The Maiden | A Dark Romantasy Novel | Bride Hunt Book 1

The Gods had forsaken me long before I open my eyes in the dark.

I wake to stone beneath my back and the soft sounds of even breathing. My first conscious thought is to assess for injury, as I’ve been trained. Fingers and toes respond to command. No sharp pain suggests no broken bones. The cool stone beneath me is uncomfortable but not harmful. My limbs feel heavy, as if I’ve been drugged, but gentle flexing of muscles confirms no wounds or harm.

Cool air brushes against my skin, raising a chill as unfamiliar scents tickle my nose. I inhale slowly, trying to identify each one as it comes to me—damp dirt touched with moss, wood smoke tinted with something sweet and flowery. And underneath it all, a darker scent, metallic and sharp. A scent I know well. 

Blood.

Thunder rumbles ominously overhead, gently shaking the ground on which I lie.

I wake to darkness. My heart kicks hard against my ribs, panic curling tight in my chest. 

Calm, I tell myself silently. Panic won’t serve me. Neither will fear. 

I exhale slowly before dragging in another careful breath. I blink twice, letting my vision settle. Carefully, I push myself up to a seated position, giving my body time to adjust as my head spins.

I find myself on a stone bier in a vast and circular chamber, its towering walls curving up toward a hole in the ceiling. Through it, I see stars scattered in unfamiliar patterns and a heavy blood moon. Its light casts everything in shades of crimson, turning the ancient stones beneath me into a river of blood.

Other women lay scattered across the flagstones—I count twelve without turning my head. Some wear elaborate silks that sparkle faintly in the starlight, others the practical garb of traders, hunters, or craftswomen. Most are dressed in white robes, like pristine priestesses awaiting their coronation. All seem to be asleep or unconscious, as I had been. Their breathing echoes softly off the ancient walls, creating a rhythm like waves against a shore.

My pulse is a wild thing in my throat. My breath comes too fast, too shallow, but I force myself to move. My head spins. Frustration flares hot in my chest, but I push it down. 

Think, Syrrah. 

I shift, noticing how the stones beneath my palms feel—not quite warm, not quite cold, and thrumming as if the world around me is readying for an earthquake. A dozen torches burst into flame, encircling the vast chamber. 

Closing my eyes, I fight for calm, struggling to remember how I came to be in this place of darkness. I lift a hand to my face, brushing away a stray hair, when the scent of feverfew and mint tickles my nose.

I’d been in the healing gardens, grinding feverfew for tonics. I’d been punished for healing a young woman who couldn’t pay—relegated to undertake apprentice work. The moon had begun to rise, staining the mountains red. I had looked up at it, thinking how beautiful and terrible it seemed when—

The memory slips away like water through my fingers.

Another woman stirs, a small sound of confusion escaping her lips. Tattoos cover her body and I find my gaze drawn to the one covering her chest—a stem holding a closed rose bud. I watch as she too, pushes herself upright, blinking in the dim light. Our eyes meet and hold—a silent exchange of confusion.

Other women are beginning to stir now, soft sounds of uncertainty echoing off the ancient stones. A woman in a white dress presses her hands to her temples, muttering a curse to Gods I’ve never heard of before. A girl in the early bloom of adulthood clings to the arm of an older woman in matching silks—sisters perhaps, or mother and daughter.

The tattooed woman moves closer, hand extended. She says something but the words are lost to me, her accent unfamiliar. 

Laughter cuts through the chamber, wild and joyful, so at odds with the quiet that the hairs on the back of my neck lift. It comes from everywhere and nowhere, sliding over my skin like the brush of unseen fingers, twisting into a sound like breaking glass and ringing bells. The stones beneath us begin to pulse, radiating a silvery light that casts no shadows.

“My lovely brides,” sings a voice that makes my bones ache. “All gathered for the choosing.”

He appears between one breath and the next—a figure that seems to dance between the shadows. His mask is crafted of gold and ivory, frozen in an eternal laugh that is somehow both beautiful and terrible. He wears fine breeches and an embroidered doublet, while a cloak of deepest black swirls around him though there’s no wind in the chamber.

Kasaros. The Trickster God.

