Chapter Text
I woke slowly, warmth anchoring me before I was even fully conscious. Luke was wrapped around me, one arm locked firmly across my waist, the other tucked beneath my shoulders, pulling me close into his torso like he was afraid I might disappear if he loosened his grip - even in sleep. His chin rested against the top of my head, breath steady, real. My heart melted. Carefully, I shifted just enough to look at him. His face was relaxed in a way I rarely saw anymore, brow smooth, mouth soft. For once, he didn’t look like a commander or a traitor or a weapon. Just Luke. I allowed myself one quiet moment to memorize it. Then - high-pitched, maniacal giggling echoed through the cavern. I stiffened and slowly lifted my gaze. Crispin sat perched proudly atop a nearby rock, legs crossed, palms pressed together in front of his face like a businessman finalizing a very important deal. He beamed down at me, eyes glittering with mischief.
“It seems you are awake,” he whispered loudly. “Care to talk business?”
I squinted at him. “Crispin,” I muttered, keeping my voice low so I wouldn’t wake Luke, “what in the hell are you on about? It’s barely morning.”
Crispin’s grin stretched wider - pure Cheshire cat. “Ah, excellent question.” He leaned forward conspiratorially. “Mars is out scouting at the current moment, which means we have a narrow window of opportunity.”
I frowned. “Opportunity for what?”
Crispin clasped his hands together tighter. “A deal.” He paused dramatically. “You promise not to tell her about what I did - and absolve me of all crimes, past and future. Most particularly my crime of stealing her beloved Pringles five seconds ago.”
My eyes narrowed. “Crispin -”
“In exchange,” he continued smoothly, “I will graciously refrain from showing her the picture of you two lovebirds sleeping that I took, say…” He tilted his head, thinking. “Fifteen minutes ago?”
I spluttered, a hand flying to my mouth. “You what -?”
Crispin dissolved into cackling laughter, rocking back on the stone as I stared at him in horrified disbelief. Then the rock tipped.
“- oh no.”
There was a small, unceremonious thud as Crispin vanished from view. I sucked in a sharp breath - only for a hand to pop up over the edge of the rock, giving me a cheerful thumbs-up.
“I’m okay!” Crispin called out proudly. I exhaled, pressing my forehead gently back against Luke’s chest as his arm tightened around me in his sleep. I smiled despite myself. Somehow, even here - surrounded by war and fate and the Labyrinth - it felt like family.
The deeper we pushed into the Labyrinth, the older it felt. The stonework around us shifted from rough-hewn blocks to something more deliberate - arches reinforced with care, grooves worn smooth by centuries of passage. The walls bore faint markings half-erased by time, craftsmanship layered upon craftsmanship like the Labyrinth was remembering itself the closer we came to its heart.
I slowed slightly, eyes tracing the lines. “This isn’t just older,” I murmured. “It’s… intentional.”
Maris grunted beside me, adjusting her grip as she held Crispin aloft in her arms. “You think we’re close,” she said, more statement than question.
“I think we might be nearing Daedalus’s workshop,” I replied.
Crispin sighed dramatically, draping himself bonelessly over Maris’s shoulder. “For the record,” he announced, “my legs are far too tired to carry me any farther. Tragic, really.”
Maris snorted. “You walked for ten minutes.”
“They were very intense minutes.”
I smiled faintly, then caught movement ahead - Ethan and Alabaster exchanging knowing smirks over their shoulders. My gaze followed theirs. Luke had stopped. He stood at the mouth of a narrow dead-end passageway, completely still, eyes fixed on what lay beyond. I frowned and stepped closer, trying to see what had arrested him so thoroughly. It wasn’t dramatic. Just a stone archway, old and quiet, its surface etched with carvings that felt… still. Like the Labyrinth itself held its breath there. And yet - I inhaled. For the briefest moment, I could swear I smelled pizza. Olive oil. Warm bread. I shook my head. Gods, I must be losing it. Too long underground would do that to anyone.
Luke studied the archway far longer than necessary, fingers lifting to brush unconsciously against the scar on his face. There was something in his eyes - sharp, almost manic, like he’d found something he hadn’t expected to see again. I quietly peeled away from the formation and came to stand beside him.
“Hey,” I whispered.
Luke startled, as if waking from a trance. He turned to me fully - and whatever expression he’d been wearing vanished instantly. Pure love crossed his features, open and unguarded. He looked at me like I was the only solid thing in a maze built to swallow people whole.
“What is it?” I asked softly.
Luke hesitated for half a second, then smiled faintly and looked away. “Thought I recognized something,” he said, too casually. “Guess not.”
He stepped back toward the group, already changing the subject. I watched him go, unease curling quietly in my chest. I knew that look. Luke was hiding something. But I didn’t call him out on it. Didn’t ask him to explain. I fell back into step like nothing had happened, matching his pace, my hand brushing his just once as if by accident. The Labyrinth shifted around us, ancient and patient - keeping its secrets a little longer.
Luke called for a halt not long after.
“Take five,” he ordered, voice steady, all command and control. “Eat. Rest. Stay sharp.”
Before I could question it, he turned on his heel and strode off down a side passage. With Soren in tow.
“- Wait, what?” Soren yelped, nearly tripping as Luke grabbed his wrist and dragged him along. “I didn’t do anything!”
I stared after them, baffled. Honestly. He asks me out on one date and suddenly he’s lost his marbles. I scanned the formation quickly - Maris barking quiet instructions, Ethan already settling into a watchful lean, Crispin dramatically “resting” on a rock like a fallen hero. Satisfied the group was stable, I slipped away, careful to keep to the shadows. I followed just far enough to duck behind a bend in the corridor. And peek. I couldn’t hear the words clearly - just the low murmur of voices - but I could see them. Luke stood with his back half-turned, rubbing the base of his neck, eyes fixed stubbornly on the floor. Embarrassed. Awkward. Almost… shy. Whatever he was saying, it clearly wasn’t easy.
Soren blinked. Then his expression changed. His eyes lit up like someone had just handed him divine purpose. “Oh,” he breathed. He dropped to his knees immediately, hands flying to his pack. I watched in stunned silence as he began pulling things out at a frankly alarming speed - a sewing tape, a needle roll, soft cream linen folded with reverence, spools of thread in muted colours, delicate laces, and several fibulae laid carefully in a row. Each bore a different symbol: a laurel, a wing, a tiny owl. Luke crouched beside him, clearly out of his depth. He hesitated, then reached out and touched one lace - brown, simple. Then he picked up a fibula etched with an owl’s face, turning it over uncertainly between his fingers. Soren watched him gravely, as though witnessing a sacred rite. Luke glanced up, searching his face. Soren nodded once, solemn and sure.
“This one,” Soren said quietly, clasping an item I couldn’t quite make out in his hands. He held it like something precious. “Yes. This one.”
Luke let out a breath he’d clearly been holding and nodded back, relief softening his shoulders. From my hiding place, my chest tightened. Understanding dawned - not loud or dramatic, but warm and aching. Luke didn’t want me dressed for war. He wanted me dressed for him. I slipped back into the shadows before either of them could notice me, heart pounding - not with suspicion, but with something far more dangerous. Hope. I slipped back into formation just ahead of Luke and Soren, suddenly finding the stone floor very interesting. I kept my eyes down, posture carefully neutral, as if I hadn’t just witnessed something impossibly intimate through a crack in the Labyrinth. My ears, unfortunately, were not so easily ignored. Luke shoved a small leather bag into Soren’s hands.
