Sleep ended as abruptly as it came to Rowan; his eyes shot open as he tried to recall where he was. He sighed in frustration as he looked around the familiar environment: everyone else in the cell was asleep, save Aariv and maybe the nameless one. Verifying the latter would be difficult without venturing close enough to check for the scarlet eye flickering beyond the helm’s notch.

  He quietly rose to his feet and crept over to the cell gate. The view from the bars left little to glean from the surroundings: one could see bits of the labyrinth’s barricades and the tarped over stalls, but that was it. There weren’t even guards patrolling the pathways. Mayhap the prisoners were too weak or hopeless to deem it necessary, mayhap the guards left at night to go scavenge for more baubles—or people—to procure, or mayhap Mogrim was too arrogant to conceptualize someone breaking out. The last notion made Rowan’s nose twitch with rage. Rowan didn’t find hate to be a useful facet of the human experience, so he strove to consider the perspectives of others and find common ground amidst confrontations. Previous statement notwithstanding, Mogrim needed to be knocked on his backside.

  “Excuse me.”

  Rowan jumped when he heard a whisper from behind him.

  “I didn’t mean to startle you, Scholar.” Aariv said, walking over to stand beside Rowan. “This time, nor the last.”

  Rowan held his breath and looked out of the corner of his eye like a child checking under their bed. The old man’s eyes were tired and brown. Just brown, not the sallow shade they were when his words made Rowan’s blood run cold. The only other time Rowan had seen that shade in an eye was in his first encounter with the nameless one, but their eye was nothing but scarlet since that first encounter, and they never spoke soullessly like Aariv did before. There was too much to make sense of in a senseless place such as this.

  “No, I’m sorry. Sometimes I…” Rowan trailed off. It didn’t seem necessary to him to unload his traumas onto a random old man. “I just have issues.”

  The old man nodded. “As we all do in the offscape.”

  “How long have you been here, Aariv?”

  The old man paused, considering the question before speaking again. “It’s hard to say, with the offscape being what it is. Memories from before the offscape come and go like whispers on the wind, but they’re a lovely comfort, especially now. If I had to guess, I’d say my sun’s twilight has been spent in the offscape. As for my history in Mogrim’s store, I’m afraid my age belies my experience as I’m relatively new here.”

  Rowan wanted to know more about Aariv and his time, but he didn’t know how long they had to speak so casually, so he opted instead to focus on the pressing details. “Do you have any idea who’s been here the longest?”

  The old man raised an eyebrow in confusion. “I do, and you ought to as well.”

  The confusion on Aariv’s face was contagious as Rowan pondered his words. “The child?”

  It made no sense, but Aariv nodded just the same. Rowan couldn’t even recall when Aariv would have seen them together. Were eyes often on the child? There were so many people in this twisted playground, roughly fifty by Rowan’s estimation, of various ages and backgrounds—but there was only one child. Rowan initially assumed her to be new to the prison like he was, but her reactions to the horrors he’d already witnessed were nigh nonexistent: she had to have been here a bit longer than that. But the longest? She couldn’t have even been a teenager yet. Perhaps sensing Rowan’s disbelief, the old man cleared his throat, aiming to expand on the claim.

  “Many of the faces here have come and gone since I’ve arrived, and when they usually go…well…” Aariv trailed off, not looking to elaborate on the implication he’d posited. “But the child has persisted. She is quiet and small, but cunning and acts on self-interest—she is a survivor. She sometimes makes alliances as she seems to have done with you, but they never last.”

  “She’s just a kid.” Rowan said, trying to keep his voice low.

  The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

  “Yes,” the old man responded matter-of-fact. “and if she has to choose between herself and anything else—anyone else—well, her choice is quite consistent.”

  Aariv’s words hung in the air before he began violently coughing. Rowan patted his back lightly, concerned about the sudden fit. “Are you okay?”

  The old man smiled weakly as he calmed down. “It’s fine. I’m fine.” Aariv tried to reassure Rowan, but the soot-colored substance creeping out of the corners of his mouth told a different story. Blight? It seemed like it.

  “Do you mind if I…?” Rowan trailed off, waiting for Aariv’s consent as he gestured for Aariv to lift his rags and expose his abdomen.

