Page 8 of The Prince from a Cruel Summer
The rules of the trials are simple: only those who cross the labyrinth’s exit before the closing horn will join our elite group. I still hold the record for the fastest time, though I have to share the title with a mightier-than-thou, annoyingly talented Shadow Fae.
It’s no surprise they decided to pit Damian and I against each other as guardians.
The judges assigned us to the last two portions of the labyrinth, making us responsible for the only two exits that lead to victory. The one who lets fewer applicants through his trial will be crowned the winner, and there’s no way I grew an entire rainforest to end up in second place.
Anything goes tonight, except for cold-blooded murder. While the occasionalaccidenthas happened in the past, murdering the sons and daughters of the most influential High Fae is frowned upon.
Even though we're near the end of the night, only two applicants have made it to my exit. There’s barely fifteen minutes left, so I’m pretty confident of my victory.
A woman steps through the garden gate on top of the hill that marks the start of my territory and the entrance to the meadow, and I take cover behind a hedge of bleeding hearts.
I’ve never seen her before. A long braid cascades over her shoulder to her waist, but half of it has unraveled. A loose black curl snakes along the valley between her breasts, luring my eyes down to her cleavage. Freckles of blood from the previous trial pepper her pale neck.
My prideful smirk falls, wiped away by a sudden tension between my ribs.
She’s white as a snowdrop and graceful as a spider, so she’s a darkling, but I can’t hold that against her—she’s divine. I rustle the leaves of the willow tree towering above her to wish her luck.
She squints at the moving branches and maps the scenery with a serious pout, the beauty of the meadow clearly not appeasing her mistrust. The most direct path to the exit is through the marshes, but she’s still got to cross the boiling stream or the bottomless pond. Dark Fae seldom know how to swim, a basic life skill they should really work on.
Spiders and snowflakes have not fared well in my section of the labyrinth. None have managed to cross, a few of them stuck so deep in the mud that they’ll need reanimation.
Only a couple of darklings are expected to pass these trials, and that’s a shame, because it means the odds of her making it out are almost null. I’ll probably never see her again after tonight.
Sucks for me.
Lips pressed together, she observes the surface of the pond’s black, reflective water for a long minute. My chest deflates as she decides to climb the trellis to go around it. She carefully places a foot on the first rung, the wood creaking under her weight, her fingers testing the weathered vines for a strong grip. I mutter a curse under my breath.
The only safe way to cross was to cliff-dive to the center and swim ashore.
The mature canopy of ensnarer vines snakes to life, spooking her, and she cries out as she pushes off the ledge, landing chest-first at the back of the pond. Watching a beautiful dark Fae drown isn’t exactly on my bucket list, and I dig the balls of my feet into the earth.
She beats the water with her fists, arms flailing, and a succession of soft, rhythmic crackles grates through the air as she manages to freeze two large chunks of ice. Using them as buoys to keep afloat, she catches her breath. It takes immense power to sustain ice in this environment, and I let out a low whistle. The ground beneath my feet cools, demanding more energy to melt the ice, but I reign in my fire, curious to see what she’ll do next.
Clutching her icy floats, she waddles clumsily toward the beach, but my abs clench as I realize the vines aren’t finished with her. Ensnarers don’t mind getting wet. They slither along the steep rock cliff to reach the water, the friction of their leaves against the stone mimicking a low, hissing sound.
Ice only makes them angrier and more vicious, but the girl extends her arms to them instead of trying to escape. My throat tightens as they coil around her arms and waist. They’ll no doubt choke her before the closing horn blows.
Beads of mist cling to the bell-shaped flowers of the vines as my girl starts to sing. She doesn’t sing just any song, but the most sensual and heartbreaking rendition of the ballad of St. John’s Eve I’ve ever heard. The familiar lyrics form a haunting melody, and I can’t help but mouth the words along with her.
At sunset on St-John’s Eve
At the top of bare mountain
The Summer King lies in wait
Clock ticking down to dawn
Anything can happen
On top of the bald hill
For one night only
Even when it’s folly
But demons follow in the king’s wake
To prey on Eros’ many mistakes