“No, really - take it,” Luke insisted, voice pitched low but firm. “This is more than enough.”
Soren stared at the bag like it might bite him. “Luke, I don’t -”
“Take it,” Luke repeated, sharper now, then turned abruptly on his heel and stalked off before Soren could argue further.
I risked a glance just in time to see Luke make a beeline for Ethan, who sat a short distance away, methodically sharpening his sword on a whetstone. Ethan’s gaze flicked up, cautious and assessing, as Luke approached. I looked away again, heat creeping up my neck. Maris noticed.
She followed my line of sight with a knowing look and snorted quietly. “He really wants it to be special, you know. Considering…” She trailed off.
I swallowed. “…considering he doesn’t have long left,” I finished softly. “Yeah. I know.” I hesitated, then admitted, almost to myself, “It’s just - even after all these years, I’ve never once seen him act this… uncomposed when it came to me.”
Maris chuckled under her breath and gave me a light, reassuring pat on the shoulder. “Oh, trust me. He’s been like this for some time.” She smirked faintly. “I used to think it was the Sea of Monsters messing with everyone’s heads. Looking back? He’s been like that since the very beginning.”
I flushed. The realization landed gently - and then all at once. Not months. Years. Luke hadn’t fallen suddenly. He’d been carrying this for a long time, quietly, patiently, like everything else he bore alone. And just as quickly, regret followed. We could have had so much time. But I had taken too long to understand my own heart. I’d waited. Hesitated. Told myself there would always be later. Now later was running out. My gaze drifted back to Luke and Ethan. Ethan listened in silence, expression carefully neutral - until Luke said something that made him blink.
“You want me to - what?”
Luke shrugged, rubbing the back of his neck, embarrassment plain even from a distance. “Just… for tonight.”
Ethan stared at him for a long moment, then let out a slow breath. His shoulders eased. His remaining eye softened.
“I’ll see what I can do,” he said at last.
Luke nodded, relief flickering across his face before he stepped away. I watched Ethan sit there for a moment longer than necessary, whetstone forgotten in his hand. He didn’t look angry. He looked shaken. Almost… honoured. And I realized, with a tight ache in my chest, that Luke wasn’t just asking for help. He was asking for permission - to be human, just for one night. Luke doesn’t linger after Ethan. He crosses the camp with purpose and stops in front of Alabaster. He doesn’t explain. Doesn’t soften it. Just says his name.
“Alabaster.” Alabaster looks up from where he’s adjusting the straps on his armour. He studies Luke for a long moment - really studies him. The lines in Luke’s face. The tension he’s carrying. The way tonight feels different. Then Alabaster nods once.
“I’ll keep watch.” That’s it. No questions. No jokes. No bargaining. Just absolute, unquestioned loyalty. I feel it settle in my chest like a weight and a comfort all at once. This isn’t strategy. This isn’t obligation. This is brotherhood - understanding the cost without needing it spoken aloud.
My attention drifts just in time to catch Maris knee-deep in her pack, muttering furiously to herself.
“Where in gods’ names are my Pringles?” Maris demands, rummaging harder. “Kass, have you seen ’em?”
Before I can answer, a small, innocent voice pipes up far too cheerfully. “Maaaaris?”
Crispin.
Oh no. Oh no. This is not good. That little -
I snap back to reality - and move on instinct.
“Oh,” I blurt, far too quickly, “Crispin took a photo of me and Luke this morning and refuses to burn it. Oh - and also - he’s the reason your Pringles got stolen.”
Dead silence. Crispin turns to me slowly, eyes wide, hand clutching his chest in mock agony. “You wound me, Kassandra,” he declares theatrically. “I would do no such thing to beloved Mar -”
He freezes. Because Maris has stopped rummaging. And is now staring at him. Pure. Unfiltered. Rage.
Crispin visibly pales. “Listen here, Mars,” he squeaks, hands raised, backing away, “it was just one, I swear -”
Maris lunges.
“GET BACK HERE AND GIVE ME MY PRINGLES, CRISP -”
Crispin shrieks and bolts, sprinting across camp at top speed. “I DIDN’T TAKE THEM, I SWEAR! THE MAKESHIFT HOOK WAS TO BLAME!”
He dives behind Seline, who is laughing so hard she nearly drops her staff.
“Betrayer,” Crispin gasps dramatically, rummaging through his pocket before producing a cobbled-together arcade-style hook made from tin cans and bent wire. He stares at it with solemn reverence.
“Goodbye, my ally,” he whispers. “I’m sorry it had to be this way, but it’s for the good of us all.”
He tosses it at Maris’s feet. Maris skids to a halt, glaring down at it, then back up at Crispin.
“…You stole my Pringles with this?”
Crispin peeks out from behind Seline, nodding weakly. “In my defense, it worked really well.”
Seline dissolves into laughter. Ethan snorts despite himself. Even Alabaster’s mouth twitches. I watch it all - the chaos, the noise, the warmth - and feel something tight and aching bloom in my chest. This is what Luke wanted. Not just a date. But a moment where we’re all still here. Still laughing. Still human. Maris snatches the makeshift hook off the ground and turns it over in her hands. For just a fraction of a second - just a fraction - there’s something like reluctant appreciation in her eyes. The balance is good. The bend is clever. The tin cans are reinforced where they should be. Crispin notices. His eyes light up. Slowly, hopefully, he straightens. Maris lifts the hook in a mock toast. Crispin beams.
Then crack.
She snaps it clean in two and tosses the broken pieces back onto the stone. “No invention,” Maris growls, stalking toward him, “is gonna bring me my Pringle back now, is it?”
Crispin squeaks. Luke slips past the impending disaster zone without comment, already heading for Seline. Seline catches the movement instantly and plants a hand on Crispin’s shoulder, steering him away with gentle but absolute authority. “Shoo,” she whispers.
Only then does Crispin realize - with dawning horror - that his sanctuary has abandoned him. Seline turns fully to Luke. The noise of Maris roaring Crispin’s name echoes behind them, but Seline is perfectly still, her presence calm in a way that feels older than the Labyrinth itself. She studies Luke for a long moment, then reaches out and places two fingers lightly over his heart. “For love,” she murmurs. “Not fate.” Luke inhales sharply. He bows his head just enough to be respectful - just enough to look like someone receiving a blessing rather than a request.
“Thank you,” he says quietly. Behind them -
“CRISPIN -”
The boy bolts. He barrels straight toward Ethan and clutches at his armour like a lifeline. Ethan doesn’t even look down. “Don’t get me involved,” he says flatly. “An angry Maris is a dangerous Maris, and I value my life.” He gently - but firmly - pries Crispin loose and nudges him away.
Crispin spins and sprints toward Alabaster. Alabaster doesn’t move. Soren, beside him, doesn’t even look up. They speak in perfect, synchronized unison. “No.”