  The old man looked confused for a moment, but fulfilled Rowan’s request. His sunken eyes were evidence enough, but his exposed ribs supported Rowan’s assumption regarding the labyrinth. Based on prior evidence, only two people per cell entered the contest each day. Those who stayed put in their cells wouldn’t have to risk their lives, but they also wouldn’t earn tickets. No tickets, no food and water. Tragic as it may have been, it wasn’t the purpose of Rowan’s examination. He lifted Aariv’s rags a bit higher, assessing the upper chest: there weren’t any signs of blight. So what was the cause of the situation? Did the lack of nutritional options in the offscape lend to this malady? Was it some side-effect of the offscape itself? Perhaps it had something to do with the flaxen—

  “Are you done, Scholar?” Aariv derailed Rowan’s train of thought, asking for permission to drop his rags.

  “Oh,” Rowan responded, shaking off his thoughts and nodding. “Yeah, sorry about that. Just take it easy. Oh,” Rowan paused, fishing a ticket from his pocket. “and get yourself some food, today.”

  The old man shuddered a gasp, shaking his head. “No, Scholar, sir, no. I couldn’t. You shouldn’t. Such a thing—”

  “I’m going to save you all, right? You’ll need your strength.” Rowan said, trying to convince the old man to take the ticket.

  “Thank you, Scholar. Law smiles upon you,” The old man whispered, tears in his eyes. He must have been famished: Rowan felt embarrassed about excitedly eating his food, earlier.

  “And you.” Rowan said as the all-too-familiar alarm blared overhead. It was time for the maze again. Rowan saw the prisoners sitting up, yawning and rubbing their eyes. As they realized what was happening, they all began fretting and squabbling again over who would have to brave the maze. “Excuse me,” Rowan said, his voice breaking a bit as he underestimated how loud he’d need to get to be heard over the siren. “There’s no need for that. I’ll go.”

  Rowan nodded to the people and stood at the gate of their cell, waiting for it to open. In truth, Rowan didn’t want to return to the maze. But freedom wouldn’t be found in the cell. Though his knees buckled, he tried to keep a straight back. The maze would be infinitely easier if the nameless one went with him, of course, but Rowan wouldn’t ask that of them. He wouldn’t ask anyone to risk their lives for him. Just the same, he couldn’t help but look back briefly at the Tower of Zchēve—they didn’t budge an inch, seemingly glued to the wall. Perhaps they were asleep, now? Rowan exhaled and cursed his own weakness. Too cowardly to stand alone, yet too introverted to ask for help? Pathetic.

  He stepped past the gate as it opened, hearing the dissension of the prisoners behind him: they were likely deciding who would brave the maze with him. Rowan tried his best to take in his environment again as quickly as possible. Every bit of information would count in plotting an escape. He saw the barriers of the labyrinth and cocked his head in confusion. They looked a bit different, sloping up toward the right; perhaps the monstrosity from yesterday had damaged them and they were hastily repaired. He saw the tarped over stalls, the screens above, and a ledge of rock and scrap off to the side of the cavern. That ledge also had walls, though it was nowhere most could reach—surely Mogrim resided there, like a pseudo-king overlooking subjects.

  Rowan heard steps coming from behind him, the other volunteer from his cell having been selected. In such circumstances, it was important to set the tone; when he was younger, Rowan recalled his father telling him as such. He often waxed nostalgically to Rowan about the importance of synergy in a team. And whenever he did, he always spoke about setting the tone in an engagement.

  Magnus’ words echoed in his head as Rowan cleared his throat, preparing to give his best rendition of his father for the prisoner walking up behind him. “I know you’re scared; it would be more concerning if you weren’t,” Rowan paused, considering where to go from there. “But the maze doesn’t care about that. It doesn’t care if you’re scared, tired, hungry, or feeling hopeless. It wants to chew you up and spit you out. But I won’t let it. My name is Rowan Hightower. I’m a Scholar of Reinholdt Spire and I’ll keep you safe. Just stay close.”

  Rowan’s eyes were closed as he nodded, feeling pretty proud of his imitation. He was wondering if the prisoner had heard him at all when a recognizable scoff cut through the silence. A shove at Rowan’s back from behind was embarrassing acknowledgement enough as the nameless one walked past him, as if telling him to quit fooling around. Rowan’s face was bright red as he sheepishly followed along, quietly promising himself he’d never attempt to set the tone ever again.