Trouble in Paradise

Chapter 2 Threads that should not exist.

Twenty-two years later, Astrad celebrated.

Just not for him.

Music spilled through the palace halls with laughter, wine, the bright clash of celebration. Queen Aria’s grand ball had already begun, honoring her trueborn sons beneath chandeliers of gold and flame.

But in the eastern wing, far from the noise, silence.

Pyrrhos stood alone. No attendants. No ceremony. Only the quiet weight of inevitability.

Before him lay the ritual garments: white from collar to hem, untouched, unmarked. The color of purity. Of beginnings. Of lies.

He dressed himself without hesitation.

The fabric settled against his skin like a second truth—one that did not belong to him. Against the white, his features sharpened into something almost unreal: silver hair falling loose down his back, pale skin untouched by warmth, and eyes— gold. Burning, unmistakable monstrous.

He did not need a mirror to know what he looked like. He had seen it reflected in the way people avoided his gaze.

In the way his brothers spoke around him, never to him.

In the way Queen Aria’s smile always died when he entered a room.

He fastened the last clasp at his wrist. Today would be no different. If anything it would be worse.

Pyrrhos had survived two attempts on his life.

The first had been subtle. Poison slipped into his training cup, diluted just enough to weaken, not kill. He had noticed the taste.

The second had not bothered with subtlety. Steel in the dark. A blade aimed for his throat.

He had broken the man’s arm before the strike could land. No one had spoken of it afterward. No one ever did.

Today, he expected the third. The Labyrinth was the perfect place for it.

Officially, the ritual was sacred.

A rite of passage for every noble child in Riverdale. At a certain age, they would enter the Labyrinth and emerge marked or tested, proven, transformed into something closer to adulthood.

That was what they told the people. What they did not say was that the Labyrinth was not built to test. It was built to reveal. To identify. To watch. To harvest.

Those who displayed unusual gifts did not simply leave the Labyrinth changed. They left noticed. And in Riverdale, to be noticed by the wrong eyes was more dangerous than failure.

Pyrrhos exhaled slowly. If they were watching today, let them watch.

The gates of the Labyrinth loomed before him by midday.

Ancient. Vast. Carved from stone that seemed to drink the light around it. The air here was different—thicker, older, as though time itself moved more carefully within its reach.

Other initiates had gathered at a distance. Seven from Astrad’s noble houses. Observers from other cities lingered beyond the threshold—silent, watchful.

Among them, a girl stood apart. Still. Unmoved by the murmurs around her. Pyrrhos barely spared her a glance. Not yet.

He stepped forward alone. As he always had been. The moment he crossed the threshold—

The Labyrinth reacted.

The corridor pulsed.

A low, resonant sound echoed through the stone, like something deep beneath the structure drawing breath for the first time in centuries.

Heat flared across his skin. Not surface. Deeper.

A mark pressed itself into him not like before, not like the faint brands others bore. This was different. Ancient. Hungry.

Somewhere behind him, a voice whispered in fear but Pyrrhos did not turn. The world shifted.

The Labyrinth did not begin with walls. It began with memory.

He stood in a place he had never seen and yet, knew. A chamber lit in gold and shadow.

A woman stood at its center. Radiant. Alive.

Princess Aurora.

She was laughing. Softly. Freely. And she was not alone. A man stood beside her.

No—

Not a man. Something greater. His presence bent the air itself, his gaze endless, his power quiet but absolute.

Astraios.

A very powerful and the most dangerous demon god.

Pyrrhos did not breathe. He watched as they spoke. As they touched. As something forbidden unfolded between them not in secrecy, but in certainty. This was not accident. This was choice.

The vision shifted.

Aurora, months later. Her hand resting over the curve of her stomach. Life. Him.

Then—

Another scene. Cold.

King Thoa stood before Astraios, his posture rigid, his voice controlled as he spoke words that echoed like chains locking into place.

A bargain. Power, victory and prosperity. In exchange for marriage and the child. To protect Princess Aurora's reputation. No dale must know of her intimate relationship with a demon god. Talk less of bearing his child.

Pyrrhos felt it then. Not understanding. Not confusion.

Recognition.

The vision shattered and he fell. Stone met his knees hard, the impact echoing through his body but it was nothing compared to the weight pressing against his mind. Pieces. Fragments. Connecting.

He wasn’t adopted. He wasn’t simply different. He was a demigod. While others were wounded, he healed instantly. While his brothers felt pain at training ground, and he felt nothing.

The word settled into him like something that had always been there, waiting to be named. Everything made sense.

The hatred.

The distance.

The silence.

King Thoa had never been his father. Only his keeper.

A breath left him, unsteady. His siblings fear him. All but one. Annalise. Even that he no longer trusted.

Slowly, Pyrrhos rose. The Labyrinth was quiet now. Still. As though it had given him what it intended to give. No threads appeared. No golden light. No sign of a bond. Of course not.

The idea of a fated mate had long since faded into myth, something whispered in old stories, dismissed by kingdoms like Davion, forgotten by most.

Not every soul was bound. Some simply existed alone.

Pyrrhos exhaled. That, at least, made sense. Then—

The Labyrinth broke. Light erupted. Not soft. Not distant. Violent. Golden threads tore through the air like something alive, weaving, twisting, searching and stopping. On him.