Crispin skids to a halt. Slowly, dreadfully, he turns. Maris is still advancing. His eyes widen. He scans desperately - left, right - until they lock onto me. Hope. Pure, terrified hope. “KASS -!” He barrels straight toward me, arms outstretched, feet barely touching the ground as Maris bellows behind him - and I have exactly half a second to decide whether I'm about to become a shield… or an accomplice. Thankfully, Luke moves before Maris can. One second Crispin is sprinting for his life, the next he’s airborne - Luke scooping him up with practiced ease and tucking him securely against his chest. Crispin freezes, eyes wide, arms instinctively latching on like he’s just been rescued from certain doom. He stares up at Luke as if beholding a divine apparition.
“My - my hero,” he breathes.
I snort before I can stop myself, the sound breaking free into genuine laughter. Gods, I haven't laughed like that in what feels like years. Luke turns his head toward me, grinning openly now, warmth softening every sharp edge of him. He winks - quick, playful - and then pivots away, carrying Crispin with him and neatly out of Maris’s direct line of fire.
Maris trudges back over and drops down beside me with a groan, rubbing her temples. “I swear by every war god that’s ever lived -” She stops. Because Crispin, safely cradled in Luke’s arms, twists around just enough to stick his tongue out at her. Maris’s eye twitches.
Luke lowers Crispin to the ground before the situation can escalate into bloodshed. He crouches in front of the boy, voice low enough that only they can hear. He asks something quietly. Whatever it is, Crispin’s eyes go huge. “You want help?” Crispin whispers fiercely, like he’s just been entrusted with a sacred quest. “I’m excellent at helping.” He immediately drops to his knees and starts rummaging through his bag, pulling out odds and ends - wire, glass, a small power source - until he triumphantly produces something unexpected.
A lantern. Not store-bought. Hand-built. The metal is etched with careful patterns, the glass faintly tinted, the light inside soft rather than harsh.
“She deserves the best,” Crispin says solemnly, holding it out like an offering.
Luke’s expression changes. He takes the lantern gently, turning it over in his hands, thumb tracing the craftsmanship with quiet reverence. “You made this?” he asks.
Crispin nods, suddenly shy.
“It was supposed to be for… later,” he says. “But this is better.” As Crispin packs his things away, something slips loose - a worn Polaroid, edges curled with age. He notices it at the same time Luke does. Without a word, Crispin plucks it up and hands it over, smirk firmly in place. Luke frowns at first, confused. Then he looks down. His breath catches. His head snaps up instantly, eyes locking onto me across the camp.
I feel heat rush to my face. “Crispin,” I warn, voice low and dangerous.
Crispin only grins. Luke flicks his gaze briefly to the boy - understanding dawning - before calmly folding the photo and slipping it into his pocket like it belongs there. Crispin sees it. His smile widens impossibly.
“Pleasure doing business with you,” he says cheerfully, already walking away. I stare after him, torn between murder and disbelief - and when I look back at Luke, he’s still watching me, expression soft, secret, and unmistakably fond. I storm after Crispin, irritation sharp enough that the Labyrinth itself seems to give me a wider berth. Crispin, meanwhile, is practically glowing.
He saunters past Ethan, Soren, Seline, and Alabaster with all the grace of a conquering hero, one hand lifted in a lazy wave. “Yes, yes. Thank you, thank you,” he says magnanimously. “You may thank me later for the service I have done to the community.”
Ethan snorts without looking up from where he’s cleaning his blade. “What community? It’s not as though there’s anyone other than us who wanted them to stop being oblivious dorks for years.”
Crispin places a hand over his heart, voice dropping into something cryptic and self-satisfied. “You never know, Ethan, my boy.”
Ethan finally looks up. “Never say that again,” he deadpans. “You might just end yourself up with horridly bad luck if you do.”
Crispin yelps, skittering sideways just as Alabaster chimes in, clearly enjoying himself far too much. “I suggest you duck and hide, my liege. I spy with my little eyes -”
Crispin freezes. “What? What do you see?”
Alabaster’s grin sharpens. “An angry Vex gaining up on you.”
Crispin laughs - once. Twice. Then Seline glances up from her work, follows Alabaster’s gaze, and smirks ever so slightly in my direction. Crispin turns. Sees me. Pale-faced realization dawns.
“- Not again!” he shrieks, bolting down the corridor at full speed as I lunge after him, boots pounding stone.
The Labyrinth echoes with his panicked footsteps and my furious shout as the squad watches us disappear around the bend - Ethan shaking his head, Alabaster laughing openly, and Seline murmuring, almost fondly, “He really does have a death wish.”
I catch him by the back of his collar. Crispin lets out a sound somewhere between a squeak and a gasp as his feet leave the ground. “Unhand me, foul tyrant -!”
“Absolutely not,” I growl, hauling him back the way we came, fingers locked like iron around the scruff of his jacket. We reemerge into the main stretch of the corridor just in time for me to spot Luke and Maris still talking a short distance away. Whatever Luke is saying, it’s quiet - measured - but it makes Maris’s posture shift. Her shoulders loosen. The edge leaves her eyes.
She exhales, rolls them skyward, and mutters, “Fine. But if you die, I’m killing you myself.”
Luke nods solemnly, like a knight accepting terms, and turns toward me. He crosses the distance quickly, stopping right in front of me - right in front of the very much restrained Crispin - and before I can register what he’s doing, Luke leans in and kisses me. It’s light. Soft. Almost reverent. I freeze. The world narrows to the warmth of his lips, the gentleness of the gesture. No urgency. No fear. Just him. My grip loosens.
“Sweet, glorious freedom - oh how I’ve missed you!” Crispin shrieks, slipping free and sprinting exactly three steps - before Maris tackles him to the ground with terrifying efficiency. “Oof -oh Styx,” Crispin wheezes from beneath her. I barely notice. I'm still catching my breath, heart hammering, when I blink myself back into the present and grab Luke’s hand, fingers threading through his without hesitation. I tug him toward where Ethan sits nearby, sharpening his sword. Luke goes willingly. More than willingly. He follows me like I'm gravity, gaze fixed on me with that soft, stunned expression - like a lost puppy that’s just been picked up again. Alabaster notices immediately.
He lets out a sharp wolf whistle. “Wow.” Luke ignores him. Alabaster grins wider and adds, lazily, “Missed your bone that much, have you, Castellan?” Luke doesn’t even flinch. He just squeezes my hand a little tighter - and for once, doesn’t bother pretending he didn’t.
Boredom gnaws at me in the rare lull, and restlessness wins. I dig into my pack and pull free the Daedalus puzzle box - the infuriating little relic that’s been haunting my thoughts for weeks. The moment it touches my palms, the delta at its center flares to life, glowing gold-white. The box whirs, gears grinding and clicking like a clock winding itself toward something inevitable.
Luke glances over. “That thing again?”
“Unfortunately,” I mutter.
The mechanisms stutter - then stop. I exhale and open it carefully, already bracing myself. As expected, the interior has rearranged itself yet again. Panels folded where they hadn’t been before, grooves shifted. And there, infuriatingly simple, sits the old keyhole in the center. No riddle. No hint. Just waiting. I groan, tipping my head back. “It’s the same stupid configuration. The keyhole’s back - but I still don’t have a key.”
Luke leans closer, curiosity tugging at him. “That’s it? No trick?”
