Crowned by Fate Chapter 155

Adrian’s POV

The moment Skye's fingers touched the butterfly mural, I knew something was wrong.

"Skye, no—"

The ground beneath her feet simply ceased to exist. One second she was standing there, and the next she was falling through a perfectly circular hole that had materialized out of nowhere.

I lunged forward, my hand barely missing the fabric of her shirt as she disappeared into the darkness below.

The hole sealed itself instantly, leaving nothing but solid earth where she had stood moments before.

"SKYE!"

I slammed my fists against the butterfly mural, searching for any mechanism that might reopen the passage. The stone remained cold and unyielding beneath my desperate strikes.

"Open up, damn you!"

I shifted partially, my claws extending as I tore at the ground where she'd vanished. Dirt and debris flew in all directions as I dug frantically, but there was nothing, just more packed earth and stone. No sign that a hole had ever existed.

I forced myself to stop, chest heaving as I fought for control. Panic wouldn't help Skye. I closed my eyes and tried to mind-link her..

“Skye? Can you hear me?”

For several agonizing moments, there was only silence. Then, faint as a whisper on the wind, I felt her presence brush against my consciousness. The link was weak, barely there, but it was enough.

She was alive.

“Adrian...”

Her voice faded before she could finish, the connection too tenuous to maintain. I tried again, pouring all my energy into strengthening our bond, but it was like trying to grasp smoke. Whatever had taken her was interfering with our mind-link.

I stared at the mural one last time, memorizing every detail of the painted butterflies. Their wings seemed to mock me with their stillness.

Skye wasn't someone who acted recklessly. She was careful, calculating. But something about this mural had drawn her in, compelled her to touch it despite my warning.

Magic, my wolf growled. Old magic.

There was no point staying here. I had to keep moving forward and trust that our paths would cross again.

The corridor ahead curved sharply, and as I rounded the corner, I stopped short.

A house stood directly in the middle of the path, its weathered wooden walls completely blocking the way forward. Not built into the maze walls, but sitting there as if someone had simply dropped a building in the center of the passage.

My breath caught in my throat.

I knew this house.

The salt-stained shingles, the crooked shutters painted maritime blue, the brass ship's bell hanging beside the door. Every detail was exactly as I remembered.

This was the fishing cabin where my father and I would stay before our diving expeditions off the Oregon coast.

But that was impossible. We were in a maze somewhere in the middle of the country, nowhere near the ocean.

And my father...my father had been dead for four and a half years.

I approached slowly, half expecting the house to vanish like a mirage.

The wooden porch creaked under my weight, the sound so familiar it made my chest tight. How many times had I bounded up these steps as a boy, eager to help my father prepare the diving equipment?

I examined the door carefully, running my hands along the frame to check for traps or triggers. I thought the maze would only show people their nightmares. I wouldn't be caught off guard. But there was nothing. Just an ordinary door with peeling paint and a brass handle worn smooth by years of use.

Taking a deep breath, I pushed it open.

The scent hit me first. Salt air and old wood, mixed with the lingering aroma of my father's coffee. My eyes burned with unexpected tears as I stepped inside.

Everything was exactly as it had been. The main room with its stone fireplace and mismatched furniture. The kitchen table where we'd spread out nautical charts, planning our dives. The bookshelf crammed with field guides to Pacific marine life. Even his lucky compass sat on the mantle, its brass surface gleaming in the afternoon light streaming through the windows.

I moved deeper into the room, my fingers trailing over familiar objects. Here was the framed photo of my first successful deep dive. I couldn't have been more than twelve, grinning beside my father with a small octopus in my hands.

There was the piece of coral we'd found at forty meters, its branching structure still vibrant orange despite the years.

On the coffee table sat his dive log, open to a half-completed entry. I recognized his careful handwriting:

Current conditions favorable. Adrian shows remarkable improvement in breath control. Reached 80 meters unassisted today. So proud of my son...

The entry ended mid-sentence, dated two weeks before my father died.

I sank onto the worn couch, the notebook trembling in my hands. This was from our last trip together, before everything fell apart.

"Why are you showing me this?" I whispered to the empty room.

I thought the maze would only show people their nightmares. But this wasn't a nightmare. It was a perfect memory, preserved like an insect in amber.

Perhaps that made it worse.

I set the notebook down carefully and made my way to the small kitchen. More memories ambushed me with every step. The dent in the cabinet where I'd accidentally kicked it during a growth spurt. The mismatched mugs we'd collected from various coastal towns. The ancient radio that only picked up three stations, all of them weather reports.

And there, on the stove, a pot simmered on low heat.

The smell of my father's fish stew filled the air. Halibut and salmon with potatoes and herbs from my mother's garden. He'd make a huge batch before each diving trip, claiming it gave us strength for the cold Pacific waters. I lifted the lid, and steam rose in a familiar cloud.

It looked fresh, as if he'd just stepped out to check the boat.

My rational mind knew this was impossible. My father was dead, killed while protecting our pack. This house, this stew, these perfectly preserved memories were all just another maze illusion, designed to break me.

But knowing that didn't stop the words from escaping my lips.

"Dad!"

The name echoed through the empty cabin, full of the deep longing I'd carried for over four years. For a moment, I let myself imagine he might answer, might walk through that door with his easy smile and sun-weathered face, might tell me we were going to challenge a hundred-meter dive this time.

That's when I heard it. The sound of the front door opening.

I spun around, my heart hammering against my ribs. Heavy footsteps crossed the threshold, accompanied by lighter ones. Two people.

As I moved back toward the main room, I saw them.

Maxwell stood in the doorway, his arm wrapped possessively around my mother's waist. She wore a summer dress I remembered, her hair longer than when I'd last seen her. They were both smiling, looking at each other with an intimacy that made my stomach turn.