Cold. That was the only way I could begin to describe the atmosphere. I was angry at Rebecca, maybe at myself? But honestly, I couldn't care less about that. I said what I wanted to say. It doesn't matter what my reputation is now. Why should I care about others' opinions of me? This whole time, I've been tiptoeing around these people since the moment I arrived. But no more. They may not have forced me into this situation, but they sure as hell had a hand in shaping my new outlook on life.
A loud clap snapped me out of my rage. "Hahaha, who would've thought?" Ericthonius was clearly enjoying our disagreement. "The group of four is actually two groups of two. This is enlightening."
"When are we starting this damn test?" Was I being disrespectful? Perhaps. Did I care? Not at all.
The king looked down at me, and for a brief moment, I could feel my skin prickle with a flash of bloodlust. "Patience, Hudson. Your trial will begin soon enough. But know this: even if you conquer the challenge ahead, not all of you will leave this labyrinth."
"What the hell!" Rebecca spat through gritted teeth, fury radiating from her. "This wasn't the deal! I came here for an intellectual challenge, not a death sentence. My patron promised safety, protection, she wouldn't let us die. You're telling me now one of us won't leave? What the actual fuck? My patron told me it would be safe!"
The king froze for what felt like an eternity, time itself seeming to halt. Then slowly, the corners of his mouth lifted into a cruel smile, and his laughter boomed. "You mortals are so predictable. Do you truly believe you command the unwavering attention of an Olympian? You are but a fleeting amusement. A mortal, one of many. You are no favoured child of the gods. She has yet to claim you. So do not presume to speak as if her gaze belongs only to you."
Life drained from Rebecca's eyes as if she were pleading for him to say it was a joke. But the king's demeanour never faltered; he was the very image of authority. However, I was preoccupied with other thoughts. The king's words left little to the imagination. An Olympian, with maidens who serve her, huntresses in her wake. The disdain for mortal arrogance... it pointed to one goddess: Artemis. Patron of the hunt, protector of her own. But Artemis doesn't favour just anyone. Her attention is fierce, protective only to those she claims. The thought lingered in my mind; could Artemis be the goddess angered with me as well? But that led to a more critical question: which deity stood in my corner?
"Can you explain how the first floor works?" I had never been more thankful for Shawn's presence. He always knew the right thing to say, whether he meant to or not. Right now, he was the only one I trusted.
"Fine," the king replied, his voice void of any emotion. "You will each be separated and given a riddle with a one-word answer. You will then be transported back here, where you will solve the final puzzle. If you're correct, you pass. The punishment for failure will be at my discretion." His tone carried an air of authority and amusement, as if we were merely toys for his entertainment. Any respect we might have earned was now gone. He wanted us to know our place, and we got the message loud and clear. "Now, without further ado, let's begin."
The moment the king clapped, I was transported to a small room with a single desk. The air pressed down on me, thick and suffocating, as though it sought to smother any hope of escape. Every breath tasted stale, like the scent of decay had permeated the very walls. Cold sweat trickled down my spine, each drop a reminder of the growing dread.. A note appeared in my mind: "This room was plucked from your memory. We can't make things too easy, can we?" An intense hatred coursed through me. The king knew exactly what he was doing, why this room was one I loathed. It would have been easier if I felt only anger. But I didn't. Fear gripped me like icy fingers tightening around my throat, each heartbeat reverberating in my ears as if the room itself was amplifying my terror.
Fear. The word feels too small, too insignificant for what clawed at my insides. This wasn't just fear, it was true terror that twisted my gut, a predator lurking in the darkness, waiting to pounce the moment I let my guard down. People toss it around casually, but they don't know what real fear is. Real fear constricts your very being, drives daggers into your heart. It's not just a reaction; it's a formidable and dangerous enemy, one that takes true willpower to overcome. Fear burrowed deep, threading itself through every thought, every breath, like a parasite feeding on your sanity, waiting for the moment when you think you're safe, only to rear its head again. Fear isn't scary, it's fatal. And that was the emotion coursing through me in this room. How could I forget? This was the room where I learned to trust only myself, the room that awakened my instincts. But I didn't want to think about it. This room had a tragic past, and it was blocking me from the task at hand.