All women know who he is—his name is whispered around campfires and over hearths to girls as a cautionary tale.

Hush, little girl, don’t disobey, or the Trickster God will steal you away.

A warning. A myth. A nursery rhyme meant to frighten children into submission.

But this is no myth.

It seems fate has chosen us—chosen me—for his terrible game.

A cold sweat breaks over my skin, and I feel the air thin as if the chamber itself is swallowing my breath. My hands tremble violently, fingers curling into the stone in a desperate attempt to anchor myself. But the stone pulses beneath my palms, alive, shifting, rejecting me.

My stomach clenches, nausea rolling through me in waves. I feel lightheaded, as if the world is tilting, like I’m plummeting even though I’m perfectly still. My heart pounds, each beat loud, deafening, a frantic drumbeat in my ears. My mind scrambles for logic, for reason, for anything that might make sense of this nightmare, but fear has its claws in me now, sharp and unrelenting.

I want to run. I want to scream.

But I can do neither.

Because Kasaros is watching.

Waiting.

And I have the terrible, gut-wrenching certainty that whatever happens next, I won’t escape it.

“Please,” the merchant woman breathes, reaching out toward the God. “I have a family who need me—”

“Had a family,” Kasaros corrects, his mask gleaming as he spins to face her. “Had a life. Had a world.” Each word is punctuated by a step that brings him closer to her, though his feet never quite seem to touch the ground. “Now you have only what you can win for yourselves in my Labyrinth.”

I gasp as my wrist burns with searing heat. Pushing the gold bracelet from my wrist, I find a golden mark seared into my skin—a flower crown not unlike the one that decorates my hair. 

What is this? 

The silver light pulsing through the stones grows stronger, forcing us all to our feet like puppets on strings. Through the archways ringing the chamber, I catch glimpses of movement—shadowed figures drawing closer, pulled by the God’s presence.

A shiver runs down my spine.

Nothing about this makes sense. I have been good. Pure. Righteous. I’ve dedicated my life to healing others and learning my trade. I’ve taken no lovers, remaining chaste as required of women who choose to become healers.

What great sin have I cast to be plucked from my life and sent into this place of purgatory? What failure?

A scream of terror, of rage, of injustice, builds in my chest, clawing at my throat. I bite the inside of my cheek, holding it in, determined not to give this God of games the satisfaction. Blood bursts across my tongue, tasting as bitter as the regrets I hold for the life I’ve lived.

I could have had a family. Lovers. Adventures. I could have lived as the Mahkerie do, taking my hedonistic pleasure as I pleased. Instead, I dedicated my life to others. And while I don’t regret helping those I healed, what life have I had? What joys to keep me warm in this place of cold stone and barren sky?

Kasaros circles us, the gathered brides, his steps light and graceful, each movement precise. He pauses to lift a bride’s chin with one elegant finger.

“Welcome, my delightful brides.” The smile on his mask seems to curve upward, growing bigger as he continues his walk around the circle. “Today begins your dance with destiny.”

He sweeps his arms wide toward the towering maze walls, his flowing sleeves catching the light. “Before you lies my maze—a Labyrinth of choices and chances.” With a fluid motion, he vanishes and reappears atop one of the maze walls, looking down at us. “Within these walls, your fates shall unfold as you see fit.”

Dropping gracefully back to the ground, he lands as light as a feather before gleefully weaving between us, the brides.

“You may run like deer, swift and silent.” He demonstrates, turning into a deer and prancing across the stones with a few silent steps. “You may hide like foxes, clever and cautious.” He slips into form and disappears behind a pillar only to reemerge from another across the chamber.

“Or….” He appears suddenly beside one of us, his voice dropping to a silken whisper. Somehow, he makes it feel as if he is beside each of us, whispering directly into our ears. “You may seek out the hunters themselves and choose your own match… before they claim you.”

In the blink of an eye, he’s in front of me, his mask twisted into a mockery of a smile. 

“Welcome, maiden,” he chuckles, sliding a finger down my cheek. “I look forward to seeing you play my game.”

I open my mouth to respond but he’s already returned to the center of the nemeton, his movements holding the controlled grace of a dancer.

