Page 77 of The Alien's Vicious Starflash Manor

My breath catches at the sheer scale of it. What Syella has created is nothing short of magnificent—and utterly terrifying.

“Quite something, isn’t it?” Pride colors her tone as she gestures toward her creation. “An exact replica of Prince Jonyk’s design, down to the last detail.”

The walls tower overhead, at least fifteen feet high, their surfaces so perfectly smooth they appear liquid. Intricate patterns trace through the ice like frozen lace.

“Show me,” I say, unable to completely mask the strain in my voice. My powers flutter beneath my skin, alternating between burning heat and bone-deep cold.

Syella’s gaze slides to mine. “Having trouble with the temperature today, Your Lordship?”

I ignore her question, though frost spreads around us in answer. “The maze, if you please.”

She inclines her head slightly and moves toward the entrance, her Firnator’s robes whispering across the ground.

The patterns in the ice shift as we approach, creating an archway that wasn’t visible moments ago. My skin prickles with awareness of the magic woven into every inch of this structure.

“Mind your step,” Syella warns. “The first trap begins immediately.”

I frown as I step inside. “I thought you said the maze only left space for possible traps.”

I barely catch myself as the floor beneath my feet suddenly slopes downward at a sharp angle. If she hadn’t warned me, I would have stumbled. The realization sends an uncomfortable chill down my spine.

She gives an elegant shrug as she steps through the entryway behind me. “There are several traps built into the design itself.”

“I see,” I murmur. “So those are static traps?”

“Not exactly,” she explains, leading me deeper into the maze. “The angle of that entrance, for example, changes randomly.”

I find myself watching the ground more carefully than before.

“And the walls...” She reaches out to touch one smooth surface, and ripples spread outward from her fingers. “They shift.”

The passage ahead splits into three identical corridors. Syella takes the rightmost path without hesitation, but glancing back, I note how the ice behind us has already begun to reform, erasing our tracks.

“How do you know which way to go?” The question slips out before I can stop it.

Her thin lips curve in a smile that holds no warmth. “Practice, Your Lordship. And careful observation.”

That’s no answer.

She points upward, where barely visible lines thread through the ice overhead. “The patterns tell the story, point the way out, if you know how to read them.”

But learning to read those patterns will take time—time we don’t have.

We continue deeper into the maze, and with each turn, each new corridor, my unease grows.

Syella points out more traps—patches of ice that will shatter into glass-sharp shards at the barest touch, dead ends that seal themselves off, optical illusions that make straight paths appear curved.

“Here,” she says, stopping in what appears to be an ordinary intersection. “Watch.”

She picks up a handful of snow and tosses it into the corridor ahead. The snow never reaches the ground. Instead, it vanishes mid-air with a soft sizzling sound.

“An entropy field,” she explains. “Anyone who steps into it will find themselves... redistributed.”

My stomach turns. “Jonyk’s work?”

“Oh yes. The prince has quite the imagination when it comes to such things.”

We press on, and I try to memorize the path, the patterns, the countless deadly surprises. But it’s hopeless. Without Syella’s guidance, I would be thoroughly lost—and quite possibly dead.

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