Page 29 of Labyrinthine
“No.” His voice cuts like steel. “You’re off balance.”
I adjust. Too late.
He surges forward, spins behind me, and raps the back of my head with the flat of his blade. Not hard—but enough to sting. He doesn’t finish the move. Doesn’t drop me again.
It’s not mercy. It’s disappointment. And it lands harder than any blow.
“What’s gotten into you?” he asks, stepping in close. He doesn’t shout. He doesn’t have to. The way he looks at me—measured and cold—says everything.
I swallow the heat rising to my face and look away.
“You’re hesitating. You’re thinking like someone who wants to be liked, not someone who wants to survive.”
A pause.
“In a fight, doubt will put a blade through your throat. Or worse—someone else’s.”
I nod once, sharp. I understand. I do.
We begin again. I strike hard this time, but he turns the blade aside and catches me by the throat lightly—just enough to halt the movement. To end it.
My feet drag across the stone as I walk away. Blood taints my mouth—maybe I bit my tongue—and my pulse hammers with frustration. His fingers curl just tight enough to still me, to force the truth into my lungs.
I am not fast enough. Not sharp enough.
Yet.
“She needs more instruction.”
The voice slithers in from behind. We both jerk toward Darian, startled by his interruption.
He’s standing against a column as if he’s always been there, lazy and amused, surrounded by the other men from Larksbind who lounge behind him like bored wolves. He stares straight at me, bites into an apple, and speaks like he’s announcing the weather.
“She’ll never learn to defend herself like that. You’re training her like she’s already a fighter. She’s not.”
Mallen doesn’t move. His entire body shifts, but only inside. I feel my own spine go rigid for entirely different reasons: Larksbind’s prince thinks I’m incapable.
Mallen steps forward, frowning. “And you just happened to be strolling through the gardens?”
My fists curl. My face burns—not from shame, but fury. They’re talking over me, about me, as if I’m not standing here with a sword in my hand. As if I am nothing more than a girl who is here to smile and bow and do no more.
Darian flashes a grin. “I’ll show her.”
Mallen scoffs. “Be my guest.”
He steps behind me, close enough that his breath grazes my neck. He slides the lighter sword into my hand, turning the hilt just enough for the edge to catch the light.
“He thinks you’re weak,” Mallen murmurs. “Make him regret that.”
His hand adjusts the clasp at my shoulder. A soldier’s ritual, not a lover’s. Then he looks at me—really looks—and it’s not affection that sharpens his gaze. It’s expectation. Permission. A quiet command.
Don’t hesitate. End it clean.
The small courtyard echoes with laughter as the men from Larksbind strut closer, cocksure and clinking with weapons. Darian selects a weapon and coughs—faintly performative, clearly impatient. He lets the blade catch the light in a lazyflourish, tipping a smile toward his men that says watch and learn.
“Try to keep your feet this time, Princess.”
I say nothing.