“Know this—” He raises a finger to the sky, where the moon hangs red and heavy. “—when the blood moon completes its cycle, my game must end. And those who have neither claimed a husband nor reached the maze’s heart by the final moonset….” His smile remains pleasant, but his eyes glitter with divine amusement. “Well, let us say they shall provide a different sort of entertainment.”

He spreads his arms wide, his presence filling the space. “The choice of how to play is yours alone. Will you be predator or prey? Will you trust in chance or forge your own path? Each step you take writes your story in my grand game.”

With a courtly bow that somehow manages to be both elegant and mocking, his mask shimmers, the smile now a gaping grin. “May luck be your friend.”

He straightens, eyes bright with gleeful anticipation.

“Let the Hunt begin.”

Lightning cracks overhead, and he’s gone, disappearing between one heartbeat and the next. A bone-shaking rumble of thunder follows, rattling the stones and shaking dirt from the walls.

I brace myself, planting my feet as my heart pounds against my ribs.

What kind of game is this? I wonder, my breath catching. That man—or monster—might hunt us. What kind of mad God is Kasaros that he finds joy in our fear?

A howl echoes through the archways, followed by another, then another, until the sound seems to come from every direction at once.

And in terror, the women run.

My thin sandals, made for beauty, not function, slap loudly against the cold stone as I flee down alleyways with walls that seem to pulse with that same silvery light from the chamber. The corridors twist and branch, each choice leading me further into darkness. I try to keep track of my turns—right, then left, then right again—but I soon lose count.

Strange plants grow here, ivy that moves, pale blooms that gleam like pearls in the shadows, moss that ripples with light. My healer’s mind tries to catalogue them even as I run—they might be useful later, if I survive long enough to need medicines.

The thought is automatic, years of training asserting itself even in my terror. I know a thousand ways to heal, to soothe, to ease pain. But how many ways do I know to survive?

A scream echoes through the maze—high and frightened, cut off too quickly. I catch a glimpse of two brides ahead of me—a woman in a white dress and another bride with striking red hair. I follow their sure stride but in a dozen turns and twists, they disappear, lost to the maze.

I slow, pressing myself against a wall to catch my breath. The howls have faded, replaced by an eerie silence that somehow feels worse. My heart hammers against my ribs as I try to decide which path to take.

I am not prepared for a game like this—dressed in the lightweight white linen dress of the healers and the fragile, thin-soled sandals we are forced to wear at home. Delicate gold wire winds through my hair, decorated with elaborate gold leaves that mark me as a senior healer. Gold bracelets encircle my arms, identifying me as the daughter of a highborn.

I carry no weapon. I know no defense. I am trained as a healer, not a hunter.

“It seems I’ve found a lost little bride.”

The voice comes from behind me, thick with an accent I can’t place—rough yet melodic, a dangerous lull in the darkness. I spin, heart pounding, to find a mountain of a man blocking the corridor. His black leather armor clings to him like a second skin, the material absorbing the dim light and leaving him almost a silhouette against the stone—a shadow given form.

He moves closer, each step slow, deliberate, menacing, his presence pressing in on me. He steps into a sliver of light, and my breath catches in my chest, fear stabbing its knife deep. His filthy hair falls in untamed clumps around a face chiseled from stone, but it’s his eyes that hold me captive—cold, with a glint far too calculating for my comfort.

“You’ve wandered too far, little one,” he says, his voice a low purr of menace. “And now, you’ve found me.”

He tilts his head, the motion almost lazy, but there is nothing relaxed about the way his gaze moves—slow, deliberate, devouring. It drags from the tips of my toes, crawling up my body in a way that makes my breath stutter. Not just looking. Feeling. Claiming. When his eyes reach my thighs, a sickly chill skates across my skin, like phantom fingers pressing where they have no right to be.

Higher.

My stomach clenches as his gaze lingers there, a whisper of cold against my flesh, something unseen but felt. A touch without a hand, a violation without contact. My skin prickles, my body recoiling from the intangible yet unbearably real. The higher his gaze climbs, the more it burns like frostbite—searing, intrusive, a darkness slithering over my flesh and sinking in, staining me from the inside out.

