Page 125 of Labyrinthine
He tries one last time. “You’re not just choosing Mallen. You’re choosing your father. You’re giving him what he wants. Power, through you.”
The words land hard. My throat tightens.
“It doesn’t matter,” I say. “My father wins no matter what I do. He’s already found ways to take it back. Whether I choose Mallen or not. I have to face him, Darian. That’s the only way this ends.”
“You truly believe that?”
I nod slowly. “I do.”
There’s something in the stillness that follows. The way Darian looks at me—not with anger, but with resignation. He looks like a man who has taken me from the darkness of the capital to the edge of this kingdom and knows he hasn’t found the light. Like he already knows what I’m going to say. Like he knew it would end this way, but hoped it wouldn’t.
He moves toward me. Not with force. Not even with hope.
With sorrow.
“I could’ve made you happy,” he says.
“I wouldn’t have done the same for you.”
Another silence stretches long between us.
Darian moves first. He steps back, slowly, like his body hasn’t quite agreed with the decision yet. The firelight carves harsh lines across his face—cheekbones too sharp, mouth tight with restraint. For all his poise, I can feel the fracture.
Not anger. Not rejection.
Regret.
“You should sleep,” he says. “It’s been a long day.”
I straighten. “My decision won’t change after a good night’s sleep. I’m going back to Threnos.”
His expression doesn’t change, but the tension in his jaw deepens. “You can’t leave on foot. Not when it’s this far.”
“I’ll take one of the horses.”
“My men will ask questions.”
“I’ll make something up.”
He shakes his head. “They’ll talk. About me. About you. They’ll think?—”
“That you lost.”
He tenses. “They’ll certainly find it unusual.”
He’s built his entire identity on being clever, being clean. The one who sees three moves ahead. The one who always walks away untouched.
And now he won’t.
“I didn’t lie to you,” he says suddenly. “About the escape. About the house. About the others?—”
“But you lied about something else.” I meet his gaze, steady.
His silence is answer enough.
I watch the lie unravel in his eyes. A flash of calculation and then guilt. Not the hot, brash kind. The slow, creeping kind that eats through the spine. The kind that costs someone to admit it.
“About Mallen.”
