Stone, everywhere. Cement, everywhere. Broken steel, everywhere. All of it covered in the dust of decades. As is so often the case, life had figured out a way to survive—vines of ivy wormed their way through the countless holes and crevices and cracks. The only reason she could actually see any of this—instead of the eternal darkness of most caverns—was due to the Godhead’s decision to reignite the fake sun that had once shone upon the Maze. That had been a monumental task, achieved only by the greatest of efforts, a task worthy of beings who had the hubris to call themselves Gods. How ironic that the actual power came from resurrected solar panels, fed by the real sun—the first deity humans had ever worshipped.

Still, she had mostly walked in shadows, the ruins of the Maze like a toppled forest of stone and steel, towering above her.

The Maze.

What a wonder of architecture and technology it had been. So many devices to deceive the eye. So many corners to turn, so many paths to the unknown. Much had changed, and much had not.

She came upon the final stretch of immense rubble that marked the entrance to the Glade. Great, moving walls had once stood here, now reduced to broken blocks of ruin. Just beyond it, a vast expanse of emptiness waited for her. She stopped in the darkest shadow she could find, in sight of the Glade, and looked for Mikhail. It didn’t take long to spot him because he was exactly in the spot she’d feared.

Kneeling, head lowered, hands clasped. Kneeling at the edge of what had once been known as the Box, for obvious reasons. Flat metal doors, even with the ground, could be slid open to reveal a large steel cube beneath the surface. It had once been a lift of sorts, but had frozen forever in place from rust and grime and warping of parts. The horizontal doors still functioned, albeit by manual labor, due to many repairs and a lot of grease. Those doors were—at least for the moment—closed. There were things in that Box that should not be . . . unleashed. There were secrets that should not be shared. Alexandra had hoped—and planned—on living the rest of her life without those doors ever being opened again. She would’ve been perfectly happy never seeing them again.

And yet here she was. Here, Mikhail was. Kneeling in reverence.

The fear she’d felt earlier struck her again, right in the heart, like a hammer on hot flesh.