When he reaches my chest, I flinch violently, my body jerking as though he has actually touched me. It feels like he has.

“Or, perhaps it is I who found you,” he murmurs, and I swear I feel his voice curl against my throat, tightening like an invisible collar.

Caught. 

The smile he offers is sharp, predatory, like a hunter toying with his prey, and it holds all the warmth of a grave long forgotten. Everything about him radiates violence—from the massive sword at his hip to the scars that map a history of cruelty across his visible skin.

I turn to run, but his hand shoots out, fingers tangling in my hair to yank me back. My spine bows as I crash against a solid wall of muscle and armor, his grip unrelenting. His other arm snakes around my waist, locking me against him like an iron shackle.

“Now, now,” he rumbles, his fetid breath hot against my ear. “No need to rush off. Magnus will take care of you.” 

His hand moves and I go rigid as his fingers snake downward to wrap around my neck, a grotesque parody of possession. Violation without hesitation. A mockery of control.

The breath leaves my lungs in a strangled, soundless cry. Horror rips through me, cold and sharp as a blade, severing me from thought, from reason. My body reacts on instinct—pure, undiluted terror. I thrash, my nails raking against his armored forearm, searching for any gap, any weakness. My heels slam into his shins, but the thick plates of his armor absorb the blows.

I am nothing to him.

His grip tightens, crushing until I can’t breathe. My ribs scream under the force, my lungs fighting for air that will not come. Pain sears through me, spreading like fire where his fingers bite into my flesh. I can already feel the bruises forming. 

Years of knowledge flashes through my mind—pressure points, vulnerable spots, ways to cause pain—but I’ve sworn oaths against using such knowledge to hurt.

Those oaths now feel like chains binding me when I most need to be free.

“That’s right,” he purrs, clearly enjoying my struggles. “Fight all you want. Makes it more satisfying when you finally break.”

I want to scream.

I want to tear him apart.

But I cannot breathe.

And I cannot wake from this nightmare.

He spins me around and slams me against the wall, one massive hand closing tighter around my throat. Dark spots dance at the edges of my vision as he leans closer, his thumb pressing against my windpipe.

“Magnus claims this one,” he announces. “Any objections?”

The silence that answers feels like a death sentence. My vision begins to dim, and with it comes a terrible clarity—my oaths mean nothing if I die here. What use are vows of nonviolence to a corpse? 

My vision is blurry, my lungs burning, screaming for air that will not come. My limbs weaken, trembling uselessly in my captor’s grip. My body betrays me, sliding toward the abyss.

As consciousness begins to fade, two figures step from the shadows, their weapons already drawn, tension crackling the air.

The first, draped in elaborate robes of rich crimson and gold, looks as though he belongs in a grand court rather than this dim alley. The fabric shimmers faintly, the fine silk almost weightless, dancing with the slightest movement as though enchanted. Embroidered sigils trace the hem, symbols I do not recognize. His face is sharp, regal, with eyes as cold as the steel dagger he holds, curved and wicked in his pale hand. 

Beside him, the second figure is a stark contrast—broad-shouldered and imposing, clad in leather. Dark fur covers his body, and his face is that of a bear. His muzzle is scarred from past battles, but it’s the massive sword he raises that draws my attention. The blade gleams in his paws, well-worn and deadly, catching the faint light with a glint as sharp as his glare.

A rescuer would offer words. A savior would shout in warning.

These men do neither.

I can’t even breathe a sigh of relief at their appearance. What would be the point? Given the twisted game I now find myself in, they aren’t here to be heroes. They aren’t here to save me.

They’re simply more wolves in the dark.

Their eyes rake over me, and I can see the calculation there—not whether I should be saved, but whether I’m worth the effort. I am not a woman in need of help. I am a prize. A bargaining chip. A piece of meat thrown between starving beasts.

Terror coils through me, but I shove it down. I will not break. Not for Magnus. Not for these men. Not for whatever nightmare comes next.

“The Hunt has barely begun, my friend,” the first man says, his tone reasonable despite the steel in his hand. “Surely we can work this out like gentlemen.”

Magnus’s grip loosens enough to let me breathe, though he keeps me pinned against the wall—a casual display of power, showing how little he views my struggles as a threat.

