Rowan was snatched right out of the desk by the scruff of his neck and tossed to the ground. He nursed the sting of his back connecting to the stone and looked up, meeting Mogrim’s eye. Mogrim—flanked by two guards—never went anywhere alone, of course.

  “Well, well, well. What have we here? A pup sticking his nose where it don’t belong.”

  Rowan put his hands up, surrendering as he spoke. “All I did was try to cross the street, like you said. It’s not my fault I wound up here.”

  Mogrim’s guards pulled Rowan up, hooking their arms around his, holding him tight.

  “That’s what the cameras are for, pup. I’m not mad. If I’m being honest, I’m impressed. I think you earned yourself a reward.” Rowan’s eyes narrowed with skepticism as Mogrim fished the remote from his pocket. “I could push this button, release that collar. We could give you all your gear back—even your blank book, there—and send you on your way to pierce whatever fecking veil you want.”

  Rowan’s mind buzzed at Mogrim’s words. The book was blank? Was Rowan going crazy or was there an equation at play? He couldn’t know for sure: his memories were far from concrete. There was a more pressing detail to turn his attention to, anyway.

  “You want to let me go? Why?” Rowan loved the idea, but it was so random.

  “You’re more trouble than you’re worth, pup. Besides, you got me the tower like I asked. So just get out of me hair, already.”

  The old man gestured for Rowan to go away, but didn’t release his collar yet.

  “What I read, who you found…” Rowan trailed off, not quite sure what he wanted to say or how to say it. There were too many thoughts rattling around in his head. He wanted to focus, yet he found his mouth connected directly to his heart at the moment.

  “You’re stupid, but you ain’t dumb, pup. You know enough to know you ought to just go.” Mogrim sat at his desk, turning away from Rowan.

  “Mogrim, you don’t look forty marks.” No, his wizened skin and tired eyes showcased marks far greater than forty.

  “I ain’t,” Mogrim replied, his voice breaking at the end. Rowan felt bad for bringing it up at all.

  “Your family: I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be sorry, pup. Just take the deal.”

  Rowan shook his head, “I can’t.”

  Mogrim turned back around in his chair, incensed. “You can’t? The feck do you mean you can’t? You can and you will. It’s the only way you’re getting out of here at all, pup.”

  “It doesn’t have to be,” Rowan cleared his throat, his heart pounding in his chest. “You said it yourself: you’ve done good and bad, but nobody’s beholden to the choices of yesterday.”

  “Pup, enough.”

  “You can let everyone go.”

  “Pup—”

  “You can apologize for what you did.”

  “Enough.”

  “And we can get out of here. I can help. We can—”

  Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

  Mogrim swiped his meaty mitt across the desk, knocking everything over, scattering papers across the floor.

  “Shut your fecking gob. Don’t you get it, you twit? It’s over. There no getting out of here. There no escape. You can die here or you can die outside.”

  Mogrim grumbled and waved his hand, signaling for the guards to send Rowan on his way. The siren of the maze blared as Rowan climbed the ladder down to the familiar stalls below. Before he knew it, Rowan was back in a cell, this one conspicuously empty. He sat against the wall and pondered everything he’d learned. What would his father make of such a mess? Was Rowan a fool for offering redemption to a man like Mogrim? His father would likely say so. Still, Rowan couldn’t bring himself to hate the man. He was a slaver, an abuser, a monster of a man. But he was also a father, a husband, and even a cornerstone of a city Rowan had often read about. How would Magnus handle this? Rowan couldn’t say, but it didn’t matter one way or the other—Magnus wasn’t here.

  Rowan stood up and walked over to the cell door, peeking through it for any guards: there weren’t any patrolling the pathways. And why would there be? It wasn’t like anyone could just walk out of their cells. Rowan’s fingertips searched the frame of the cell door for the vi imprint keeping him locked up. When he felt the familiar air of energy coursing through him, he knew he’d done the job. But it was too much vi all at once, and Rowan had nowhere to put it. He stumbled and fell to his knees, throwing up what little he’d ingested since coming to Mogrim’s Labyrinth. He tried to stabilize himself against the ground, only doing enough to prevent a concussion as his arms gave out from underneath him and slid out until he was laying beside his vomit. For a change of pace, the breathing came relatively easy: his body wasn’t sick in the conventional sense, after all. He just needed a moment for it to process and exhaust the excess vi. Or he could write something up and use some up, himself. But what could he do? It didn’t matter: the vi wasn’t cooperating and he could barely move. No, he’d have to sweat this out for a moment.

  About an hour had passed when Rowan shakily regained his footing. He wiped his chin, spat to clear his mouth of the undesirable taste of yesterday’s meal, and applied some pressure to the door once he caught his breath. It was certainly creakier than he’d liked, but he didn’t need the door to obnoxiously open wide like it did for the maze. He slipped through the small gap he made and prowled around the circular hall, poking his head into the cells.

  “Fig?”

  He whispered into the cells, but was given nary a response. He wondered what he’d say if he encountered the nameless one again. In truth, Rowan was a little upset with himself for thinking the tower would give him a second thought. Rowan’s idea of some semblance of friendship was one-sided—the nameless one had made this clear in their lack of presence. Rowan shook his head of the thoughts regarding them and whispered into the fourth cell. Once again, there was no response. Instead, he heard a light tapping of footsteps before the child came into view from the shadows of the cell. Her face was its usual nondescript visage until she confirmed who she was staring at.

  “It’s you,” she said, her voice unusually boisterous before she calmed herself. “I thought you’d…I thought I’d…” Her face maintained composure even as the tears began rolling down her face.

  “You didn’t do anything, Achaia,” Rowan whispered.

  Her eyes widened, a shaky breath leaving her mouth as she gripped the bars of the cell. Rowan felt tears begging to be released from his eyes as well, the emotions of the situation overtaking him.

  “That’s your name, right?” He sniffled and chuckled breathily. She nodded in response. “I’m sorry. I said I’d wait for you to tell me it yourself: it was an accident.”

  “Can you say it again?” She whispered, her heart desperate for the foreign feeling she felt when she’d heard it the first time.

  Rowan smiled and patted her head affectionately. “It’s a lovely name, Achaia.”

  Achaia nodded and clutched at his hand on her head, gripping it tightly as she sobbed against it. Rowan couldn’t forgive the depths of his own inadequacies. He considered himself quite observant, but said quality only seemed to be accurate from a scientific lens. He’d noted Achaia’s hair color, her eyes, but he completely ignored her many scrapes and bruises. Rowan just assumed it was from the maze: everyone was scratched up, after all. But Achaia was crafty and cautious—she knew every inch of the mazes because she crafted them. It wasn’t the mazes that hurt Achaia.

  “It sounds nice when you say it,” Achaia whispered through tears.

  “I’ll say it all the time once we’re out of here, okay?” Rowan patted Achaia’s head once again. She looked up at him, confused by his matter-of-fact tone.

  “I live here,” Achaia said in confusion.

  “No, fig. You here, but nobody’s living in this place. Just leave everything to me. I’ll get everyone out of here. You’ve got a tart to try.”