Page 27 of Labyrinthine
“This year will be different,” he says suddenly. His tone is too light. “You’ll gain a husband. And you’ll come with me to Larksbind. You’ll be safe.” He lets his gaze skim me, from crown to collarbone. “It’s a beautiful kingdom, you know. Almost as beautiful as you.”
I arch an eyebrow. “That’s a bold comparison.”
“I won’t apologize.” He smiles. “You deserve boldness.”
“It hasn’t happened in nine years, Darian.”
He laughs, quiet and rich, like the Reaping is a game he’s already won. “I wasn’t here then.”
Before I can answer, he rises—graceful, princely—and drifts to my father’s side. They speak in hushes meant to exclude. I don’t try to listen, and focus on my breath, on the faint tremor in my hands. On trying to understand why Darian left so abruptly.
Mallen hasn’t moved. But I feel him. His stillness, like the weight before a blade falls.
When Darian returns, his emotions are concealed behind a mask he wears well. I wonder what he bartered in that hush: afavor, a rumor, my standing. If my father thinks I misstepped, his disappointment will sharpen into anger. Or is this a move, and I am the piece Darian’s playing with?
“Your father agreed you should leave early,” Darian says when he returns. “I offered the apology. He offered the solution. Mallen will take you back.”
The words don’t land right away. I blink, slow, processing.
Another decision made without me.
Another man who’s chosen for me.
But I’m not a pawn to be ushered offstage.
A sharpness unfurls beneath my ribs—not gratitude, not deference. Resolve.
I want more. Gods, I deserve more.
“I see,” I murmur, and my gaze slides to Mallen.
He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t urge or direct. He simply rises, gaze on mine, waiting.
Not commanding. Waiting.
I rise—not for them. For the air. For the space to breathe again. To be away from the shift of fabric, the hush of movement around us. The scent of smoke and fruit and wine that never appealed. I step away from the table, and Mallen follows without a word.
Before I go, I turn back.
“Thank you, Darian,” I say, and my voice is clear. “For your concern.”
His gaze flickers. Just briefly. “Of course.”
I don’t look back again.
Not until the crowd fades does my breath return. Mallen beside me—no longer a shadow, but an anchor.
We walk in silence, but it’s not empty. Not cold.
He doesn’t ask what I’m thinking. He already knows.
It’s only when we reach my bedroom that he asks the question that’s been torturing him all evening.
“Do you like him?”
Mallen’s voice is low. Unbothered. The kind of calm that tried to pretend he already knew the answer—and just wanted to hear it from me.
“No.”
