Page 25 of Labyrinthine
The Reaping has begun.
I press my fingers to the stem of my goblet, ignoring the delicate fare in front of me. There’s a coil tightening in my stomach that makes it impossible to eat. Harp strings and jewel-toned candlelight can’t mask the tension.
“Still not hungry?” Darian asks, his voice pitched low enough that only I hear. There’s a smile in it, a private joke I don’t understand. “I thought you might have worked up an appetite admiring your gifts.”
“I thought they weren’t gifts,” I sigh. “And I prefer not to eat when I’m being watched.”
My gaze slips sideways to meet his.
He grins, unabashed. “You’ll get used to my attention.”
A muscle ticks in Mallen’s cheek.
Darian lifts his goblet and takes a sip, unconcerned. “The Commander doesn’t seem to be enjoying my company.”
“I wonder why,” I say, and this time, it’s me who smiles.
Mallen doesn’t speak, but his silence is anything but passive. There’s a kind of storm to it—contained only by discipline. One elbow rests on the table, the other arm slung behind me, hand braced against the back of my chair. A casual pose, but I know him well enough to feel the promise of violence underneath it.
“I’ve already explained the seating arrangements to the Prince,” he says coldly, addressing no one and both of us at once. “I don’t enjoy repeating myself.”
“It’s almost charming,” Darian replies, undeterred. “The way you pretend this is still your decision.”
My breath catches, and Mallen’s eyes sharpen to ice.
“Mallen,” I warn quietly.
The hand behind me doesn’t move, but I feel it—like a sharpened blade waiting for instruction. Not touching me—yet. A line of heat against my back that says he’s barely holding on.
Darian smiles like he hasn’t just taunted a viper. “Relax, Commander. I’m here to win hearts, not start fights. Though if it comes to that…” He lets the words hang, one brow arched as he tips his glass in mock salute. “I don’t mind a bit of sport.”
“I don’t think you understand who you’re playing with,” Mallen says softly.
He doesn’t raise his voice.
He doesn’t need to.
Even Darian pauses for a heartbeat.
I draw in a stuttered breath and force my attention forward, toward the dancers and the display of opulence unfolding around us. Sashes move like swallows caught mid-flight, the fabric cascading in jewel-toned ribbons—amber, emerald, wine-dark velvet. They flutter and dip, gliding wherever the music takes them, unbound. I envy that. My limbs stay heavy, carved from stone, while theirs fly free.
The current pulls beneath my skin.
And gods help me, part of me wants the storm.
These men couldn’t be more different.
Darian—bold and beautiful, unfiltered, gleaming with the confidence of a man who’s never heard the word no. Mallen is cold fire wrapped in duty and control. There’s a dark storm contained beneath his skin and a fury that he keeps leashed for me. Where Darian dazzles, Mallen unsettles. Where Darian leads by charm, Mallen commands with gravity. Now, there’s no pretending that they aren’t circling each other. Or that I’m not the center of the storm.
I reach for a piece of seared fish and force myself to take a bite. It tastes of nothing. The musicians change tempo, and the next course is brought on silver trays. Conversation humsaround us—nobles laughing, ladies flirting, courtiers whispering—but our table is a battlefield wreathed in candlelight and good manners.
And then my father leans forward in his chair and flicks two fingers, beckoning Mallen with the kind of imperious gesture that draws no attention but demands obedience. The kind that says he expects to be obeyed.
The kind that comes with consequences if he’s disappointed.
Mallen rises, jaw locked, and for a moment—just a moment—his eyes linger on Darian with the quiet intensity of a man memorizing a fault line. Then he steps away from the table with deliberate calm, his sword hanging at his side like a threat left unfinished.
“The Commander of the Royal Guards is a little overbearing, don’t you think?”
