Page 4 of Labyrinthine
My chest aches, my legs burn, but I keep going.
The terrain is rough, the forest thick, and the moonlight barely touches the path ahead. And then its silver lights a ridge ahead, and I know I’ll reach the clearing in a few more meters.
My heart pounds.
I’m going to make it.
The clearing opens before me. My stomach clenches.
It’s quiet. Too quiet.
The horses are tied, just where they should be. But the air is wrong. Still. Expectant.
Anya should be here. My maid. My almost friend. We weren’t close. Not really. Anya was too kind, too soft, and I could never trust her enough to hold her closer than I absolutely needed to. We shared small secrets in the dark sometimes—two girls caught in a gilded cage—but there were walls between us. She served me. Obeyed me. Feared me a little. And I never told her no. She should be waiting—smiling, laughing, eager to know the joy of freedom.
But there’s only the sound of hooves shifting and leaves whispering.
My fingers drop to my blade as I creep forward, every sense screaming. The horses are uneasy, snorting, stamping the damp earth. I start forward, ready to calm them, but something stops me.
Something primal.
This is too easy, too exposed.
Too wrong.
A trap.
I spin, narrowly avoiding the sword thrust at my neck. My blade catches moonlight as I draw it and drop low, throwing up an arm to deflect. My body pivots instinctively, moving just as I was taught. Mallen drilled these moves into my bones.
Strike. Balance. Move.
It’s almost like dancing—if dancing demanded both blood and surrender.
A man steps from shadow, cloaked and hooded, a soldier’s stillness in his stance and mail glinting at his wrist. My dagger flashes, clashing against a sword. He’s fast. Too fast. He parries every blow with ease.
I grit my teeth and strike again. He dodges, shifting his weight, his blade moving like water. It gleams under the moonlight, and he forces me back. He advances in silence, methodical, relentless. I duck a wide slash and counter low, feinting right and spinning left. My blade catches the edge of his sleeve—just cloth, no flesh.
He grunts, annoyed now. I press my advantage. A quick jab. A pivot. He blocks, but I can see he’s testing me, not fighting to win.
And gods, that angers me.
I lunge again, this time not pulling back. My dagger arcs for his side. He twists, faster than thought, and the clash of metal rings loud enough to wake the trees. His blade turns mine aside and traps it. One flick of his wrist and my weapon is ripped from my hand, sent spinning into the grass.
I twist and drive my fist into his ribs. Hard.
Steel kisses my neck. Just enough to make me stop. To hold me. Not enough to harm. We stand, both breathing hard. My gaze fixes on roped and scarred forearms, their cadence too familiar to deny. And I know those sword strokes. I’ve spent my life parrying them.
“Princess,” he growls.
I sigh, shoulders slumping. “Mallen.”
The Commander of the Royal Guards stands before me, amused. Taller than me by more than a head, all sharp angles and disciplined lines, in road-dark leathers and mail. Dark hair pushed back, jaw rough with stubble, a faint bruise shadowinghis cheekbone. Starsfall green marks his shoulder and catches the light when he shifts. His eyes stay steady and measuring while his mouth tips into a small smirk. It is the look of a man who has caught me misbehaving again, and I loathe it.Thatlook. The one that reminds me how much more experienced he is than me, even though he’s only a few years older.
“You can sit and we can talk, Azhara. Or I can carry you back over my shoulder and let your father decide what’s reasonable.”
Flashes light up my vision, and I lock my eyes on his. His don’t blink. Don’t blur. Don’t even flicker. I know better than to test him.
He’s always protected me. But he’s never been afraid to teach me a lesson, either.