“Daedalus’s idea of humour,” I say, flipping the lid fully open - and freezing. There’s something new. Beneath the shifting layers, a sealed inner compartment has revealed itself. Smooth. Untouched. No seams I can pry at, no mechanism I can trigger. Only words, etched cleanly into the metal: When the man you love becomes the door, do you open him - or burn the house? I stare. Nothing happens. The box doesn’t respond. No gears. No glow. Just the question. For once, I have no answer. The realization irritates me more than it should - scraping against my pride, my instincts. Outsmarted. Again. I snap the box shut with a sharp click and shove it back into my pack, rising to my feet.
“Alright,” I call to the formation, voice steady despite the knot in my chest. “Rest’s over. Let’s carry on.” We move. And as we do, the Labyrinth changes. Corridors that once twisted straighten when I walk through them. Turns feel less hostile, less uncertain. The air grows warmer where Luke has passed, like stone remembering heat. No traps. No tests. The Labyrinth doesn’t challenge us tonight. It doesn’t occur to me that it’s being asked not to.
A strap on my armour suddenly gives way with a soft tear. I curse under my breath and kneel - but Luke is already there, dropping down in front of me without a word. He ties it neatly, securely, hands sure and gentle. I notice, distantly, that the strap on his armour - frayed, strained - still holds. For now. He adjusts my gauntlet next, fingers brushing my wrist, precise like muscle memory. Like he’s done this a hundred times. “You always forget this part,” he says softly.
I huff a quiet laugh. “Someone has to remind me.” Luke smiles - but there’s something else in his eyes as he looks at me. Focused. Intent. As if he’s committing every detail to memory. I didn't yet know that the world was bending to give us time. And I didn't know yet that his armour wouldn't hold forever.
The Labyrinth grows older the deeper we go. Stone darkens, seams widen, carvings soften with centuries of wear. I feel it in my bones first - my limbs heavy, boots dragging just enough that I'm considering calling rest for the night. Then I notice it. Not all at once. In fragments. A glance Ethan throws over his shoulder - quick, assessing, not tactical. Alabaster drifting half a step closer than necessary. Maris slowing the pace without being told. Seline murmuring something low to Soren, who nods and subtly adjusts his spacing. They’re moving with purpose - but not command. I swallow. For the first time in longer than I can remember, I'm not the strategist. Instead I'm being… cared for. No one explains. No one needs to. A little while later, Luke falls into step beside me. He doesn’t say anything at first - just presses something cool and familiar into my palm. I stop and look down. An owl-shaped keyring. Bronze, worn smooth at the edges. My breath catches.
“I -” My voice falters. “I lost this. Years ago.”
Luke shrugs, casual as ever, but his eyes are too intent. “Didn’t feel right without you holding onto it.”
He doesn’t say how long he’s had it. He doesn’t say why he’s giving it back now. I curl my fingers around it like it might disappear again. When we finally break for the night, I spot Crispin sitting cross-legged near a fallen slab, sketchbook balanced on his knees. He’s so focused he doesn’t notice me approach - until I see the page. It’s me and Luke. Not armoured. Not bloodied. Just laughing.
Crispin yelps and snaps the book shut. “I -! I wasn’t -!”
I soften instantly.
“I wanted to remember this part,” he blurts, cheeks burning.
I nod, throat tight. “I’m glad someone is.”
As camp settles, I notice something else. The quad has formed a perimeter around my position. I didn’t give the order. They just… did it. Mercy, not strategy. I sit on a pile of debris nearby, watching Crispin tinker with scraps of metal and wire, his brow furrowed in concentration. Seline approaches quietly.
“Rest,” she says gently.
“I’m fine,” I reply automatically.
Ethan’s voice cuts in, calm but unyielding. “That wasn’t a suggestion.”
No one meets my eyes. They’re rationing my strength. Crispin waves Luke over then, whispering urgently. Luke kneels beside him, patient, listening.
“Do you think people still exist,” Crispin asks quietly, “when they’re not themselves anymore?”
Luke doesn’t dodge it.
“I think,” he says after a moment, “love remembers.”
Crispin nods like that’s enough.
Maris approaches next, holding something carefully - ancient golden sandals, etched and gleaming faintly. Soren follows, carrying a bundled length of fabric I have never seen him part with before. They offer them to me without ceremony.
“Enjoy yourself tonight,” Maris says gruffly.
“And remember,” Soren adds softly. They don’t finish the sentence. I open the bundle and gasp. Tears blur my vision as Crispin’s words echo back to me - love remembers - and I look up just in time to see Luke watching me, eyes full and steady. He smiles. Mouths quietly: I’ll be here when you’re ready.
I don't trust myself to speak. I turn and run - heart breaking, heart full - off to change, clutching love, memory, and borrowed time all at once.
I sit still while Seline works, fingers deft and gentle as they weave through my hair. For once, I don't feel like a weapon waiting to be swung. I feel… normal. My outfit leaves my arms and shoulders bare, the scars I've earned over years of fighting visible in the warm lanternlight - thin white lines, jagged marks, one ugly ridge along my collarbone I still avoid touching. A familiar flicker of doubt curls in my chest.
What if he asks?
What if he sees them and -
Seline’s hands never falter. She braids with intention, threading tiny gemstones into my hair, weaving faint shimmers of Iris-light through the strands so they catch and soften the glow. When she reaches the grey streak on the right side of my hair, she leaves it untouched, letting it curl naturally to frame my face - gentling the harsh scar beneath it instead of hiding it. “For clarity,” She murmurs. I swallow, throat tight, and smile. I twist just enough to hug Seline close, pressing a kiss to her cheek. Seline returns it without hesitation, brief and sincere. When we part, I look down - and find Crispin standing there, holding the lantern he made earlier like it’s sacred. The light inside glows softly, warm and steady.
I kneel and take it from him carefully, meeting his eyes. He beams. I commit the moment to memory. The quiet. The warmth. The fact that, for once, no one is bleeding. No matter what happens, I think, this is ours. I rise - and then notices something wrong. Luke is gone. So is Alabaster. My chest tightens immediately, panic creeping in before I can stop it. I tell myself it’s nothing. That I'm imagining threats because I don't know how to sit inside happiness without bracing for impact. This is fine, I insist. This doesn’t have to end. The lie settles uneasily. Crispin slips his small hand into mine, grounding me. He tugs gently, guiding me toward Ethan. Ethan steps forward at once, offering his arm.
I blink. “Ethan - where’s Luke?”
“He hasn’t forgotten,” Ethan says calmly. “He asked me to escort you.”
I stare at him.
Ethan’s expression softens, just slightly. “It’s nothing I can’t take,” he adds. “So long as you’re happy.”
Understanding dawns. This was what Luke asked him earlier. One of his closest allies. One of the few people he trusts completely. I smile, heart aching in the best possible way as I take Ethan’s arm. Gods, I think helplessly, how much more am I allowed to love him? And for a little while longer, I let myself believe the answer might be: as much as I want. Maris steps in close and fastens the final piece of my outfit at my shoulder. The clasp clicks softly into place. I look down - and then still. It all comes together at once. The light cream chiton falls perfectly, simple and elegant, brown lace tracing its edges. Golden sandals cross neatly over my feet, worn smooth like they’ve already lived a life. Draped over my back now is a grey himation, its weight grounding, familiar - and pinned at my shoulder is a fibula shaped like an owl.
