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another in quick succession.
    Mal could still see her head, but the path to follow was quickly lost to him. He had to double back when a dead end barred his way. He balled his fists, ready to punch solid rock. Had he wanted to, he could use his gift to disintegrate the walls into smoldering, charred heaps, but the Pet had reason to be there. Hauling her back to Tigony lands would be more difficult if he intentionally pissed her off—no matter her insane claims. Humoring her might be the better course until he was given no other option.
    Some excited noise, or the closest to it the Pet was likely capable of, drew his attention. She must’ve ducked low, because he could no longer see her.
    This damn maze .
    â€œOver here,” she called.
    Eventually he was able to follow the sound of her voice and meet her at yet another dead end. “Tell me you’ve given up.”
    â€œNo need. I found it.”
    From under a cover of rock and chalky dust, she pulled a slender quiver made of boiled leather. From the Dark Ages? Even older? A shiver worked up from the small of his back. The Pet pulled out an arrow. A flash of dying sunlight caught on what must’ve been gold. The dull, yellowed light glinted across her face in quick patterns. Her eyes were large and her mouth was tiny, but both features became more exaggerated as she examined the arrow. Eyes wider. Lips slack with apparent awe.
    Mal crouched beside her. She edged away—from what seemed to be habit, not enough to put real distance between them. “May I?”
    â€œYes.”
    He shot her a sideways glance. “So willingly?”
    â€œBecause there are four more. I’d get this one back if you forced me to it.”
    â€œNo more forcing for now.” He extended his hand, catching sight of the dried blood on the forearm of his dress shirt. It was dark brown in the gathering shadows. What had made him trust that she wouldn’t slice his wrist? What made him feel this affinity to be with her?
    Fate.
    The word was unwanted. It was heinous. Fate meant he had been intended to arrive at that moment, at that time, with this woman, despite every choice he’d ever made. That might’ve been a comfort when thinking of Bakkhos—that he hadn’t been responsible for his actions there—but it also meant that he’d been fated to act as judge, jury, and executioner without any say. Why force that responsibility on him? Or burden him with the title of Giva? Surely there were more violent criminals to do the dirty work and more stable, sensible men suited for leadership.
    He took the arrow. It was light . . . so very light. “Feathers hold more heft. How is this supposed to fire from a bow, let alone serve as a weapon?”
    â€œI already said. Magic.” For the first time, the Pet’s voice sounded almost teasing. “But you don’t believe in magic. Assume it’s useless and give it back.”
    Yet Mal was entranced. Twenty-four-karat gold was too soft for crafting jewelry because it was relatively malleable. He would’ve been surprised had the arrow been made of anything less valuable. The gold was deep and lustrous, its orange-bronze gleam too dull to be considered attractive.
    He held something unearthly. And this woman, this inexplicable woman, had known it would be among some forgotten ruins in Crete—the apparent ruins of a prison. Unbelievable, even when his senses couldn’t deny the arrow in his hands. Its strangeness. Its great age and fascinating sense of purpose.
    â€œOh,” she whispered. “Look.”
    Mal studied her profile first. The tip of her tiny nose turned up. Her upper lip was full at its apex. She had wide cheekbones and small ears. The upward sweep of haphazardly pinned hair revealed a graceful neck and a hint of delicate collarbones. She still wore the brass knuckles on her right hand. Softness and deadly skill. He was disturbed by his fascination,