I moved toward the centre of the room. Its murky, pungent smell wrapped around my soul like a noose. How unsettling that they could even replicate that. At the centre of the room lay a tattered old cloth with a handwritten riddle:
"I work with precision, my craft is unique.
My tools are my limbs, though not what you'd think.
My handiwork glistens, though it's often unseen,
But if you get too close, you'll be caught in between."
As I read the riddle, my heart pounded faster, not just because of the challenge but because this dark, suffocating space was closing in on me. The silence was deafening, broken only by the thud of my pulse pounding in my ears. Every creak in the walls felt like the building itself was breathing, waiting, watching, for me to break. The flickering light cast monstrous, twisting shadows that seemed alive, reaching out from the walls as if mocking my vulnerability. I could almost hear whispers from those dark corners, taunting me with the inevitability of my fate.. I forced myself to focus on the words, fighting the weight of the past pressing down on me.
"I work with precision, my craft is unique." I repeated the words aloud, convincing myself that I was allowed to speak. I was never allowed to speak in this place, not really. I picture ancient artisans, Daedalus, who crafted wings to escape, or the master weavers of old. Their hands, their skills, each movement deliberate. But something about this doesn't sit right. No, this isn't about a person. The word "limbs" in the next line pulls me toward something more… unsettling. "My tools are my limbs, though not what you'd think." Limbs as tools. Animals, perhaps? A creature. My thoughts wander to the serpents in the underworld, slithering and binding all they touch, but they don't build, they destroy. This creature is a maker, a weaver. It uses its body in ways unexpected.
I glance at the shadows again. My chest tightens. This room feels like a trap itself, a reminder of that night I never speak of; the night I was cornered, helpless. I need to focus on the riddle. I need to solve it to escape this suffocating place.
"My handiwork glistens, though it's often unseen." My breath catches in my throat. Glistens? Something delicate, something hidden in the dark, almost invisible. I can't shake the feeling that this clue is leading me somewhere I don't want to go, somewhere familiar but filled with dread. A spider perhaps? Athena's hatred of the spider is well known. A spider, the way it weaves its traps, glistening in the darkness, waiting for prey. Why? Why can I not bring myself to think of other possibilities?
Part of me doesn't want this to be the answer. Part of me remembers the spider, remembers the helpless feeling of being caught in a web I couldn't escape. Not a literal web, no, but it might as well have been. The trauma feels just as sticky, just as constraining. I need to breathe.
If I solve this, I get out. If I don't… Well, I can't think about that.
For a moment, I wonder if I'm jumping to conclusions too quickly. I consider other possibilities, desperately wanting to avoid the one I know is lurking. Could it be Hephaestus, the crippled god who forged intricate mechanisms, his handiwork often unseen until it sprang into action? Or perhaps an ant lion, with its pit of sand, hidden until its prey stumbles in? But neither of these quite fit. Hephaestus doesn't work with limbs in this way. And ant lions, they're too small, too literal. This feels grander, more mythological. The craft, the weaving, it keeps pulling me back to the idea of a web.
And then, the final line: "If you get too close, you'll be caught in between." My heart skips. The web. It's always the web. That's how it felt the night everything collapsed. I couldn't move, couldn't escape the grip of fear, of everything unravelling around me. Just like a web, unseen until you're already caught in its sticky threads. I don't want to admit it, but I know the answer now. The spider.
I hate this answer. It brings up too many memories, too many emotions I've tried so hard to bury. But I can't stay in this room, in this dark, oppressive place. The walls feel like they're pressing in on me, the shadows moving closer, almost breathing. I think of insects that normally would never cross my mind. Is this how they felt when caught in a spider's web? They must have felt this way when they realised their fate,
I need to solve this and get out.
The answer is spider. It has to be. Everything fits,the precision, the hidden handiwork, the trap. Athena's hatred. I whisper the word, feeling both relief and fear as it passes my lips. "Spider." The room seems to shudder for a moment, as if acknowledging my answer. I hear a small chime and I am once again teleported to the room which is governed under the eyes of an oppressive king.