

He passes me the cup before stirring sugar into his own drink. The spoon clinks against the metal rim.

A deep sigh leaves the prince as he settles back, tea in hand, to regard me with eyes darkened by remorse. “I wish to apologize for my behavior earlier today. It was unacceptable, and I am ashamed to have made you feel uncomfortable. I promise it will not happen again.”

I sip from my drink. The mint leaves have been steeped to a sharp bitterness. “I appreciate the apology.” Do I believe he is regretful? Perhaps. “The heat can make any sane person mad.”

“Some more than others.” The tonal shift implies he speaks not of himself, but of the South Wind.

Slowly, I lower my cup onto the table. This dread has loomed in the thick of my mind for most of the day. It must be addressed.

“I am utterly humiliated by what happened at Kir Bashab,” I say. “Should you wish, I will go to Father about the matter and discuss what actions can be taken. You were right. What kind of example are we setting by allowing this display of violence to stand?” There must be consequences, even for the South Wind.

Unexpectedly, the prince does not appear pleased by my words. Hours earlier, he was forceful, aggressive, adamant. Now he is relaxed, ponderous, at ease.

“After some thought, I realized I may have gotten carried away before,” he replies. “I can’t blame the South Wind for protecting a woman he believes to be in peril.”

My eyebrows wing upward in surprise. “That is an abrupt change of opinion.” Though I find myself experiencing a sliver of relief that he does not wish to punish his adversary.

“Yes, well… Notus sought me out earlier and apologized. We came to an understanding.” He sips, slowly. The motion commands my full attention. “Moving forward, I do not anticipate there being any bad blood between us.”

“Oh.” I blink in stupefaction. This is… good. So why the unease? “Well, I’m pleased to hear the issue has been resolved. But I want to reiterate that I stand by what I told you earlier. There is nothing between me and the South Wind. There hasn’t been for a long time.”

“I’m glad to hear that.” This, paired with a brief smile. “When we marry, there will be no man in your life but me.”

He stares at me long enough that I grow uncomfortable. It’s not a threat, though it certainly sounds like one. Pushing to my feet, I wander to the window, peeling myself away from his focus for a moment. Carved red stone edged in violet: Ishmah at dusk.

“May I ask you something?” Turning, I take in the man I am to marry. He regards me with unusual intensity, a foot propped casually over one thigh. My skin tingles beneath his scrutiny.

“Anything,” he says.

“What do you hope to gain from this alliance?” I gesture to the desert beyond the still-warm glass. “As a whole, Ammara is far smaller than Um Salim. And our wealth, while extensive, is dependent on continued trade along the Spice Road, which has declined in recent years due to drought. If the lack of rain continues, I fear my realm will face famine. As far as I can see, our marriage will be a disadvantage for you.”

The prince frowns as he pours himself another cup of tea. A spoonful of sugar follows, a gentle clink as he stirs the sweetness into the steaming liquid. “I admit that when King Halim first broached the subject of an arranged marriage, I declined the offer.” He lowers the spoon, takes a sip, gaze direct. “You’re right. A union to Ammara is disadvantageous to Um Salim, especially considering our harvest is not always robust, and more mouths to feed would strain our agricultural fields. Life, however, is not always about the best economical choice.”

With all the care of a young child handling glass, he sets down his cup. “I wish to tell you a story, if you are amenable?”

I am properly intrigued, for I dearly love stories. “Go on.”

“When I was a boy, I accompanied my father to Ishmah. At the time, our people were suffering. A sandstorm had decimated the region; the year’s harvest failed. Our only option was to call on King Halim for aid.

“Many days we spent in this palace, these very rooms. At times, discussions extended well into the evening. But at the end of our visit, King Halim agreed to loan a year’s worth of gold to Um Salim, which was used to rebuild our cities and villages. I have never forgotten that kindness.” He drops his head forward, staring down at his interlaced fingers, brow furrowed. “You ask what I hope to gain from this alliance?” His gaze lifts to mine. “A generous, more prosperous world.”

It reassures me, his reasoning. For I, too, believe in such generosity. “That is admirable, Prince Balior. Thank you for sharing.” There is a silence. “During our ride earlier, you mentioned we might discuss… certain matters.”

“Ah.” He smiles. “How could I have forgotten?” The prince gestures toward his desk and its precarious stack of books. “After doing some preliminary research,” he says, “I’ve found mentions of shadow beasts in a select number of texts. From what I gather, they absorb or, say, extract souls from living bodies. Is that correct?”

A shudder grips my frame. “Essentially, yes.”

“And you don’t know where they hail from?”

“No.”

He rubs at his stubbled jaw. “Do you know why your Lord of the Mountain trapped the beast in the labyrinth?”

As it turns out, I do not. “Why do you ask?”

“According to my research, it’s possible the beast comes from the same realm as the darkwalkers. Or, at the very least, from an adjacent realm. Some sources claim the beast was once not a beast at all, but an immortal, forced to submit to the power of the labyrinth. If we were to discover why the beast was trapped, it could shed light on the matter.” Prince Balior tap-tap-taps a finger against the stack of books, then shakes his head ruefully. “I daresay I am boring you with my observations.”

“Not at all,” I assure him. At this point, I would welcome any ideas, no matter how far-fetched.

He smiles at me gratefully, as if he has found himself in front of less-than captivated audiences before. I certainly know the feeling. “Consider this: If it’s true that the labyrinth’s power forces its prisoners to become beasts, then it can be assumed the beast would return to its previous form when no longer bound by its prison. Right?”

Helplessly, my lips curve. The prince is more animated than I have ever seen him. “Right.”

“And if it is from the same realm as the darkwalkers, then might it not also know how to eradicate the creatures, or return them to their birthplace?”

My mouth parts, hangs open a moment, then snaps shut. “That is an excellent question, Prince Balior.” And it gives me much to consider. What if the beast is somehow connected to my curse? In discovering more about the labyrinth, it may be possible I can free myself from that which ails me.

While Prince Balior searches his collection for additional information, I peruse the material on his desk. A slender volume tucked beneath miscellaneous records gives me pause.

The book is old as Ammara is old. A tattered cloth cover coated in grime. Pages so brittle I fear they will dissolve beneath my touch.

It is the symbol marking the cover of the book, however, that captures my gaze: an enclosed circle, like the whorl of a shell, overlapping a small triangle. The tip of my finger finds the curved iron edge, though I do not recall reaching toward it. I trace the raised swirl, my focus sliding out. The warmed metal turns icy enough to burn.

Sarai.

I snatch back my hand, awareness bleeding through my system. Warmth. Sun on my face. I stand near a window, though I do not remember ever approaching it. The labyrinth sits bone-bright in the courtyard below.

When I cast a glance over my shoulder, I find Prince Balior poring over texts, face pinched in concentration. My attention returns to the book resting against my stomach, which twists in unease. This symbol… I have seen it before. And then it comes to me. The raised whorl gracing the cover of Prince Balior’s book is the same one etched in the labyrinth’s doorway.