The entrance to the labyrinth was silent.
Old vines draped over its stone arches, faintly pulsing with residual essence. Time had turned this place from a rite of passage into a relic—a formality that newer clan members could ignore if they chose. But Deya stood there anyway, hand resting on the handle of her dagger, her breath steady despite the weight in her chest.
She no longer wore the name Solaris.
For years, that name had been a shield—a fabricated identity to distance herself from the shame of her clan's dark legacy. Poisoners. Manipulators. Backroom deal-makers. The kind of people who controlled through whispers and paralysis instead of strength. Even now, despite the clan's quiet reformation and their support for the Breakers, the name Floren didn't carry admiration. Just wariness. Just caution.
But she was done running.
She stepped forward, the entrance sealing behind her with a faint hiss. The air thickened immediately—oppressive, heavy with traces of essence and old toxins.
Every Floren who entered this place once used it to prove their growth—to tame the wild, essence-reactive fauna, or to survive its disorienting chambers. But Deya wasn't here to fight the labyrinth. She was here to embrace it.
With a slow breath, she activated her unique poison domain—not for attack, but concealment. Her essence signature dropped so low it became unreadable. Her own toxins, long since adapted to her biology, released into the air around her. The scent wasn't detectable in the traditional sense—it struck the brain like a skipped heartbeat, like déjà vu. Untraceable. Indescribable. Unnatural.
She vanished between steps.
Hallucinations began almost instantly. The labyrinth, feeding on her memories, twisted them into projections.
Her father's voice echoed from somewhere deep inside.
"Get up. If you can't survive this, you'll never lead. Don't embarrass me."
Her hands trembled. A vision of him standing above her—a training staff in one hand, his other curled in a fist—manifested in the hallway.
Deya tightened her grip on the dagger.
"I'm not your weapon anymore," she whispered. "I'm mine."
The vision didn't respond. It just attacked.
She ducked, slid under the illusion's strike, and countered with a flick of her dagger—not aiming for the heart, but for control. For silence. Her poison pulsed through the blade, leaving no visible wound, only paralysis. The illusion faded. The poison accepted her.
Deeper she went.
Her mother's face came next, cold and distant.
"You left. You took the easy way out. And now you think you're strong enough to come back?"
Deya didn't answer. She walked past the image. Her silence spoke louder.
The final chamber opened on its own, the stone doors grinding with slow, ancient effort. At its center, nothing waited—no enemy, no trial.
Just a single vine-covered mirror.
Deya approached and looked at her reflection. Not Solaris, not the girl who ran away from her name.
Just Deya Floren. Poison-blooded. Hidden. Alive.
She whispered to her reflection, "You're not who they feared. You're who they never saw coming."
And with that, she turned and walked back through the labyrinth.
Not unseen. Untraceable.
Not silent. Whispered through poison.
Not ashamed. Chosen.
Deya Floren had arrived.