The deeper he goes, the more that fear presses down on him, a physical weight bearing down on his shoulders, making his steps falter. Once, he almost stumbles into one of those chasms. They're not real chasms, of course, just a representation of all the things wrong with Heine's mind, but it still sets his heart to racing, sweat beading on his brow.

He hasn't felt this alive in years.

The maze ends without warning. He barely has time to take in the smell of blood before darkness coils around him and constricts, bringing with it a fresh wave of menace.

"Name your terms," he says through dry lips, as if they're bargaining, as if they're on equal footing here.