The same one.
My breath leaves me in a rush. “What - how -?”
Maris just giggles, already digging into her bag. She pulls out a small tin of makeup and, without ceremony, starts working with practiced ease. “Luke asked Soren to make your outfit,” she says lightly. “I’ll admit, we were all skeptical whether he could pull it off in time -”
“To which,” Soren cuts in without looking up from the knitting magazine in his hands, “I am deeply insulted that you would think so little of me.”
Maris shoots him a glare sharp enough to draw blood.
“Oh,” Soren adds faintly, returning to his page.
“As I was saying,” Maris continues, turning back to me, her tone softer now, “we weren’t sure he could pull it off in time when Luke asked this morning. But we all wanted you two to have this.” She finishes a careful line at my eyes, then leans back to look at me properly. “You’ve been through enough already, Kass. You deserve one night of normalcy. Just you and Luke.”
She caps the makeup and adds, casually, “We’ve prepared the whole thing. No Kronos. No war talk. Just… tonight. I’ve got your shift.”
I open my mouth immediately. “Maris, I can’t -”
“Go.” Maris’s voice is firm now. Not unkind. Just final. “I’ve got it.”
No teasing. No explanation. I swallow. Only later will it hit me - that no one ever planned for me to stand guard tonight. She walk toward Ethan, smiling without quite realizing I am, heart fluttering with nerves and anticipation. Just before I reach him, I stop. Turn. The squad is watching me. Every single one of them - Crispin grinning like he might cry, Seline serene and glowing, Soren pretending not to look while absolutely looking, Ethan steady and proud, Maris leaning back with her arms crossed like this is exactly how things should be. My voice comes out all at once. Unplanned. Honest.
“I love you guys.”
No one laughs. No one deflects. They just smile - and for a moment, in the heart of the Labyrinth, it feels like that’s enough. Ethan takes my arm gently, guiding me forward as the Labyrinth winds around us like a held breath. We walk side by side, unhurried. For once, no one is scanning for traps.
“You’ve set a new record, Kass,” Ethan says casually. “I’ve never seen Luke so completely smitten with anyone in my life. And I lived in the Hermes cabin with him for years, so I know what I’m talking about.”
I huff a quiet laugh. “That sounds like a horrifying qualification.”
“Oh, it was,” Ethan replies dryly. “You’ve clearly done something unprecedented.”
As we walk, something flickers at the edge of my vision. Movement. My instincts sharpen automatically. She focus - really look - and my breath stutters. Luke stands ahead in the passage, adjusting the lapel of a black tux with hands that are not quite steady. His expression is tight with nerves, jaw clenched like he’s bracing for battle instead of a date. Alabaster stands close, one hand gripping Luke’s shoulder firmly, the other resting near the pommel of his sword. He doesn’t speak - but the look he gives Luke says everything. This matters. Luke nods once. Serious. Grounded. I barely register the ache blooming in my chest - half awe, half fear - before a voice cuts through my thoughts.
“Kass.”
I keep walking.
“Kass.”
Nothing.
Ethan stops us both.
“Kassandra.”
I blink and snap back to the present. “What -?”
Ethan groans, dragging his free hand down his face. “You and that bloody vision of yours. I should have accounted for that. Luke is absolutely going to kill me.”
I laugh, warm and breathless, patting his arm. “Relax. I won’t tell him.”
Ethan exhales, relief clear as he smiles at me. “Much appreciated.”
He tugs me forward again, and as we round the last bend, everything clicks. The scent hits me first. Pizza. Olive oil. Warm bread. My heart stutters. The archway Luke stared at earlier stands before us now, stone shaped into something deliberate. The Labyrinth doesn’t press here - it yields. Light pools softly, shadows retreating as if held back by unseen hands. Alabaster steps away from Luke, giving a final, subtle adjustment to the tux before retreating, fingers tightening briefly on his sword. The Labyrinth behaves. The danger waits. And the truth lands, gentle and devastating all at once: This wasn’t Luke alone. This was everyone. Everyone giving us one night.
I notice then - really notice - that Luke is unarmed. No dagger at his belt. No blade at his back. And with a jolt, I realize he hasn’t carried Backbiter once since we entered the Labyrinth together with the entire formation at our heels. Not at the Sphinx. Not at Geryon. Only a standard-issue sword he never quite trusted. Backbiter had vanished weeks ago. I shake the thought away before it can take root. Just one night, I tell myself firmly. One night with nothing to fix. Nothing to fear. Just me. And Luke. Luke looks up. And forgets how to breathe. I am walking toward him, lanternlight catching in the gemstones woven through my hair, the Iris-light shimmering faintly with every step. The cream chiton falls like it was made for me, the grey himation settling against my shoulders as if it belongs there. For all the battles we’ve fought side by side - for all the blood, sweat, and ash - he has never seen me like this. Never seen me this beautiful.
I blush under the weight of his stare, suddenly acutely aware of how close we are, how quiet the Labyrinth has gone. I'm still processing how unfairly handsome he looks in the suit when he bends smoothly, reverently, and presses a kiss to the back of my hand. My breath stutters. And then I see it. The tux shimmers - just for a heartbeat - like heat off stone. For the barest moment, the illusion thins, revealing the dull gleam of standard armour beneath before the tux snaps back into place. I gasp. I know that trace.
“That’s not -” I whisper. “Luke, that’s the Mist.”
He jerks his head up, eyes wide with panic. “I - I can fix it. We can do this later. Or not at all. It’s fine, really -”
I tighten my grip on his hand.
“No,” I say firmly.
The word lands between us, unyielding. Hurt will come later - because I will remember choosing this - but right now, clarity settles over me like calm water. Of course. Luke didn’t give himself something real because there was no point. A physical tux would only remind him of how temporary tonight is. He gave me something lasting - an outfit I can wear again and again. For himself, he borrowed the Mist. A disguise. A farewell. This isn’t just normalcy. This is Luke saying goodbye in the only way he knows how - beautifully, carefully, for me. The thought twists something sharp in my chest. And then I remember my scars. The exposed ones. The ones I learned to hide. Fear flickers - irrational but familiar - that he’ll notice and step back. That he’ll think twice. Instead, Luke lifts my chin gently, thumb brushing the scar on the right side of my face - the one that mirrors his own.
His touch is reverent. He leans in and kisses me, soft and sure.
“Beautiful,” he murmurs against my lips. “So, so beautiful. What have I ever done to deserve a woman like you?”
The Labyrinth holds its breath. And I let myself be loved. I take Luke’s offered arm, graceful despite the weight in my chest, and send a quiet, grateful glance back toward Ethan and Alabaster. Alabaster meets it immediately. He nods once, solid as stone. “We’ll be on guard, ready,” he says. Then his mouth twitches. “Don’t enjoy yourselves too much, will you? I want Kass back here sober, mind you as well, mister.”
Luke pales just enough to be noticeable. Ethan snorts, unable to help himself.
“Yes, Dad,” I shoot back lightly - and then still. If only my dad and stepmom were alive to see me now. The thought hits hard and fast. Would they be happy for me? Proud? Or would they look at the war etched into my bones and wonder what it cost?
