"Did you just—" I stare at Grim in shock. "Did you just make them your minions?"
"GREE!" He cheers with manic enthusiasm, spinning his scythe in a victory dance that suggests this is exactly what he did, and he's enormously proud of it.
I can't help it—I laugh.
The sound is slightly hysterical, probably inappropriate given our situation, but the sight of three powerful men reduced to pocket size and floating like very upset supernatural butterflies breaks something in my chest that's been wound too tight.
"This is undignified," Mortimer states, his voice pitched higher but maintaining scholarly composure despite being small enough to fit in a teacup.
"This is ridiculous," Cassius corrects, his shadows now thread-thin but still writhing with indignation.
"This is actually kind of convenient," Atticus observes, testing his miniaturized movement by doing a small loop in the air. "We can accompany you now."
He's right.
If they're Grim's 'minions,' they exist partly in his dimension—the space between life and death where different rules apply. They should be able to enter trial spaces that would normally reject them.
I push myself to standing, having to move slowly as the room still wants to spin. Exhaustion pulls at every muscle, the vision having drained something essential that food and rest won't easily replenish.
"Are you okay?" Three tiny voices chorus in concern.
"I'll have to be," I respond, already moving toward the door. "We're out of time. Zeke needs us."
The labyrinth greets us with immediate hostility.
Whatever patience or neutrality it maintained before is gone. The dimensional space is actively malevolent now, trying to prevent us from reaching our destination.
Books attack like vengeful spirits, their pages sharp enough to leave cuts that burn with magical infection. Rooms shift and merge without warning, trying to trap us in paradoxes where entrance and exit occupy the same space. Furniture animates with murderous intent—chairs trying to entangle legs, desks attempting to crush, even innocent-looking lamps swinging like clubs.
But I'm not alone this time.
Atticus positions himself on my right shoulder, and despite being miniaturized, his blood magic remains potent. Crimson threads no thicker than spider silk shoot out to intercept incoming threats, wrapping around books and furniture to redirect their trajectories away from my path.
"Left!" he calls, his tiny voice still carrying vampire authority.
I dodge left, a massive bookshelf crashing through the space I'd occupied milliseconds before.
Cassius takes position on my left shoulder, his miniature shadows spreading out like an early warning system. They might be smaller, but they're no less effective—darkness is darkness regardless of scale.
"Door ahead is false," he warns. "Real path is through the painting."
I adjust course, diving through what looks like solid canvas but proves to be another dimensional fold.
Mortimer hovers directly above my head, tiny dragon fire erupting from his hands to incinerate threats that get too close. The flames are smaller but burn just as hot—several attacking books simply cease to exist when his fire touches them.
"The labyrinth is learning," he observes, scholarly even in crisis. "It's adapting to our success, becoming more aggressive with each person we free."
"Then we need to be faster," I respond, pushing myself to run despite exhaustion that makes every step feel like moving through molasses.
Grim leads the way, his natural existence between dimensions letting him see paths we can't. He darts through walls that prove to be illusions, around obstacles that would be solid if we tried to pass through them, always finding the route that actually leads forward rather than the ones that only seem to.
The journey feels eternal and instant simultaneously—time doesn't work properly in collapsing dimensional space. We might be running for minutes or hours, the distinction meaningless when every second contains the possibility of failure.
Then I see it.
A door that doesn't match the others.
Where every other door we've encountered has been wood or shadow or element given form, this one is mechanical. Clockwork covers every surface—gears turning, pendulums swinging, springs coiling and uncoiling in patterns that make my eyes water trying to track them.