“And what would you have me do? Negotiate for this bride?” Magnus’s laugh is like stones grinding together. “What would you offer me for her, pretty prince? Gold? Riches? Land?” His free hand moves to my face, thick fingers tracing my jaw with deliberate cruelty. “I prefer more… interesting rewards.”

The bear shifts his stance, boots scraping against the stone as he adjusts his grip on the massive sword. “Let her choose,” he growls, his accent thick.

“Allow a female to choose?” Magnus releases me to reach for the blade at his hip. The movement is casual, almost lazy, but there’s nothing easy about the way his fingers curl around the hilt. “The only choice that is to be made is that won through strength.”

“Please,” the well-dressed noble begins, taking a step forward, his dagger catching the dim light. “We can resolve this without—”

Magnus moves like lightning. The sword clears its sheath in a whisper of steel, and before I can blink, the prince’s head is spinning through the air. It hits the ground with a wet thud, rolls once, and comes to rest facing us. The expression of diplomatic reason is still frozen on his face, his last words dying unspoken as his body crumples.

My stomach twists violently. The taste of bile scorches my throat, but I choke it back. Showing weakness now would be the same as signing my own death warrant.

“Still want to negotiate?” Magnus’s voice drips with satisfaction as crimson spreads across the fine silk robes, staining the fabric a darker shade of red.

The remaining warrior’s answer is a roar that shakes dust from the wall beside me. He charges forward, massive blade sweeping up in an arc meant to cleave Magnus in two.

There is no diplomacy here. No rules. No safety.

Magnus shoves me aside.

The force of it knocks the breath from my lungs, and I hit the ground hard, watching in horror as the men fight. I scramble backward, hands slipping on the cold stone as the clash of steel on steel rings through the corridor like a death knell.

Their blades sing against each other with a violence that makes me flinch. 

Magnus’s laughter echoes off the stones as he presses his advantage, driving the northerner back step by step. “Come then! Show me what passes for strength in your fucking wasteland, son of the north!”

This isn’t some battlefield duel, bound by honor or rules. This is slaughter, unrestrained and merciless.

Breathe. Think. Survive.

Shadows move at the edges of my vision—other hunters, other predators. 

The fight is drawing them in like blood in the water, and I know—I know—that no matter who wins, I am not walking out of this unscathed.

I can’t afford to panic. I can’t afford to break.

I force my mind to sharpen, to focus. I will not be easy prey.

I don’t wait to see more, forcing myself to turn away, to run. Behind me, I hear the northerner cry out in pain, followed by Magnus’s roar of triumph. I don’t pause to look, my sandals slapping loudly on the cold stone.

“Run, little bride,” Magnus’s call chases me through the darkness. “I’ll enjoy the hunt!”

The corridors twist endlessly, each turn seemingly the same as the last. I run until my lungs burn, until the thin leather of my sandals wears thin, and my feet go numb from the cold stone and torn skin.

A strange phosphorescent moss grows in patches along the walls, casting enough light to keep me from running headlong into dead ends, but doing little to help me choose a path.

Right turn. Left. Another right. Or have I taken this path before? The walls seem to shift, making it impossible to be sure of anything except the need to keep moving.

A single drop of water hits my shoulder, cold enough to make me gasp. Another follows, then another, until rain pours down from the heavens. The flagstones grow treacherous, slick with water. Twice, I nearly fall, catching myself against the rough walls.

Lightning cracks overhead, briefly illuminating the maze in stark relief. In that flash, I glimpse openings in the walls I hadn’t noticed before. Caves or alcoves, potential hiding places. But which would be sanctuary and which would become a trap?

I stop, gasping for breath as I consider my options. I’ve always been taught to face crisis with calm and control. To grace every room with a polite smile, to keep my posture perfect and my voice soft. I was taught to sew intricate patterns onto fragile fabric, to bow at the precise angle that communicated respect without subservience, to say enough to be charming but never so much as to seem brash. Every moment of my childhood had been curated for obedience, for deference.

My father’s measured voice echoes in my head, “A good girl knows her place. A good girl endures silently.” I clench my fists, the rain dripping down my face like icy pinpricks. How can a “good girl” survive this?

