The Star is his first success, as only makes sense. He’s walking the maze, the endless, unchanging maze, but this time when he stumbles, when he catches himself on the wall, his fingers trace a pattern. The stone’s irregularities form a shape: a single, four-pointed star.

The next time he stumbles, it is the same.

By the third time it happens, the third time his fingertips trace the shape, he remembers the meaning. Peace and tranquility. Beauty. Light in the darkness.

Hope.

It’s something. It’s a tiny anchor in his mind. A fading burst of feeling, of life. But it isn’t enough. It doesn’t catch. By the time he thinks to reach for it, to touch the stone of his own accord, it is gone.

In and out, up and down, breathing and sinking. Different symbols wait for him. The Moon—mastery of hidden forces, unseen power—doesn’t hold him. Strength, with its all—seeing eye—he flinches away from. Sovereign’s crown and balance, Vitality’s fire, Justice’s sword—like the Star, they flare and then fade as he falls back into the empty stupor of the maze.

Until.

His fingertips trace simple distinct lines, parallel and straight, that come together at a sharp tip. The blade of a knife. And beyond it…

Samir’s fingers spread, feeling the subtle, more complicated pattern behind it. A tree branching out, one with no leaves. The knife overlays the trunk, with branches spreading around the blade and roots digging down from the hilt.

This design he knows instantly. This card is distinct, the knife a presence on every illustration he’s seen. Death.

Understanding moves through him, a dark, cold clarity. This is death—this path he walks. He died to come here. Not literally, perhaps. But the cards have never been about literal truth. He is dead now.

Or, maybe this is saying death is his way out. Literal death? That’s possible. Figurative death? Absolutely.

A third possibility, that this death is not for him. That for him to escape, there must be a death, but it doesn’t have to be his own.

This understanding sinks into him, conscious and unconscious all at once. It roots deep. Unlike the other images, the other symbols, it doesn’t slide away.

He sees it now, throughout the maze. Was it always part of the maze? Had he simply been blind before? The cracks in the stone, they are the twisted, dead branches. They are the twining, craggy roots. The texture of the stone is the feel of worn bark. How could he have missed this?

Death is the answer. Death is the question. Samir accepts it. Embraces it.

This time, when he rises, it follows.