Labyrinth Book One ✔

Chapter 1

Balaeter is a short drive along the coastal road. The young mother ruffles her son’s hair affectionately. “You found this letter for a reason, so now we must deliver it,” she expresses dutifully.

~*~*~*~

Fifty Years Earlier ...

“Maria! Carina! Don’t wander too far ahead,” Papa calls out to us.

I race my sister along the beach, our bare feet beating against the ground and our long, dark, curly hair flowing behind us as we run. The muscles in my legs burn as I run across the coarse shale. The dark volcanic grains retain heat from the blistering sun, making it feel like I’m running on hot coals.

Almeria rarely sees much rainfall within the year. Our small fishing village sits on the province’s outskirts, overshadowed by steep mountains and an active volcano. Desert terrain stretches for miles, and our natural water supply comes from deep wells containing spring water. Our rivers ran dry many years ago, and we had to stockpile our resources to nourish the crops. Balaeter is all I had ever known. I am a fisherman’s daughter, destined to become a fisherman’s wife.

“I won!” Maria exclaims, raising both her arms in triumph.

The Mediterranean breeze is warm, caressing my clammy skin with dry heat. I finish four steps behind her, slumping forward to clutch my abdomen and catch my breath.

“That’s not fair. Your legs are longer than mine,” I complain.

Her brown eyes sparkle with delight. “That’s because I’m the eldest,” she choruses jovially.

As sisters, we compete frequently. We play games and quarrel, but most importantly, we love one another.

We are similar in looks and deemed beautiful by many. Despite Maria being a few inches taller, we share similar features to our Mama: Caramel skin, high cheekbones, and soft womanly curves.

I am much like my Papa, sharing the same personality traits. He often takes me fishing with him on his boat. I was an enthusiastic child who was always keen to learn. He says I am as sharp as a whip because I am resilient, resourceful, and can keep a clear head during a crisis, which are all good advantages when out on a fishing boat, braving the unforgiving sea.

“You could have let me win, considering today is my birthday,” I grumble like a sore loser.

Maria rolls her eyes with amusement. “I can’t just let you win,” she emphasises the word “let.” “How would that inspire improvement?” she questions me.

She is right. I may be the youngest, but that doesn’t mean she can baby me forever. I must beat her fair and square.

“Come on,” she murmurs, gently nudging my arm. “Let’s collect some shells.”

Our weekly trips to the beach often result in us collecting shells. We would gather them in the skirts of our cotton dresses and walk the short distance home. Afterward, Maria and I would wash them thoroughly, sit by the fire, and craft them into necklaces. It’s a skill that we learned from our mother. Then, every Thursday, we would take our creations to the market, selling them as souvenirs and trinkets.

I spot a Calilla that is perfectly intact. I hurry over to where it is protruding from the shale and crouch to retrieve it. The warm tide laps lazily at my feet, soaking the hem of my dress.