The maze feels alive around me, pressing in with its jagged edges and oppressive silence between cracks of thunder. All those years of folding myself into the mold of perfection—what good are those lessons in this game of hunters and prey?

A scream builds in my chest, a thick, clawing, heaving thing made up of fury and fear. I swallow it down, just as I was taught, locking it behind my ribs where the ache threatens to consume me. I’ve always been told that silence is strength, that restraint is power. But here, with the storm crashing above and danger lurking in the shadows, my silence feels like a shackle tightening around my throat.

I grit my teeth and force myself forward, my bare feet slipping on the rain-slick stone. The cold bites into my skin, but I barely notice. My mind is focused on survival, a desperate pulse thrumming beneath my calm facade. I hear something—a scrape, a whisper of movement—and freeze. The air seems to thicken, my breath catching as my senses stretch outward, searching for the source of the sound.

Before I can take another step, a shadow shifts, and my heart seizes.

Magnus’s voice echoes through the corridors again, closer than I expect. “Come out, come out, little bride!”

The sound of steel meeting steel follows his words, sharp and jarring against the steady hum of rain.

I flinch, my instincts screaming at me to run, but my legs feel frozen, rooted to the damp ground. I strain to hear more, my breath hitching, but all I catch is the faint echo of a scream—a sound so raw and fleeting it seems to evaporate before it fully reaches me.

Another hunter has paid the price for crossing the monster’s path.

The silence that follows is suffocating. The tension presses down on me like a heavy hand, and for the first time, I question if this is fear or something darker, something primal.

Death.

Footsteps, slow and deliberate, break the stillness. They echo through the Labyrinth, impossible to pinpoint, sending a cold shiver skittering down my spine. The sound snaps me out of my freeze.

I stumble, falling into an ivy-covered wall. With a small squeak, I fall not into stone, but darkness. With a heavy thud, I land on smooth rock.

A cave of some kind yawns open before me, the ivy having hidden its secret.

I scramble to my feet, my heart hammering so loudly I’m certain it will betray my location. I shiver, the rain having drenched my clothing and plastered my hair to my neck. I force myself to breathe slowly, to listen past the sound of rain and thunder.

Heavy boots scrape against stone somewhere in the corridor. Not running—walking with deliberate, unhurried steps. Magnus is in no hurry. He’s hunting me like the prey I am.

I press myself against the wall of the cave, my breath coming in sharp, shallow gasps. Every instinct screams at me to hide, to disappear, but where? There’s nowhere to go.

I grip the wet fabric of my skirt, trembling so hard my teeth chatter. Be quiet, be small, don’t make him angry. The lessons drilled into me since childhood ring in my ears, a mantra I can’t escape. They’ve never failed me before, but now they feel like chains.

Tears blur my vision as the sound of his footsteps grows louder, closer. He’s going to find me. He always finds me. I bite down on my lip to keep from sobbing, the taste of iron blooming in my mouth.

Maybe if I beg… The thought creeps in unbidden, a last thread of hope wrapped in shame. My father’s voice whispers in my mind: “A good girl knows her place.”

The idea of surrendering to the monster who’d choked the air from my lungs sends a wave of nausea rolling through me. My stomach twists violently, but I force myself to swallow the bile rising in my throat.

He doesn’t want you dead. Not yet.

The thought brings no comfort—only dread, thick and suffocating. As a healer, I’ve often been called to the houses of men like him—bullies who crush those weaker than themselves under their feet. They savor the fear, the chase, the way a woman flinches at the sound of their voice.

I’ve tended to the women in houses that are no homes, knowing there’s no escape but praying to the Goddess of my world in hopes Grayah might deliver a miracle.

Magnus’s chuckle reaches me through the rain and ivy. “I do so enjoy this game we play.”

I shudder, knowing the rules of this particular game well: my terror is his triumph, my surrender his prize.

With no other choice, I edge deeper into the cave, feeling my way along the rough wall. The space widens as I go, the air growing warmer despite the damp stone. Perhaps there’s another exit, some passage that leads away from—

A hand clamps over my mouth.

No!