Page 104 of Labyrinthine
Darian finds my gaze. That smile again. Warm, effortless, meant for me. The kind that silences the world and makes you believe in foolish things. It fits him too well. I hate how much I like it.
I descend the dais slowly. I can feel Mallen’s gaze on me, scorching the skin between my shoulder blades. The weight of him is unbearable and constant. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Doesn’t soften.
I don’t turn, but I know what expression is on his face. I’ve seen that flicker in his eyes too often lately—longing wrapped in control, jealousy concealed by practiced calm. A silent battle behind every breath. If this is another test, I don’t know what I’m meant to prove.
“Ignore him,” Darian murmurs, close enough for only me to hear.
“He’s staring.”
“Let him. He can’t stop us. And he can’t hear what matters.”
“Did he say anything?”
Darian’s smile sharpens. “He’s hoping that the labyrinth will do his work for him.”
The words land heavily.
No one has ever reached the labyrinth, let alone survived it.
And if Darian does, Mallen will be waiting for him.
The trial’s rules are deceptively simple: find the center, retrieve the banner.
The entrance is plain—a tunnel carved into the rock, no twists yet, no traps. But the danger isn’t at the door.
They say real horrors wait beneath. That the walls are impossibly thick, enchanted, unyielding, and the paths wind and fracture like a spider’s web. They say you forget time down there. Light too. And yourself.
Men say it shifts.
Not always. Not obviously. But enough. Enough to ensure no map can be trusted, no route repeated. It’s almost arrogant, the way it changes—like itknowsit doesn’t have to do more than confuse you. That confusion is fatal.
Then there are the traps. Mallen said they’re few—but devastating. Lethal, if he or my father have anything to do with it. The rumors whisper of what waits beneath: not just machinery or spell work, but a feral instinct curled in the dark. A presence that stalks the shifting halls with unnatural cunning, ancient and ravenous. No one knows what it is. Only that it never leaves a body behind and its terror haunts the dreams of children and men alike.
Except Mallen. He isn’t afraid.
Darian, by contrast, still seems untouched by fear. He stands beside me like this is a midsummer festival, not a death sentence. His hair gleams where the sun strikes it. His smile never dims. That pale blue tunic is deliberate—it makes his eyes brighter, more innocent.
He steps closer. “You didn’t think I came without a plan, did you?”
”What plan?”
“One that lets me win the Reaping and carries you clear of Starsfall. Alive. Safe. Free from your father.”
I tense. The intimacy of his hand brushing my cheek is dizzying, too tender for the battlefield we’re on. For a moment, there’s nothing else—no crowd, no danger, just his eyes, hiscertainty. The way he looks at me like I’m not a prize but a future.
“You care about me,” I murmur, breath caught.
He leans in, voice hushed. “Azhara, this ends with either Mallen or me alive, not both. He’ll never let you go, and I won’t leave you behind unless you’ve already chosen him. But until you do, I’ll fight for you.”
His words leave a sharp ache in my chest. I don’t want Mallen hurt. And gods, IknowMallen’s keeping things from me. But Darian…there’s a polish to him that catches too much light. A charm too deliberate, too well-honed. A mask so smooth I can’t see the cracks—but I know they’re there. He always says exactly what I want to hear. And that’s what makes me flinch.
But at least he’s honest about wanting me.
“You promised me time.”
He nods, this time slower. “And I meant it. But time’s gone. The Reaping ends today. Your father—or Mallen—won’t let us walk away. After the labyrinth, we leave Starsfall. Larksbind will be waiting.”
My breath catches.
