Page 111 of Labyrinthine
I stiffen.
Mallen reaches for the twine, and his fingers brush mine. His hand is warm. Steady. The touch lingers longer than it should, and something flickers in his face—regret, recognition, a grief with my name on it.
“It’s just stone and shadow,” he says, quiet. “The walls don’t shift. There are no traps. Men disappear in the labyrinth because they think they’re supposed to. Those who enter lose themselves before they ever meet the monster.”
“But there is one,” I say. My voice barely carries. “A monster.”
He nods once. “He doesn’t attack everyone.”
My throat tightens.
“Is that what I just heard?”
“Yes.”
He steps closer again. His breath warms my cheek. Too close. Too much. I don’t move.
“You don’t have to fear him,” he says softly. “Not you.”
He moves faster than I expect—his arm slides around my waist, and I stagger as he pulls me with him, crossing the square in a single breath. I protest, but he doesn’t answer. Just spins me out of the way and steps in front of me, crouching low with his sword raised.
I look past him, confused, breathless—and see the blur of movement charging toward us.
Mallen’s body tenses. His hand reaches back, pressing against my hip to keep me still.
He’s shielding me.
I drop into a low stance and raise my blade beside him. “Is it the monster?”
Footsteps thunder across the stone. But it’s no creature that enters the square.
A man. Sword drawn. He halts at the last second, catching his momentum, bracing. Defensive stance. He’s not attacking. He’s watching me.
His gaze flicks to something behind me.
Then Darian steps from the shadows.
He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t raise his weapon. He walks like the square belongs to him. Each step slow, measured, deliberate—as if he’s walking through a dream he knows ends in fire, and he cannot wait to light the kindling.
Relief hits me first. It’s sharp, short-lived. But then it twists—suspicion, cold and creeping, washes through me. He’s too composed. Moving like a man who’s too sure of himself.
His gaze locks on Mallen’s. “Are you going to tell her, or am I?”
Mallen shifts his stance. He doesn’t answer. His shoulders rise slightly—like breath caught between fury and restraint, the kind of silence that tastes like blood before a sacrifice.
Still protecting me. Still between us.
“Tell her before I kill you,” Darian says. His tone is different now. Not kind. Not clever. It’s cold. Cruel. Nothing like the man who flirted in the sunlight.
“Only four remain,” Mallen says, voice tight.
Darian laughs. But it’s hollow. “Tell her. Or I will.”
“Tell me what?” I say, and I hate the tremor in my voice.
Neither answers.
Darian turns to me. “Ask him where the monster is. Ask him how he knows the path so well. Ask him what he is.”
