Page 71 of Labyrinthine
But it also sounds like danger.
Because I know what magic costs, and I know what my father took from them. Larksbind has already bled for its safety, and that may not be enough. If I leave with Darian, if the curse breaks and my father comes for us, the price of safety will rise. And it won’t be paid in coin.
He taps my hand, drawing me back. I blink once and smile. He softens in relief.
If he knew what I was thinking, he’d stiffen instead.
“How are the injured men?” I ask, voice low.
His composure falters—just for a beat—as if the truth touched a raw nerve, and the mask slips a little. “The healer’s done what he can. But one won’t last another trial like the last.”
No one will, I think. Not if my father wants blood this time.
Outside, the sky is bruising with night. Time’s run out.
Darian shifts closer, head tilting. I can see the intent in his eyes a moment before he leans in—slow, deliberate. A kiss. For the watchers. For my father. Maybe even for himself.
I turn my head, and he pauses mid-motion, his breath touching my cheek.
“The next trial isn’t physical,” I whisper, quiet as a prayer.
He’s still for half a second. Then his fingers twitch once against the chair, and his expression smooths into studied elegance, like a man already imagining the next move. He gazes at a painting on the far wall like it’s suddenly caught his interest, and then turns back to me and reaches up. As if there’s another strand of hair that needs brushing from my face, even though we both know there isn’t.
Just like he did earlier.
Just like Mallen did yesterday.
It’s deliberate. And it’s enough. A perfect performance, for whoever’s watching. My father will be pleased Darian’s still in pursuit. If it’s Mallen, he’ll be jealous—but not as jealous as he would have been if I’d let Darian kiss me. That line I won’t cross.
Not tonight.
Maybe not ever.
Darian’s mouth tightens slightly, and I see the confusion he quickly disguises with a half-smile. He doesn’t look like he understands. He thinks I’m worried he won’t survive the next trial. He thinks I’m beginning to fall.
And, heavens help me, maybe I am.
And what terrifies me is how easy it would be.
To believe.
To trust.
To hope.
“I’m not dying,” he says softly. “Not yet.”
I nod anyway and let the silence return, because I don’t want to explain what I’m really feeling—the twist in my gut, the quietache I don’t have a name for. I don’t like how much Mallen’s silence is beginning to mean to me. I don’t like how wrong it feels to keep walking this knife’s edge between two men who’ve both risked everything for me.
I’ve been used all my life; shaped into a weapon, molded into a daughter who can serve a king’s purpose. But this guilt is new. This dread is mine.
Eventually, Mallen comes for me. He’s quiet on the walk back to my room, one hand always close to his blade, the other near my spine like a ghost of a touch. The palace is too quiet. The stone hallways echo in ways they shouldn’t.
Inside, I undress slowly. Mallen stands with his back turned at first, but when I slip into bed, he moves to my side and crouches low. His face is darkness without light, carved from shadow and restraint, and his eyes lock to mine with fierce precision.
“What did you whisper to him?” he asks.
I don’t flinch. I lean into the lie like it’s armor. “Nothing of any importance.”
