Chapter 36: Ariadne

MAEVE

It starts like a whisper — just a murmur at the edges of my mind. But then it drags me under, like I'm being pulled by the ankles into someone else's life. Someone else's nightmare.

For a second, it's calm. 

Cozy, even. I'm standing in a little room by a fire, warmth wrapping around me like a thick blanket. There's a woman here, soft and smiling, her voice a low hum as she leans over a book. 

I feel… safe? 

My brain rejects it immediately — there's no version of safe that feels like this. But then I catch sight of Ariadne, maybe six years old, wide-eyed and unburdened, and it all clicks. 

This is her life. 

Her memory.

The realization slams into me, sharp and disorienting, but I can't stop it. The scene presses in, the details too vivid, too real. The fire crackles. There's the faint smell of bread. And just as I start to think I could almost like it here — there's a crash, a metallic echo that sends a bolt of terror straight through me.

The door slams open.

Figures, dark and menacing, spill into the room. 

Their faces are shadows with sharp, gleaming eyes. Fear crawls up my spine, cold and merciless, as the woman — the mother, I realize — snatches Ariadne by the arm, pulling her back. 

But they're everywhere, these monsters in human shapes, crowding in, cutting off any escape.

My lungs burn. I can't breathe. I can't — can't think. The panic is all-consuming, wrapping around me like chains, pulling tighter and tighter. I'm hyperventilating, each gasp hitting my chest like a punch, but it's like the air's turned to glass and I'm choking on shards.

Then there's another shift, a sickening lurch, and we're somewhere else. 

A cellar. 

Damp, cold, dark. Ariadne's family is huddled together, faces taut, eyes darting to every sound. Her father holds her hand, the mother wraps an arm around the little boy at her side, and Ariadne's small body shivers, almost vibrating with fear.

And again, the scene jumps, like flipping pages too fast, and now it's an attic, then a hollow under a tree, then another cellar. Each hiding place crumbling under the relentless pursuit of these shadows. They find them, every time. And I don't know what's worse: the fear of being hunted or the terrible, numbing certainty that there's no way out.

And I'm sure that took at least a few years, because in every scene Ariadne and her brother are a little older, taller, but also slimmer.

In one of these flashes, I see her — one of the figures, cloaked in shadow. But her figure tugs at something buried deep in my memory. A prickle of recognition. A horrible familiarity that makes bile rise in my throat. It's like looking into the eyes of a monster I thought I'd escaped.

And then it happens.

We're in some desolated dark forest. I hear screams — Ariadne's mother's, sharp and full of a rage so raw it could tear through the walls. 

But it's futile, all of it. Shadow figures are sipping her power out of her, killing her in the process. The father tries to do something, anything, but he falls first. 

Silent and sudden, his throat slit open, and I can feel the ground slipping beneath me. A bottomless pit opening up as Ariadne, tiny and helpless, watches it all unravel. 

Her brother cries, and in one horrible instant, he is dead too. And then Ariadne breaks, unleashing a scream so full of fury and despair that it pierces everything, ripping through me.

And before I know it, I'm screaming too.

The sound bursts out of me, a raw, guttural wail that doesn't feel like it's just mine. 

It's our voices together, a cacophony of grief and terror that binds us, blurs the lines between her pain and mine. 

I can feel her loss, her terror, so visceral and sharp it's like I'm the one losing everything, like I'm the one being torn apart.

Somewhere in the darkness, I can feel the connection deepen, pulling tighter, fusing her agony with mine. I'm not just seeing her memories — I'm drowning in them, sinking into her nightmares until I don't know where her trauma ends and mine begins.

And then, finally, the scream dies, leaving a silence so thick it chokes me.

I come to consciousness slowly, my mind drifting up from the darkness, like swimming through thick, suffocating mud. 

My eyelids feel like they're weighed down with lead, and it takes all the strength I have just to force them open. 

The room around me is… well, it's a disaster. 

Broken furniture, dust still settling, papers fluttering down from the air as if they were caught in the tail end of a storm. 

My storm.

It's Ronan who reaches me first. His hands are gentle yet firm as he cups my cheek, his eyes searching mine with a raw intensity that's almost too much to bear. The worry etched into his face is unmistakable, every line a silent question he doesn't dare voice. 

For a moment, his thumb brushes against my skin, a touch so fleeting it almost feels imagined, but it steadies me more than I'd like to admit.

Then Siobhan rushes in, and Ronan steps back, giving her room, though I can feel his lingering presence, not taking his eyes out of me.

My sister's eyes are wide, her mouth set in a grim line as she drops to her knees by my side. The calm, collected expression she usually wears is gone, replaced with something raw and urgent, like she's been stripped down to her most human parts. Her hand hovers by my shoulder, almost touching but not quite, as if she's afraid I'll break under her fingertips.

"Maeve…" she says softly, her voice frayed around the edges.