Luke doesn’t ask. He just squeezes my arm gently and shoos Ethan and Alabaster away with a soft, practiced motion, like he’s closing a door on the battlefield. Together, he guides me down the last stretch of passage, where the symbol of Daedalus carved into the wall glows brighter and brighter. The smell is unmistakable now. Pizza. Olive oil. Warm bread. The walls smooth beneath my fingertips. The whispers fade into nothing. The Labyrinth, for once, lets go.
I laugh quietly. “So… after this -”
Luke smiles, but doesn’t finish the thought. He shifts the conversation instead, careful and kind - neither promising what he can’t give nor lying to my face. When we stop before the glowing mark, Luke turns with a flourish, pointing toward it. “After you, m’lady.”
I lean in and kiss him briefly at the corner of his mouth, catching him completely off guard, then press my palm to the symbol. The wall crumbles away. Stone becomes night air. The Labyrinth exhales us into a narrow side alley beside a tiny Italian restaurant. The sign flickers weakly overhead. The windows glow warm and golden, spilling laughter and voices onto the street. This place exists outside the war. Luke offers his arm again, this time with exaggerated formality. “Shall we, Palladia?”
I roll my eyes - but I take it. For one fragile second, I'm not a general or a strategist. I'm just a woman being escorted to dinner. At the threshold, I hesitate. My heart pounds. No weapons. No armour. Mortal voices inside - life, unguarded and loud. What if someone from camp saw us? What if something attacked? I think, absurdly, I should’ve slipped a dagger into my sandal.
“What if someone recognizes us?” I whisper.
Luke squeezes my hand, grounding, warm. “Then for a moment,” he says softly, “we’ll just be two people.”
And that’s when it hits me. Not the fear of danger - but the fear of normalcy. How long it’s been since I felt allowed to worry about ordinary things. Since I've been permitted to be afraid without preparing to kill something. The door opens. And I step inside anyway. The waiter returns with practiced warmth, pausing just long enough to truly see us.
“Buona sera,” he says, smiling at me. “You look like a princess from the myths of old. As though Venus herself stepped down and blessed us with her grace tonight.”
I flush instantly, heat rising to my cheeks.
Luke leans in, voice low and fond. “He’s not wrong, you know.”
Then, louder, to the waiter, with a faint, teasing seriousness: “Debatable. I’ve always thought she was more like Minerva.”
I go brilliantly red.
The waiter laughs outright at the reference, delighted, and gestures us forward. “Then I shall seat you accordingly. Wisdom deserves the best table.”
He leads us to a small table near the window, candlelight flickering softly between two glasses, and leaves us alone. For a moment, I just… look. The warm plaster walls. The low murmur of conversation. The clink of glass against glass, silverware against porcelain. Gentle music threading through the air like something alive. It’s all so much - so normal - that my body doesn’t quite know what to do with it. I flinch at a laugh from a nearby table. At the scrape of a chair. Luke notices instantly.
Without making a show of it, he shifts his chair, angling himself just enough to shield me from the room. He lowers his voice. “We can leave,” he says, no hesitation at all. “Anytime.”
I swallow, then shake my head. “No. I want this.”
He studies me for a beat, searching my face - not for weakness, but for consent. Then he nods. At the emotional center of it all: I'm choosing joy, knowing it’s temporary.
Luke closes the menus. “I’ll order,” he says, already half-rising. “You stay.”
I watch him at the counter as he speaks with the waiter, relaxed in a way I rarely see. He blends into humanity effortlessly - laughing softly, gesturing with one hand, nodding along. It hurts a little, how natural he looks here. Like this is a life he could’ve had. I realize people are staring. Not rudely. Just… noticing. My shoulders tense. My fingers curl against the tablecloth. Did I do something wrong? The thought spirals before I can stop it.
When Luke returns, plates still a few minutes away, he clocks my posture immediately. “Hey,” he says gently, sitting. “What’s wrong?”
I hesitate, then admit it in a quiet rush. “People keep looking at me. I - did I break some rule? Am I not supposed to wear this here? Did I -”
Luke reaches across the table and takes my hand, thumb brushing slow, grounding circles over my knuckles.
“Kass,” he says softly. “They’re staring because they’re not used to seeing someone like you.”
I frown. “Like… me?”
“Someone that stunning,” he finishes, without a hint of exaggeration.
My breath catches despite myself.
He squeezes my hand once, reassuring. “You belong here. With me.”
The noise fades a little after that. The candle flickers. And for a precious moment, I let myself believe it. The drinks arrive on a small silver tray, candlelight catching in the glass. My eyes drop - and immediately widen. A full bottle of champagne. My stomach flips. “Luke -” I start, panic sharp in my voice. “That’s - no, we can’t, that’s expensive and also I -” He catches the look on my face instantly and lifts a hand, gentle but firm, stopping my spiral before it can take off.
“I know,” he says quietly. “I know what you’re thinking.”
I blink at him.
“You’re not twenty-one yet. Stupid rule, honestly.” He lowers his voice conspiratorially. “But I checked at the bar. We’re not in America anymore.”
My brows knit together.
“They had the BBC on the television,” he continues, a little smug now. “So unless Daedalus has developed a sense of irony, I’m guessing we’re somewhere in Britain. Drinking age here is eighteen.”
I stare at him. “…You checked?”
“Of course I checked,” he says, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. He uncorks the bottle with a soft pop, pours carefully into my flute, and hands it to me like it’s something precious - not reckless, not indulgent, just intentional.
“And besides,” he adds lightly, meeting my eyes, “what’s life without a little risk, eh Kass?”
My heart does something stupid. We clink glasses.
“To one night without prophecies,” Luke says.
I lift my glass, smiling despite the tightness behind my ribs. “To us.”
The champagne is light, crisp - almost unreal. Everything feels that way. We talk. Not about strategy. Not about Kronos. Not about tomorrow. Luke tells me dumb stories from the Hermes cabin - about stolen shoes, pranks that went too far, a time someone replaced all the cabin signs with badly spelled copies. I laugh so hard I nearly spill my drink. I tell him about the Athena cabin - how we once tried to optimize chore rotations using a twelve-page system that collapsed within a week. About failed training exercises, misread maps, inside jokes that only made sense if you’d been there. We laugh too loudly. Too freely. Deliberately pretending that tomorrow doesn’t exist.
At some point, Luke quiets a little, fingers tracing the stem of his glass. “Can I ask you something?” he says.
I squint at him playfully. “You already are.”
He smiles faintly. “What did you want to be… before all this?”
I snort. “You know me better than most, Castellan. You’re really asking that?”
He nods anyway. Serious. Gentle. So I answer. I tell him what I miss. The small, human things. The version of myself that existed before war became routine. I talk, and he listens like every word matters - like he’s committing them to memory. Like the answers are sacred. And I know, even as I speak, why he’s asking. He’s imagining a future he won’t reach. I don't say it. Neither of us do. We drink, and laugh, and let the world stay kind for just a little longer. Not long after, the food arrives. A waiter sets the plates down with practiced ease, the scents following close behind - warm bread, garlic, citrus, oil. I notice the small bowl of olives placed carefully in the centre of the table and frown before I can stop myself.
Luke hates olives.
