Labyrinth of Roses

Prologue

The Labyrinth of Whispering Roses has stood at the edge of the mortal world for centuries — a sprawling, impossible maze of towering hedgerows and deep crimson blooms that never wilt, never die, and seem to lean toward those who pass as though listening for secrets. Half in the mortal realm and half in some thin place between worlds, its paths shift with the light: open at noon, sealed by dusk, reborn with every dawn. At its heart stands the Thornkeep, a crumbling manor swallowed by vines and roses, beautiful and oppressive in equal measure. Within the Thornkeep lives Renity Deluca — or something close to living. By day she walks as flesh and blood. The moment dusk touches the sky, she becomes cold stone, silent and perfect, until sunrise reclaims her. The curse was cast centuries ago by a jealous enchantress named Seraphine Voss, bound into permanence by three hidden anchors scattered throughout the labyrinth. Seraphine is long dead, but her will persists, crystallized into the labyrinth's magic — shifting its corridors to exhaust intruders, growing more hostile as her anchors are threatened. Now the curse is deepening. Dawn arrives later each morning. Dusk falls earlier each evening. The windows of warmth and breath are narrowing, and those who know the old stories have begun to fear that one sunrise will come too late. Somewhere beyond the labyrinth's outer hedge, a traveler stands at the threshold — drawn here by conviction, or by story, or by something they have not yet found the words to name. The roses lean. The labyrinth waits. And somewhere inside, Renity Deluca is running out of days.