Ronan's close behind, and even through the haze clouding my mind, I can feel his presence — a solid, grounding weight that settles beside me, his body tense and ready, his eyes blazing with that fierce protectiveness he can't seem to shake. 

He doesn't say anything, just watches me with an intensity that borders on desperation. As though his silence alone could stand guard over me. Shield me from whatever horrors I just unleashed.

I manage a nod, as much to reassure them as to convince myself I'm still intact. 

But the truth is, I'm rattled, barely holding onto the thin edge of reality. The echoes of my own scream buzz faintly in my ears, mingling with a strange, pulsing ache that hums under my skin, like something alive is clawing just beneath the surface.

Every inch of me is trembling, my bones vibrating with the remnants of Ariadne's memories — the frantic flight, the relentless pursuit, that sinking certainty that no matter where they hid, the witches would always find them. 

I can still feel her terror lodged in my chest, seeping into my bones. Her fear, her pain — they've fused with mine so completely. 

It's terrifying, being this raw, this open, with someone else's suffering woven into my soul.

It takes everything in me to breathe, to steady myself with a shaky inhale and an even shakier exhale. The weight of it all — her memories, my memories — throbs in the back of my mind, raw and unsettling. 

But even as I try to ground myself, there's a nagging feeling, a prickling doubt, that refuses to leave me alone.

What if this whole thing was orchestrated?

 A finely tuned performance to pry open my defenses, to lure me into her pain and make me trust her? I can't shake the idea, dark and insidious, that maybe she's playing me, feeding me carefully selected scenes to pull at my sympathy, to twist my mind and burrow into my head.

Could she be lying? I bite down on my lip hard enough to draw blood, needing the sting to cut through the haze. 

The memories felt real — too real, every last detail branded into my brain like a scar. 

But that's what makes it worse. If Ariadne wanted to manipulate me, she wouldn't have to fabricate a single thing. She'd just have to show me the right pieces, make me feel them, make me care.

I push myself up, fingers digging into the bed as if holding onto something solid could root me back in reality. But the doubts creep in, worming through my thoughts, relentless.

I turn to look at Ariadne, my gaze sharpening as I study her face, looking for any sign of deceit. But she's watching me too, and there's something in her expression — a softness, maybe, or a kind of sadness that catches me off guard.

She seems to read the question in my eyes, the suspicion practically radiating off of me, and lets out a long, slow breath before she speaks. 

"Maeve," she says, her voice measured, steady, like she's been expecting this. "I know you doubt me. I would, too, if I were you. But the visions, they... they can't be influenced. What you saw — that is what happened. The Banshee Powers don't let us see what somebody wants us to see. Only what was."

Her words hang in the air between us, heavy with something I can't quite name. There's a sincerity in her tone that feels… solid. Like she's extending a hand in the dark, but I'm not sure I want to take it. I want to believe her, to let the tension seep out of my bones, but trust doesn't come easily. 

Not anymore.

But she just watches me, no pressure, just waiting, as if she understands the choice isn't hers to make. 

"I wanted you to know," she says finally, "because the past holds things that are… relevant to you, too. Things you may need to see."

Her words spark something in me, a flicker of curiosity tangled up with dread. 

What else could be hidden in these visions, locked in the darkness of someone else's past? 

I can feel my defenses lifting, my guard locking back into place, but there's something else, too.

 A flicker, a shadow of a memory from one of my own visions — the image of a battle I shouldn't remember. 

The burn of fury and fear that didn't belong to me. 

And she. 

Now I know that the girl I saw in the middle of that battle wasn't me. It was her. Ariadne. 

I shake my head, forcing myself back to the present, but the question lingers.

"What about… my own visions?" I mutter, half to myself, frustration leaking into my tone. "I can't even tell if they're memories or… or hallucinations." I hesitate, reluctant to admit just how disorienting they've been. "I saw us in a battle. All of us, including you. But that hasn't happened. Not yet. So what does that mean?"

Ariadne's gaze sharpens, a flicker of interest in her eyes that makes me wonder if she knows more than she's letting on. 

But she doesn't press me; she just nods, thoughtful, as if to say that, for now, this question — like so many others — will have to wait.

I hate the idea of more pain, more terror, more of this suffocating vulnerability — but there's a pull, a question gnawing at me. Could these memories show me something about myself? About my own power? About… whatever it is inside me that has everyone around me walking on eggshells?

The thought terrifies me as much as it intrigues me.

I swallow, feeling the scratch of unease in my throat.

 "Fine," I say, a little too brusque, like I'm trying to shake off the intensity building in my chest. "My brother trusts you, otherwise he would not sent you here to help us. I don't know why you agreed. But just to be clear — if I start seeing things that don't make sense, if I get one hint of manipulation, this is over."

Ariadne nods, unruffled. "I'd expect nothing less from you, Maeve."

I can't shake the feeling that whatever answers I get won't make things easier. 

Just… harder to ignore.