Page 155 of Labyrinthine
Blood arcs through the air. His left shoulder splits open beneath the slice, and he roars—half fury, half pain.
I fall back, breathing hard. My chest sears with every breath. He turns, haloed in flame, a man sculpted from greed and hunger.
“You think death will save you?” he spits. “You think that’s power?”
“I don’t need saving.”
The shadows rise at my back.
He lifts both hands now, and the fire explodes.
I shield my face as the inferno crashes into me, heat licking past my guard. My hair scorches at the ends. The embroidered hem of my tunic blackens, curls, smokes. Heat claws at my throat and my chest, blistering skin where the fabric is too thin. I bite down on the scream.
My sword burns hot in my grip.
But my magic answers louder now. It doesn’t recoil from the fire—it devours it.
It floods me—ancient and bone-deep, cold as untouched graves, certain as every last breath. Death, in its first language. Pure. Inevitable. And I relive the moment that she died, her soul twisting from her body and into mine, a final gift he never meant me to keep.
Her grief is my birthright. Her last breath, my first.
Not a curse.
Not a wound.
A weapon.
He doesn’t know what he’s made.
But he’s always feared it. Always understood he would reap what he sowed.
We meet in the center of the room—fire against death, steel against shadow. His blade crashes against mine, heat flaring from the impact. I twist, parry, drop low, and slice for his legs. He leaps back, flame trailing behind him, and scorches the air between us.
We circle.
“She promised me an heir,” he snarls. “For a while, I tried to make you worthy.”
“Iam.”
I charge.
The darkness wraps my limbs like armor, stiffens my spine, sharpens my edge. He blocks again, and the force of it sends tremors up my arms—but I’m stronger now. Faster. My blade sings with fury.
I see every scar on his face.
I remember every word he used to cage me.
I let go of the girl who bowed her head and tried to be good.
And I let the night in.
My sword meets his again. Steel shrieks. Sparks fly. I push—harder than I should be able to—and he staggers back, mouth curling in something like surprise.
“You’ve learned,” he says, panting.
He snarls and thrusts his blade forward, a brutal jab meant to pierce my ribs, but I’m already moving. My feet slide over ash-slick stone. The shadow draws me sideways, slipping me into darkness and out again. I strike at his flank.
But he’s waiting for it.