I lift my eyes to him, confused, and he clears his throat, suddenly very interested in adjusting his cutlery. “They’re for you,” he says, like it’s no big thing. “You always steal them anyway.” My chest tightens. Of course he noticed that too. The waiter moves on. Luke’s own plate is modest - a small square of lasagna, steam rising gently as he picks up his fork. And then -
Lemon.
Garlic.
The scent hits me all at once. My blood runs cold. I look down slowly, dread and hope tangling together as my breath catches. Seafood linguine. Perfectly plated. Glossed with oil and citrus, flecked with herbs. Familiar in a way that hurts. Memories crash into me without warning - my father laughing from the kitchen, my stepmother’s voice drifting down the hall. Wake up, Little Warrior. It’s time to go to school. My vision blurs. When I look up again, Luke is watching me, fork forgotten in his hand. Nervous. Uncertain. Like he’s bracing for rejection. My breath stutters.
I let out a shaky laugh. “How did you -?”
He shrugs, almost shy, eyes flicking away. “I remembered. The last time you had it was on your seventeenth birthday.” He hesitates. “And… with everything that’s gone on, I thought you deserved a reminder of who you used to be.”
The words land harder than any blow. He’s been paying attention longer than I knew. I blink rapidly, pressing my fingers into the edge of the table like it might anchor me. Tears threaten anyway. Luke reaches across without thinking, his hand covering mine - warm, steady. “Hey,” he says softly. “It’s okay.” And that’s when it hits me. No one has done something this gentle for me in years. Not for strategy. Not for morale. Not because it was required. Just… because he loves me. The kindness exists anyway. Even though the world will punish it.
After we finish eating, the waiter returns with a soft smile, collecting plates and murmuring polite pleasantries before disappearing back toward the kitchen. Luke waits exactly two seconds. Then, with a movement so subtle it almost isn’t one, he slides something wrapped in paper across the table toward me while my gaze is still following the waiter’s retreating back. He doesn’t speak. He just looks at me. Not like a commander assessing a battlefield. Not like a strategist calculating odds. He looks at me like he’s afraid that if he blinks, I might blur at the edges - like this version of me might slip through his fingers before he’s memorized me properly. The curve of my smile. The way my lashes catch the low light. The quiet way I exist when I'm not bracing for impact. He wants to remember this me. Not the soldier the world keeps demanding. Not the one he’ll be forced to watch fight a war I might not survive. Just me.
I notice the parcel and stills. “Luke?”
“Open it,” he says gently.
I peel back the paper. And gasp. It’s a book - leather-bound, worn in that intentional way that speaks of care rather than age. Embossed on the cover is a simple design: an owl in silhouette, wings tucked close, resting lightly against an olive branch. Athena’s wisdom. Peace, if only imagined. My fingers tremble as I open it. The pages are blank. Waiting.
Luke exhales quietly, like he’s been holding that breath for hours. “So you don’t forget who you are when everything else gets loud.”
The words cut deeper than any blade. He isn’t giving me a memory. He’s giving me a way forward. Preparing me to survive without him. Before I can speak - before my voice can betray me - a slow song drifts in from the kitchen radio. Something old. Something soft. The kind of song that lingers instead of insists. Luke stands, offering his hand.
“Humour me?”
I take it. We sway awkwardly between tables, careful not to bump chairs, careful not to look like anything more than two people borrowing a moment. I rest my forehead against his chest, just beneath his collarbone, where I can feel his breath steady and real. Luke closes his eyes. If he concentrates hard enough, maybe this feeling will imprint itself somewhere Kronos can’t reach. We talk quietly as we move. Almost-thoughts. Almost-futures.
“If things were different…”
“If we ever…”
“I used to think maybe one day…”
We don’t finish the sentences. Instead, we talk about places we’d go. Meals we’d cook. Things we’d teach Crispin - Luke insisting he’d absolutely teach him card tricks I would later pretend not to encourage. None of it is promised. None of it is real. And yet we imagine it anyway. A life neither of us believe we deserve. When the music fades and we finally sit again, the bill arrives soon after. I reach for it automatically. Luke is faster.
“Let me have this,” he says quietly, already handing over drachmas disguised neatly by the Mist. I open my mouth to argue - then stop. Because I understand. He doesn’t want to be a hero tonight. He doesn’t want to be a prophecy. He doesn’t want to be a weapon. He just wants to be a man paying for dinner with the woman he loves. One last time. Even this is a goodbye.
When we step outside, the world rushes back in all at once. Not war. Not shouting. Not prophecy. Sound. The soft, rhythmic crash of waves rolls in from somewhere nearby, steady and endless. Salt hangs in the air. The streetlights glow warm against the dark, and for a moment I feel untethered - like if I stopped moving, I might float. I know we can’t stay like this. I know tomorrow is waiting. I don't care. Before Luke can say anything sensible, before he can turn heavy again, I tap him lightly on the shoulder.
“Tag,” I say, already stepping back. “You’re it.”
Luke blinks. Then he grins - wide, reckless, boyish in a way I haven't seen in years.
“Oh, you’re dead.”
I laugh and bolt, sandals slapping against stone as I head straight for the sound of the sea. Luke chases me without hesitation, laughing as he goes, nearly wiping out on uneven pavement before the street gives way to sand. Running in sandals is a terrible idea. I sink with every step, momentum betraying me. Luke doesn’t fare much better. He lunges, misjudges the ground, and we go down together in a tangle of limbs and breathless laughter, crashing into the sand hard enough to knock the air from my lungs. For a second, everything stills. I open my eyes. Luke is braced above me, hands sunk into the sand on either side of my shoulders, his face impossibly close. Too close. Close enough that I can feel his breath, smell salt and smoke and something uniquely him. The laughter drains away. The world narrows to the space between our mouths. Neither of us moves. If we kiss now, it won’t be accidental. So we don’t.
Instead, Luke exhales softly and rolls onto his side, offering me a hand. I take it, and we end up sitting shoulder to shoulder at the edge of the shore, knees drawn up, watching the waves creep forward and retreat again. We don’t go in. We just listen. The sea breathes. After a while, Luke speaks, voice low, almost thoughtful. “Funny. Even the sea gets to choose who it keeps.” I watch the water glint under the moonlight. I understand what he isn’t saying. Luke never had a choice. The water keeps moving - constant, unstoppable, reflecting light that isn’t its own. Time does the same. The gods decide. The demigods pay.
We sit in silence, letting the truth exist without naming it. When Luke finally turns to me, he presses his forehead gently to mine. “Whatever happens next,” he says, steady despite everything, “this was real.”
I close my eyes. “It still is.”
The admission feels like standing on a fault line. Honest. Dangerous.
I swallow. “I’m scared,” I say quietly. “That loving you makes me weaker.”
Luke pulls back just enough to look at me properly. His expression doesn’t soften in pity - it sharpens in certainty.
“No,” he says. “It’s the reason you’re still standing.”
The words settle into my bones.
For the first time, I let myself believe that love isn’t a liability. That it doesn’t make me smaller. That it doesn’t undo everything I've fought to become. I lean into him and speak again, voice barely above the surf. “There’s something I’ve never told anyone.”
Luke doesn’t interrupt.
