Page 110 of Labyrinthine
The sound of battle sharpens. Someone shouts. Then silence again.
My thread veers left. I follow it. And I run.
I’m close now. Too close.
The thread jerks taut around a jagged bend. The torchlight throws shapes across the tunnel wall—shadows too large to be human. One of them moves.
I inch forward, hugging the wall.
The tunnel narrows to a small archway. Just ahead, I can hear them. Breathing. Gasping. Blades scraping stone. Every breath ahead is ragged. Wet. A gasp against the silence. Then a scrape—metal dragged too slowly. Someone’s wounded. Someone’s waiting. I tighten my grip and step into the mouth of the dark.
I step through the arch and let the flame die.
My eyes adjust fast.
And what I see makes my breath stop.
The center of the maze. The heart of the labyrinth. There should be a flag here—Darian should’ve claimed it. But the pole is empty. No colors, no sign of victory. That means he made it here. And kept going.
Mallen would know better than to strip the flag.
I pivot, checking behind me. Empty. But the space isn’t safe. The air is too still. I move slowly now, every footstep careful. My sword remains drawn, balanced in my grip.
A scream pierces the air. High. Raw. It echoes too long and ends too abruptly. A crash follows—meat against stone. Another sound follows. Wet, low, choking. Someone’s drowning in their own blood. That’s two men dead. And not from anything quick or clean. The silence that follows is heavier than before. The kind that settles like a curse.
A figure appears.
He steps into the square, cloak dragging behind him like a shadow made flesh. He moves slowly, deliberately. The gleam of his sword drips red and fresh, the blood trailing down its edge like ink from a broken vow.
I brace. Right foot behind, weight centered, sword raised. A quiet inhale. If this is it, I won’t go down passive.
“Azhara.”
I freeze. My name in his voice, quiet and breaking.
“What are you doing here?” Mallen’s hood hides half his face, but I see the way he tilts his head. Off-guard. Like I’ve struck him without raising a weapon.
“I came…” I don’t finish.
He pulls the hood back. “For me?”
His voice is raw with hope. There’s no mask, no suspicion. Just longing. Gods. So much longing.
He doesn’t wait for my answer. He doesn’t need to. His smile turns soft, reverent. Like my presence alone has rewritten the night.
I blink hard. The lie burns in my chest. I didn’t come for him. Not exactly. But I didn’t not come either. I hate that it’s both. That my silence is a betrayal he can’t see.
Still, he hasn’t drawn on me. He could have, should have. I won’t raise my blade unless he gives me a reason.
“Where’s the monster?” I ask.
“It doesn’t matter,” he murmurs. His gaze doesn’t waver from my face.
I don’t trust him. But my magic lies quiet—watchful, unfurled—like a beast not yet stirred. No threat. No alarm. Only stillness between us, coiled and strange.
“You figured it out.” He nods toward the twine in my hand. “About the labyrinth.”
He steps closer. Not in threat. In relief.
