Page 89 of Labyrinthine
“You’re riding with me tomorrow, Princess.” His smile returns, soft and certain. “I won’t push. But I won’t give up.”
My head nods before my mind can stop it.
A habit. One I need to break.
“Good,” Darian breathes. “We’ll talk properly. About everything.”
He releases me slowly, fingers sliding away, and guides me back toward the gathering. A few women glance up as we approach, and Darian slips easily into conversation, charming them with effortless grace. I try to match his ease, but I can’t settle. I can’t stop thinking.
My father’s words. Mallen’s silence. The way Mallen watched me with Darian earlier—stone-faced, still, every line of him taut with control. He didn’t interrupt. He didn’t lash out. But his eyes followed every movement.
Darian, meanwhile, laughs at some remark, and I feel the ache of possibility in my chest. There’s a version of my life where this moment becomes normal. Where I choose a future that isn’t trapped in shadows and secrets. Darian’s right—I don’t need to fear him. He’s offering freedom, and the fact that I’m thinking about it means something.
The party draws to a close, and the guards appear at my side. I murmur polite farewells and allow them to escort me through the winding halls and back into solitude.
Once, I would have relished the quiet. Now, it feels like exile.
I sit on the edge of my bed, staring at the door. Trying to understand what’s happening. Trying to solve the puzzle of this year’s Reaping. Waiting for someone who doesn’t come.
Not Darian.
Not Mallen.
Only silence.
And the weight of choices I don’t yet know how to make.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
My horse spins,dancing beneath me with more spirit than sense. She isn’t my usual mount, and after an hour’s ride, she’s still barely winded, too full of nerves and fire. I tighten the reins, thighs clenched as I work to keep her from bolting. My father watches, feigning concern with a smile I know too well. He’s enjoying this.
Darian shifts forward in his saddle, eyes flicking between me and the mare. She kicks out when he approaches, ears pinned, breath flaring hot.
“Want to trade?” he calls, easy and amused.
I shake my head just before the mare rears. I manage to stay in the saddle, keeping my voice calm as I assure him I’ve got it.
“You don’t look like it,” he says, watching the horse’s sweat-flecked flanks. “She’s running hot.”
The hounds give tongue, and the rest of the riders take off after them. I try to urge my horse to follow, but she twists andstamps in protest. A guard rides up, strikes her flank, but it doesn’t work. She bolts.
Wind tears the breath from my throat. She’s not galloping—she’s fleeing. I lean forward instinctively, trying not to fight her too hard, but we’re off the path, barreling through undergrowth, hooves scraping stones. My fingers are numb around the reins. I shout once, a command she ignores.
Hoofbeats. Behind me. Gaining.
“Let her run!” Darian shouts.
He’s chasing.
The guards fall behind. Darian’s the only one riding fast enough. He rides low, reckless and swift, cutting through the trees, angling closer.
“We’ll lead them off!” he yells.
The mare screams beneath me, biting the air, and I don’t have time to argue.
We break through the trees toward the outer wood, her pace barely slowing. I catch a glimpse of the guards dropping behind us as Darian pulls ahead and slams his horse’s shoulder into mine, forcing the route. He points toward a narrow path that’s half-overgrown.
“This way!”
