Page 32 of Labyrinthine
His arms fly wide in a show of peace, but I don’t lower my blade.
The court is silent. The ladies are breathless. Even the banners hanging above seem to have gone still.
I wait. Without lowering my blade.
“You shouldn’t drop your guard,” I murmur, voice soft as silk and as sharp as a general’s sword. “Unless you want the Reaping to end before it’s even begun.”
His smirk flickers. Then fades. His chest heaves.
“I yield,” he says at last, and this time it lands like defeat.
I rise without help. Take two steps back and breathe him out of my lungs.
Darian lingers a beat longer, face flushed, eyes bright. He bows low, the angle just enough to acknowledge me—but not so much that it stings his pride.
“I’ll have to be more careful,” he mutters, his smile stretched thin. “Next time.”
But the crowd’s eyes aren’t on him.
They’re on me.
Nobles line the courtyard like statues come to life. Ladies glance at Darian with both worry and awe, as if mourning a fallen hero. Finery gleams under the sun, mouths parted in silent disbelief. No one speaks.
The lords stare at me as if seeing me for the first time. My father doesn’t speak. He doesn’t need to. His posture shifts—just slightly. His long face tightens, and the muscle in his jaw ticks once. A breath leaves him, sharp and measured, like he’s just decided exactly how much I’ve embarrassed him.
I don’t look away.
His gaze stays fixed on mine—a weapon honed on silence, folding layers of calculation and venom beneath it. He doesn’t shout. He doesn’t scowl. He simply stares, as if learning the shape of my defiance so he’ll know precisely where to strike when the time comes.
I let my smirk rise anyway.
He’s losing a pawn that’s easy to control, and he knows it.
Perhaps this is the start of the turn. The Reaping has always kept to its steps, but now it’s almost like the rules are changing.Or trying to. This year, the rites don’t seem to fit their grooves, and the ceremonies seem off beat. By a breath, no more. Enough.
I walk past Darian without another word. When I reach Mallen, he doesn’t speak. Instead, he simply holds out a cloth, eyes locked on mine with a weight that presses beneath the surface. There’s no warmth, no consolation—only the quiet command of a man who trusts actions more than words. I take the cloth and clean the blade with measured, deliberate strokes, each movement steadying the storm inside me.
Then he shifts beside me. Barely a breath.
“A skilled display,” he says aloud, voice pitched to carry. “Next time, don’t waste time toying with your opponent.”
The crowd stirs.
Mallen’s words do everything he wanted them to. Praise. Unnerve. He’s informed the court that I was holding back—and I could have ended it sooner, if I’d wanted to.
I shift my gaze sideways, catching him in the corner of my vision. His arms remain folded, but his eyes flicker—dark, steady. And there it is: a slow, nearly imperceptible tightening at the edge of his mouth. Not quite a smile, and much more dangerous—like pride tempered by quiet satisfaction.
He’s claiming this moment, for me, quietly acknowledging what I’ve done.
He sees me.
Not as a child. Not as a pawn.
As a weapon.
And he likes what he sees.
We turn and ascend the steps together. Behind us, whispers break like waves across the stone. I don’t look back. I’m not interested in what they have to say.
