Page 77 of Labyrinthine
I press my hand against my ribs, but it’s no use.
The magic is stirring.
It’s trying to get out.
And my father is smiling.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Flashesof bright color trail around the room, swirling and flowing effortlessly. The sheer fabrics float as if they’re weightless, a dazzling display of freedom I can only dream of. The dancers move with a grace that mocks my confinement.
My father leans over my shoulder, plucking grapes from the center of the table. “Darian seems more than capable of keeping you under control.”
His words are a dagger cloaked in silk. I force a smile, the practiced mask of obedience. Inside, resentment coils tightly. But I can’t afford to let it show. Not when eyes are always watching, and every flicker of emotion is ammunition to be used against me.
For the first time in a decade, someone has made it this far. Darian could survive the final challenge. He could take me away from here. But his victory this morning has unsettled the court. They don’t seem worried that their magic will be lost forever ifhe wins. I’ve heard the whispers. It’s not that he lived, it’s that he defeated Obcasus—single-handedly. For the first time in a decade, they’re exhaling. Not with relief, but with recognition. Because Darian reminds them of the lie they’ve learned to believe about themselves: that they are beautiful, unshaken, made to win.
My father returns to his table, surrounded by sycophants who laugh too loudly and drink too deeply. He basks in their adoration, oblivious to the undercurrents of greed and ambition. Or perhaps he isn’t affected by them because they’re so similar to his own.
Mallen sits to my left, his posture rigid, eyes scanning the room with calculated precision. “He wants to provoke you,” he murmurs. “Don’t let him.”
Another dance begins, faster than the last. The remaining tributes watch with newfound vigor, their near-death experience igniting a lust for life, while the ladies of the court fawn over them. Darian catches my eye, a flicker of understanding passing between us. We look away simultaneously.
I turn back to Mallen.
“I thought you’d discovered the trial was Obcasus and warned him,” Mallen says, leaning closer. “But your reaction was genuine. Shock, then horror. You didn’t know.” He swirls his wine, contemplating. “Are you going to stop lying to me, Azhara?”
“What do you want, Mallen?”
“Your honesty. Your respect. For you to honor our agreement.”
The dance ends, applause erupting. I clap, smiling at Mallen, noting the jealousy simmering in his eyes.
“I can’t talk to you like this,” I murmur.
“Like what?” he growls.
“There are too many people, too many interruptions.” I let my hand graze his thigh. Subtle. A provocation. A dangerous one.
Mallen stiffens, his gaze fixed on the dancers. He exhales and waits for the dance to end before setting down his goblet. His hand brushes my arm, a touch that sends a shiver through my core.
The music changes.
He signals for more drink.
And the servant spills wine into my lap.
I gasp, jumping to my feet—and the hall falls silent. My cheeks burn as I attempt to brush off the red stain. Darian’s on his feet. My father wears a grin that curves with both delight and irritation.
“What are you doing?” Mallen’s voice is a controlled snarl, directed at the servant.
“I’m soaked.”
Mallen stares at me, and I can’t understand the emotion swirling through those green irises. It’s too intense. Too raw. He offers me his hand as he announces he’ll be escorting me to my rooms.
My cheeks burn hotter as we leave.
Mallen thanks him, then turns to me. “You wanted to talk.”
