Page 124 of Labyrinthine
I study him. The man who brought me here. Who’s offered me escape and protection. Who wants to be chosen, but hasn’t asked why I might need to choose in the first place.
And I think about the man I left behind. The one who’s storming after me with an army not because of rage, but because he still thinks I’m worth the ruin. Who used to find me in the dark just to say my name like it mattered. Who pressed his forehead to mine after every fight. Who remembered I hated lilac and always carried juniper oil instead.
“You’d have me forget,” I say at last.
His breath catches. “Would that be so terrible?”
The fire crackles between us. The air feels heavy.
“Yes.”
He watches me closely. “You think he’ll give you more than I can?”
“I think he’ll never try to change me.”
His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t speak. The line of his throat moves as he swallows it back—whatever plea or protest he almost gave voice to. For a moment, his mask slips. Not enough to see the wound, but enough to know it’s there.
He exhales slowly. “Come to Larksbind. With me.”
I look at him. Really look.
“No,” I say.
His silence is long and still. He doesn’t ask why. He already knows.
But he says it anyway.
“You’re choosing him.”
“I already did,” I whisper.
“In the labyrinth?”
“In every moment I didn’t kill him. In every moment I’ve regretted it ever since. And in all those I should have given him before.”
My voice trembles on the last word. Not from weakness—but from the weight of everything I should have done, and didn’t. I press my hands together, grounding myself in the present, in the only thing I can still control: this choice.
“You’re mistaking guilt for love.”
“I know the difference.”
The silence that follows is thick and heavy. He looks away first, and for a second I think he might be angry—until I realize it’s an entirely different emotion. Not fury. Not hurt. Just the slow dawning of truth. The ache of knowing he was never really in the running.
Darian’s gaze drops. “You’re making a mistake.”
“I’ve made worse ones.”
Darian’s jaw tightens. “You want a storybook ending. A broken hero chasing his perfect princess. But this isn’t a love story.”
“No,” I say. “It’s not.”
He waits. “Then why go?”
“Because I want to be the one who chooses.”
He flinches at that. Not visibly—but I feel it.
I wrap my arms around myself. Not for warmth. Just to hold all the pieces in. The fire is too bright now. Too close. And his voice sounds far away, like something echoing down a corridor I’ve already left behind.