“Of all the Olympians,” I continue, “I only ever respected two. Demeter and Poseidon. They were the only ones who cared enough to let me live that day.” I stare out at the dark water. “Even now… I’d never hurt their children unless I had no choice. I owe the gods who spared me that much.”
Luke listens like it matters. Like it’s sacred.
“I swear,” he says quietly, “that stays safe with me.” We sit there a while longer, dangerously close to Poseidon’s domain, the waves whispering secrets we don’t ask to understand. Just two people. Just now Just real. We lie back in the sand, shoulders touching, the night cool against our skin and the world stretched wide above us. Luke idly curls the grey streak of my hair around his fingers, slow and careful, like if he lets go too quickly the moment might shatter.
“Okay,” I murmur, squinting up at the sky. “That one’s obvious. Orion. And there -” I trace a line with my finger, “- the Pleiades.”
Luke hums. “And that’s the Huntress.”
I follow his gaze. There, arcing across the stars, is the shape of a girl mid-stride, bow drawn, forever running. My breath catches. Before I can stop it, a voice crowds my mind - soft, fond, achingly familiar. I can see the stars again, my lady. I squeeze my eyes shut for a second.
“Zoe,” I say quietly.
Luke turns his head toward me, attentive. I swallow and keep going. “I watched her die. From afar. Artemis… Artemis turned her into a constellation after. Said she deserved to be remembered. To never fade.”
Luke doesn’t speak. He just tightens his fingers slightly in my hair, grounding me, anchoring me to now.
A moment later, he points again. “And that one - Chronos, devourer of -”
“Kronos,” I correct automatically. Then I freeze. “…No one calls it that. Not anymore.”
Luke blinks, frowns faintly. Shrugs. “I just… know it.”
The air feels thinner for a heartbeat. Memory not his own. Time bleeding backward. The past already reaching for him. We let the stars reclaim the silence.
Eventually, Luke shifts, propping himself up on one elbow. “Want to compare scars?” he asks lightly, like it’s a joke - but there’s something honest beneath it.
I nod. He pulls his shirt aside just enough to reveal the place beneath his left armpit. I feel it before I even touch it - cold, unnaturally so, like the absence of warmth rather than skin.
“The only spot,” he says softly. “Everything else… invincible. This is where it all ends if it does.”
He guides me hand there, slow, giving me time to pull away. I don't. My fingers rest over the wound, reverent. “How?”
Luke’s gaze drifts, distant. “I went home,” he says, like it’s nothing. “Last year. Asked my mother for her blessing.” A pause. A faint, crooked smile. “I couldn’t stop talking about you.”
My chest tightens. The memory slams into me - May Castellan’s kitchen, the humming, the plates set for a son who would never come home. He mentioned you, May had said. I had sworn on the Styx to never tell Luke. I hadn’t imagined it.
Luke continues, quieter now. “The Styx… it strips everything away. You need something to hold onto. One thing that keeps you real.”
I look up at him. “What was it?”
He turns fully toward me, eyes clear, serious in a way that steals the air from my lungs. “You.”
We don’t kiss. We just breathe together, foreheads nearly touching, the waves punctuating the moment like a heartbeat. After a while, I shift, lifting myself slightly. Moonlight catches a faint, jagged silver line along my ribs.
Luke’s eyes widen in recognition. “That scar,” he says, a laugh in his voice. “I remember that. Gods, I did such a messy job.”
“You saved my life,” I reply, smiling. “It’s the reason we met.”
“Worth it,” he says without hesitation.
I lean in then, kissing him softly - once. He responds immediately, fiercely, like he’s been waiting years for permission. The kiss deepens, not desperate, not rushed - just full. We pull back only when we have to breathe, foreheads resting together again, the sea murmuring behind us. For now, the stars hold. For now, time stays its hand. For now, we are just two people in love, letting the night witness it. A few hours later, the night has softened into something quieter. I am curled against Luke’s side, my cheek tucked beneath his collarbone, the steady rise and fall of his chest grounding me. He smells like salt and smoke and leather - Luke, unmistakably Luke. One of my braids has come undone completely; another is halfway there. He absently plays with the loose ends, fingers gentle, unhurried, like he’s memorizing the texture.
For a dangerous moment, I let myself imagine after. A future that stretches instead of narrows. Mornings. Arguments about nothing. A life where war is a chapter instead of the whole book. I stiffen almost imperceptibly. Luke feels it anyway. “It’s okay,” he murmurs, not opening his eyes. “I don’t need forever.” His thumb brushes my shoulder, warm and steady. “I just need this.”
The words land softly - and devastate me all the same. He’s already saying goodbye. Not with despair. With gratitude. I press my face closer to his chest, swallowing the ache. I don't argue. I don't promise. I just stay. Eventually, the night gives way to the slow pull of responsibility. The world waits. The war exhales, patient and cruel. We walk back together toward the Labyrinth’s hidden seam, hands brushing, steps reluctant. I watch the way Luke moves - how carefully he measures himself now, how the easy confidence has been replaced with something brittle and deliberate. At the threshold, he stops. The air hums. The symbol of Daedalus glows faintly, waiting to be touched. Luke turns to me one last time before the stone reforms. He lifts a hand, brushes his thumb along my cheek. The gesture is so tender it nearly undoes me.
“Thank you,” he says quietly. “For staying.”
My throat tightens. This is it. This is where I could tell him about the house. About his mother. About the cookies and the humming and the plates that will never be cleared. About the oath burning like iron in my soul. I almost do. But the Styx presses back. Heavy. Unforgiving. I lean into his touch instead, closing my eyes for half a heartbeat. “Always,” I say - and hate how true it feels, even now.
Luke smiles, small and real. I touch the mark. The wall shudders, then falls away. Light spills in - torchlight, familiar voices, the solid presence of the camp forming a half-circle just beyond the opening. Alabaster straightens instantly. Ethan’s head snaps up. Luke takes one step forward - and nearly collapses. I catch him without thinking, arms wrapping tight around his torso as his knees buckle. Panic surges, sharp and immediate.
“Luke,” I breathe. “Hey - hey, I’ve got you.”
He laughs weakly, breathless. “I told you… dramatic exits aren’t my thing.”
“That wasn’t funny,” I snap, fingers digging into his jacket. I search his face, my heart hammering. “What just happened?”
“I’m fine,” he insists, a little too quickly. “Really, Kass. Just dizzy. Long night.” He tries to straighten, tries to smile. “You don’t have to worry about me.”
I already am. Ethan steps closer, concern flickering openly across his face. Alabaster’s jaw tightens, eyes sharp - not surprised. Not confused. I help Luke fully upright, but I don't let go. I can feel it now, like a clock I can’t see but somehow hear - ticking faster, louder, merciless. I don't know why. I don't know how. I only know this: Whatever time Luke had, it’s slipping through his fingers faster than it should.
Luke squeezes my hand once, grounding m3 this time. “See?” he says softly. “Still here.”
I force a nod, even as dread coils low in my stomach. I don't know yet that Kronos has already tightened his grip. I don't know yet that the world gave us one night - and took the cost in advance. But as the Labyrinth seals behind us, I hold onto Luke like I can anchor him to the present by force alone. And somewhere deep beneath the stone, time smiles - and keeps counting down.