The First Glader

3

Morning.

Light seeped into the Maze, slow and pale. She pushed herself upright, legs trembling uncontrollably. Her body felt torn apart from the inside—bruised, cut, exhausted beyond anything she'd ever imagined.

But she ran one last time.

She burst through the opening as the Doors widened, the cold stone giving way to grass beneath her feet. Sunlight hit her face. She stumbled into the field and dropped to her knees, hands sinking into the earth.

Her breath came in short, broken sobs. She pressed her forehead to the ground, feeling its warmth.

Alive.

Somehow—against every law the Maze had written in its walls—she was alive.

She dragged herself upright slowly, looking back at the towering slabs of stone that had nearly become her grave. The Maze stood silent, indifferent, as though it hadn't hunted her all night.

Ada wiped her face with shaking hands.

"You won't take me," she whispered hoarsely. "Not now. Not ever."

But her voice trembled.

Because she knew the truth—
The Maze had seen her.
The Maze had marked her.

And it wasn't done.

Not by a long shot.

Ada didn't remember standing up.

One moment she was on her knees in the grass, hands sunk into the earth as if it were the only solid thing left in the world. The next, she was pushing herself upright, swaying on legs that felt like they belonged to someone else. Every inch of her body throbbed. Her lungs burned. Her throat rasped as she sucked in shaky breaths through parted lips.

But the pain in her left arm was sharp enough to cut through all of it.

She looked down.

Blood ran in thick, dark rivulets from a long, vicious slice across her bicep, curving downward toward her forearm where it tapered into a jagged trail. The flesh around it was torn, the edges raw where the metal limb had raked across her. It wasn't a clean cut — it was a wound meant for tearing, for dragging prey back.

Her stomach flipped.

The creature had marked her.
Not metaphorically — literally.

Ada cradled her arm and forced herself away from the Maze. Every step felt unsteady. The sun was already warming the field, but she shook so violently she could barely walk in a straight line. She made her way toward the lake, the cool shimmer of water promising something — cleansing, relief, anything other than the Maze's cold breath on her neck.

When she reached the water's edge, she sank down slowly, biting hard on the inside of her cheek as she lowered her bleeding arm into the lake.

The cold hit like a shock.

Pain flared up her arm, so fiercely she gasped and doubled over, forehead nearly touching the water. Her vision spotted with white. She had to force herself not to pull away, not to cradle the wound and hide from the pain.

She held her arm in the water until the sting dulled into numbness.

Blood poured from the wound, swirling into the lake in thin red ribbons, dissolving into the clear water like smoke. When the flow finally slowed, she pulled her arm out and stared at the damage.

It was bad.
Really bad.

Her hands trembled as she reached into her supplies. She tore a strip from the least filthy shirt she had, wrapping the wound as tightly as she could manage with one hand. Her breath hitched as the bandage pressed down, pain cutting through her like a blade each time she pulled the fabric taut.