POV: Sebastian
Henry’s words echo through the chamber like a taunt pulled from the very bones of the labyrinth.
Did you really think I am my own best card?
For a moment, I don’t react. I’m too focused, too grounded in the plan I set in motion. Rosemary is out of sight by now—heading deeper, closer to where Marc and William must be held. And if she reaches them first, if she can get the boys out, then Henry loses everything he’s using against us.
I tighten my grip on my sword.
“You think words will shake me?”
Henry only smiles. “I think you never understood the game.”
Before I can respond, a sound pierces the corridor—a quick, frantic tap of footsteps. My blood runs cold.
Rosemary appears at the far end of the chamber.
But she’s not standing tall like she always does. She’s backing away. Slowly. Her sword hand trembles. Her eyes are wide, unfocused, staring at something behind her as if she can’t believe it’s real.
“Rosemary?” I call out, stepping forward.
She shakes her head sharply. “Sebastian—don’t—”
Then he steps out.
William.
But not the child I saw five years ago. Not the trembling boy hiding behind Cordelia’s skirts. Not even the quiet, wary child Rosemary and Evangeline described.
He looks older somehow, though his body hasn’t changed—only ten years old, yet carrying something far older, heavier, like a storm given a face. A black aura spills from him like smoke from a wildfire. His eyes are burning—with pain, fury, betrayal, grief. His little hands twitch at his sides, trembling with a power too large for him to hold.
Rosemary’s voice cracks. “He… he wasn’t being held. He wasn’t trapped.” She looks at me, horrified. “Sebastian… he’s not the hostage.”
Everything inside me stops.
Henry stands perfectly still, watching me with a victor’s patience.
The truth slams into me like a blade.
It’s not Henry.
It was never Henry.
William is the cursed one.
Because he’s Cordelia’s blood.
Her only child.
The one who watched me kill her.
“He was the background,” I whisper, eyes widening. “We never… we never even considered—”
Henry laughs under his breath. “You focused on me because I made it easy. But it was always him. The curse moved from Cordelia to her heir. Did you really think her death would simply end her legacy?”
William lifts his head. Tears cling to the edges of his eyes, but they don’t fall. They burn instead, swallowed by the dark magic twisting around him.
Rosemary steps closer to me, shaking her head in disbelief. “His aura… Sebastian, it’s more powerful than Henry’s. It’s overflowing. He’s barely holding it together.”
“I know,” I say quietly.
Henry’s voice sharpens. “Don’t pity him. Pity yourself. Because everything he is now—every wound, every nightmare, every ounce of that darkness—belongs to you.”
William’s breathing is ragged. He’s trying to control the magic, but it pulses outward like a wounded animal thrashing. Sparks bite at the edges of the chamber floor.
“William,” I call gently, “listen to me—”
“Don’t talk to him!” Henry snaps, stepping forward. “You don’t deserve to speak his name.”
I ignore him. I lower my sword, open my hands, soften my voice. “William… you’re scared. I know. You’ve been carrying something meant for someone much older, much stronger. You shouldn’t have to—”
“STOP!”
His scream cracks the air like lightning. Dark magic bursts outward, making the torches shudder violently. Rosemary flinches, stumbling backward.
William trembles harder, clutching his head. “You… you killed her,” he sobs. “You killed my mother!”
My chest tightens. The memory hits me like a fist—
Cordelia lunging toward Evangeline. The flash of panic. My sword cutting through the air. Her eyes widening in shock—then pain. Her collapsing. William running out from the shadows, screaming, crying…
And my hands shaking afterward, knowing the boy saw everything.
“William,” I say softly, choking on the memory, “I’m sorry. I am so, so sorry. I didn’t want to hurt her. She was going to kill—”
“LIES!” Henry roars. “The only thing this man protects is himself.”
William’s breath becomes jagged. His aura flickers like a candle in a storm, then flares again, brighter, darker, more unstable.
“William,” I try again, stepping forward, “we can make this right. Let me help you.”
Henry laughs. “Help him? After everything? You took his mother. You took his life. You took the only family he had.”
I grit my teeth. “You are using him.”
Henry’s eyes flash. “I am guiding him.”
“You are destroying him,” I snap.
William flinches at the tone—he looks torn for a heartbeat, caught between two worlds, two truths.
Henry whispers sharply, “William. Look at him. The man who put you in this pain. The man who killed your mother. The man who took everything from you.”
William’s breathing stops.
Then restarts. But it’s different now—stronger, harsher, pulled from somewhere deep and wounded.
He lifts his gaze to mine. Those eyes—terrified, furious, grieving—lock on me like a final verdict.
“William…” I whisper.
He raises his hands.
Dark flames erupt around his fingers, swirling violently, crackling with raw power and hatred.
Rosemary gasps, stepping back. Henry watches with a proud, twisted satisfaction.
My heart pounds, but I don’t move. I look straight at him.
“William,” I breathe, “please don’t—”
But the boy is already gone behind the magic.
His arms snap upward, tears burning down his cheeks, and he points both hands at me—rage and power exploding from within him, ready to strike.