Page 30 of Labyrinthine
He points to my back foot. “Too much weight on it.”
There isn’t.
“Maybe turn your blade. These are blunted, but you’ll still cut yourself holding one like that.”
I don’t move.
His smirk deepens. My silence must read as nerves. Let it.
He lunges.
I barely move, my blade catching his side with the lightest touch. A warning.
The laughter stops.
He spins—faster this time—but I’m already ducking, slipping beneath his reach, striking low. My sword grazes his thigh.
His blade whistles through the air as we turn to face each other. The clash of metal rings out as I parry, twist, and shove—hard enough to disarm him.
His sword hits the stone with a sharp clang. No one speaks.
The silence isn’t just surprise. It’s appraisal. Measurement. I feel it in the stares that scorch my skin as they rake over my body, and in the way Mallen hasn’t moved a muscle behind me.
He’s letting them watch. Letting themseeme.
“Not a beginner,” I say, quiet and cool.
Darian retrieves his weapon. This time, he bows. He takes a stance and then it shifts—not in fear, but wariness. His weight settles differently now. He knows what I did. We both do. And so do the other men.
The part of him that wanted to impress his companions begins to vanish, replaced by something colder, more calculating.
Good. I want him angry. I want him to make that error.
“My mistake. It won’t happen again.”
We circle. This time, no mockery. No corrections. His stance changes again, his weight centered. Serious now.
I feint left. He sees it. Doesn’t fall for it. Smart.
“Not merely proficient either,” he murmurs.
I smile, just a little.
We move.
Blades flash. The sound of steel striking steel grows louder, drawing attention. Courtiers drift in, whispers rising. Nobles watch from archways, stunned.
We don’t stop.
Our swords crash together again, louder this time, the force rattling up through my wrists. He shifts his grip and counters—slick, practiced, fast. A downward arc that slices toward my ribs. I twist, barely dodging it.
Pain flares in my side where his dulled blade bruises skin through my tunic. I don’t flinch.
He wants me to hurt. Fine. So long as he hurts more.
Darian presses forward, and I start to notice it—the fatigue, the slowness in my limbs. For a moment, I can’t tell if I’m driving this or just surviving it.
Am I keeping up? Or is he holding back?