Pyrrhos stilled. This had never happened. Not in any recorded ritual. Not in any known history.

Then someone stepped forward. She was not supposed to be there. That much was immediately clear.

She stood within the Labyrinth as though it were nothing more than a room—untouched, unshaken, her posture steady, her gaze sharp with something far more dangerous than fear.

Understanding.

The Labyrinth did not bend her. It did not break her. It did not even seem to reach her. For the first time since entering, Pyrrhos felt something unfamiliar.

The threads tightened between them. Bright. Unrelenting.

Impossible.

And for the first time in centuries the Labyrinth had not simply revealed a bond. It had forced one into existence.

Pyrrhos did not move.

The golden threads still lingered in the air between them, faint now, but undeniable, like the afterimage of lightning burned into sight.

He stared at her. At the stranger who should not exist inside the Labyrinth.

She was beautiful.

Striking in a way that was clean, almost precise—blue eyes sharp as starlight, hair like spun gold catching what little light remained in the shifting walls.

But none of it reached him. No warmth. No pull. Only tension.

“Who the hell are you?” he asked, his voice low, edged with something dangerous.

The woman didn’t flinch. If anything, she seemed… amused.

“I’m sorry, Your Highness,” she said, inclining her head slightly, though there was nothing submissive in the gesture. “I am Princess Talia of Davion. I am traveling with my entourage and we’re on our way to Eclipsa for the Red Moon ceremony.”

Her gaze flicked briefly to the fading threads, then back to him.

“My city doesn’t indulge in… this,” she added lightly. “I was curious. I wanted to see what your ritual looked like.”

Pyrrhos let out a short, humorless breath.

“Curious?” he repeated. His jaw tightened. “Now look what your curiosity has cost me.”

The last of the golden threads pulsed faintly, as if in agreement.

“We are now linked by fate.”

There was a pause. A heartbeat. Then—

Talia laughed. Not nervously. Not uncertainly. Freely. As though he had said something genuinely entertaining.

“You really believe fated mates exist?” she said, her eyes gleaming with disbelief. “I thought that was just one of Riverdale’s prettier lies.”

Something cold settled in Pyrrhos’s chest. Not anger. Something sharper.

“Pray it isn’t what it looks like,” he said quietly.

Then he turned and walked away. The Labyrinth did not stop him. It did not call him back. It simply watched.

By the time Pyrrhos emerged, the world had already begun to shift again.

Observers whispered. Nobles watched too closely. Something had happened inside but they had no idea what. They could feel it even if they did not yet understand it, but Pyrrhos did not stay. He returned to the palace without a word.

His chambers were silent when he entered. Familiar. Controlled. Empty.

Steam still clung faintly to his skin as he stepped away from the bath, a towel secured low around his waist. Water traced slow paths down his chest, disappearing into the fabric.

For a moment, he stood there alone, or so it seemed. Then a presence. He didn’t turn immediately. Didn’t reach for a weapon. He already knew.

Soft hands slid over his chest from behind. Warm and possessive. Pyrrhos exhaled slowly.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he murmured.

Annalise’s lips brushed lightly against his shoulder, her breath warm against his skin. She had to tip toe reach for his shoulders. And mind you, Annalise is a tall beautiful Princess.

“And miss you?” she whispered. “Never.”

He turned fast. Gripping her waist, lifting her effortlessly as though she weighed nothing. She let out a soft laugh that melted into a breath as their lips met.

It wasn’t gentle. It never was. What followed was not love. Not tenderness. It was hunger.

Familiar. Secret unspoken. Time blurred. Moans of great pleasure and s*x.

Later silence returned. They lay tangled in the sheets, bodies both naked, the air heavy with warmth and something quieter beneath it.

Annalise rested against him, her fingers tracing idle patterns across his chest, as though memorizing something she refused to lose.

“So,” she murmured, her voice soft with satisfaction, “how was your initiation ceremony?”

“Good.”

The answer came too quickly. Too easily.

He did not look at her. The golden threads flickered faintly in his mind. Her laughter.

You really believe fated mates exist?

Annalise shifted slightly, propping herself up just enough to study his face.

“The Red Moon ceremony is in two days,” she said. “Eclipsa is hosting this year. Father says our convoy leaves in two hours.”

Her lips curved faintly. “And yet… here we are.”

Her gaze softened, but something in it remained sharp. Possessive.

Hidden.

“The gods forgive me,” she added quietly, almost playfully, “for having an affair with my six-year-younger brother.”

Pyrrhos said nothing. The word echoed differently now.

Brother.

It meant nothing. Not anymore. The truth sat heavy beneath his silence.

He was not Thoa’s son. Not of this blood. Not of this line.

Annalise’s touch lingered, waiting. Expecting something. But Pyrrhos only stared at the ceiling, his mind far from the room, far from her. Back in the Labyrinth. Back to the threads. Back to the girl who had laughed at fate and still stood at the center of it.

“We will meet again, some other time,” he said at last.

Annalise smiled, satisfied with the answer she chose to hear. She settled back against him, unaware that something had already shifted. Something neither of them could pull back. And far beyond the palace walls, the threads of the Labyrinth, once quiet for centuries had begun to move again.