Page 31 of Labyrinthine
He’s good—agile, ruthless—but I’m faster. Smaller. Sharper. He tries to use his size, and I use the terrain. Let him chase me up the steps, into narrow spaces where his strength means less. He follows and then he drives me back, out of the small courtyard and into the bigger, more imposing main square outside the palace.
I don’t care if the whole court watches.
I step back, defending every move I make.
My muscles burn.
Pain is a language I’ve learned well and speak fluently.
Darian’s good, and that isn’t a surprise. I won with cheap strikes earlier, and now I have to work. He drives me further back, and I let him. Then I pivot, land a glancing blow on his shoulder, and retreat again before he can trap me.
Our swords lock mid-swing. He bears down, sweat shining on his brow. I hold fast, knees braced, arms screaming. For a second, we’re eye to eye.
“Not bad,” he mutters.
“Not finished,” I growl.
I shove him off, pivot, and drive him back three paces before he recovers.
This is not a game anymore. I aim to hurt, and he feels it, the court mask slipping as the killer steps forward. The crowd’s growing. Voices are rising. Somewhere, a man shouts. Guards are coming.
I don’t stop.
The guards shout again. A voice calls my name—someone from the nobility, shocked.
Let them yell. Let them panic.
I’m not doing this for their approval; I’m doing it because I can.
This is my moment.
Steel bites air as we break apart, only to clash again with sharper purpose. My blade sings. Darian’s grits like teeth.
The main square is roaring now, but it feels distant—like surf against a cliff. My pulse is the only rhythm I hear.
Darian lunges. I slip beneath his arm, twist, and land a shallow strike along his ribs. He hisses and drives me back with a hard downward blow. He presses harder, and I’m forced to yield ground. I rebound and meet him. Sun flashes in his eyes, and I catch it there—real frustration. He is a prince, trained to win, and the set of his jaw says he does not plan to lose. Not to me. Not to anyone.
Mallen’s moved to the edge of the square, and his gaze hooks mine, discipline clamped over something louder. Steady. Contained. The look that gives me permission.
End him. Now.
I pivot. Strike. Darian blocks. Hard. The impact rattles down my bones. He twists his blade, and I try to counter, but he’s too fast. My sword jerks and then wrenches from my grip. Steel clatters across the stone. My breath catches in my throat. The crowd vanishes. Time lurches. And I dive—low, fast, reckless—but my fingers grasp only dust. My sword’s spun further than I thought. Darian laughs, and his boot catches my ankle, yanking my balance out from under me.
I hit the ground hard. Wind knocked from my lungs. Dirt in my mouth, the taste of failure thick on my tongue.
He stands above me, triumphant, his blade poised at my throat.
“Yield,” he says. Too sure.
My fingers dig into the earth. I drive my boot into his groin—hard.
He chokes and stumbles.
I roll, leap, and recover the blade I lost earlier. My hands close around its hilt like a prayer answered—and then I move.
One heartbeat. Two. A blur of limbs and silver.
I spin, duck, and drive forward. My foot finds the back of his knee. He drops. I lunge. My sword is at his chest, and I’m on top of him, straddling him like a conquering storm.
