Page 21 of Labyrinthine
I turn back. “Of course.”
Mallen exhales, a little too loudly.
He doesn’t follow at once. The space behind me stretches, as if Mallen’s choosing whether to follow or fight. He shadows me instead, and his course is charted.
Inside, the reception chamber swells with sound and silk.
Candles float in golden rings above the vaulted ceiling, their light gilding the room in soft gold. Marble columns rise like frozen waterfalls along the perimeter, draped in seasonal greenery—late-autumn vines twined with burnished silver. Courtiers drift between tables laden with wine and honeyed fruit, their laughter brittle and rehearsed.
And every eye turns to me.
A ripple of silence chases me around the room. I see it in the sudden pause of a goblet mid-air, in the quick draw of fans, the collective sharpening of posture. I feel it settle over me like a second cloak. Every hall receives me like this, alone at the center of attention, a figure to be named before it’s heard.
Azhara of Starsfall. Heiress to the throne. Nightborn. Unwed.
They’re wondering if I’ll be won this year. If I’ll kneel for Larksbind, or if I’ll release Starsfall’s sorcery. But the Reaping will only bend to us if I choose a man for love, and my heart has not chosen.
They watch as I move forward slowly. My gown’s gold and chiffon whisper as I move, offering hints of secrets that fall from the braided filigree at my waist. The jewels adorn my neck, catching the light like stardust. My braid falls to my shoulder, decorated with star-flung pins. And the slit in the skirt parts with every step, baring one leg to thigh. Enough to entice. Not enough to scandalize.
Every inch of me has been designed to make them doubt. To make them want. To make them fall.
There’s power in performance.
That is what my father wants. What he wields.
And tonight he wants me to be an instrument of destruction. A beautiful weapon that the men from Larksbind will willingly impale themselves on while thanking him for letting them bleed.
I make it almost halfway through the chamber before I see him.
Darian.
The Prince of Larksbind stands at the far end of the hall, surrounded by foreign dignitaries and a flutter of pale-robed diplomats. He wears no crown, but he doesn’t need one. His presence is a royal decree. He laughs with easy grace, and gestures with subtle elegance. The kind of manner that feels rehearsed but not hollow. Poised but not posed. Charming enough to cover any viciousness.
He sees me the moment I see him.
And parts the crowd like silk.
He moves without urgency but with the quiet force of someone who’s always known people will move for him.
He bows when he reaches me—fluid, flawless, precise.
“Starsfall’s beauty lives up to its name,” he says, voice pitched low and warm, for my ears alone. “Though I find myself most dazzled by its heir.”
It’s the kind of line that should sound trite. But somehow it doesn’t. Not from him. Not with that mouth, curved in soft amusement. Not with that voice, as smooth as water over stone.
I lift one brow. “Careful, Prince. I bite.”
“Then I’ll bleed gladly,” he murmurs, straightening.
He gestures. A servant steps forward with a velvet tray bearing three offerings.
The first is a hairpin—moonstone carved into a single falling star, set in filigree silver so fine I can’t see the seams. He lifts it delicately, holding it like something sacred.
“To light your path in darkness,” he says.
I accept it with a nod, brushing his fingers by accident. Warm. Uncalloused. The hands of a man who’s never held steel long enough to earn the scars.
The second is a book—slim and leather-bound, glinting with silver thread. The title gleams in old Larksbind glyphs, but they are easy to recognize: love poems, written for kings and queens who ruled by star and fire and devotion turned to ruin.
