Page 35 of Labyrinthine
The words land heavy. Like a cold hand pressed firmly against my chest—not breaking skin, just making sure I couldn’t forget it was there.
But he doesn’t know what I cost. That I’m the reason my mother died. He thinks I’m a prize, a way to end the Reaping. He doesn’t know I’m a monster who could destroy the treaty between our nations.
That my very presence is a wound still bleeding.
He doesn’t know about the darkness inside me—the hunger, the pull, the cold rush of power that waits for a crack to slip through. My father has made sure only those in his inner circle know of my gift, and every year that circle grows smaller. Like a snare tightening around its prey. Or a noose.
I look away, gaze fixed on the flowerbeds trembling in the wind.
“Tell me more,” he says gently.
I don’t want to.
There’s something stripped bare in his expression now. He’s not a prince. Not a suitor. Just a man trying to understand the shape of me. And maybe it’s a game. But maybe, just maybe, it’s real.
And sincerity doesn’t erase danger. Because in Starsfall, even honey can turn to poison.
“There isn’t much.” I shrug.
“You’re holding back.” He waits, and those blue eyes ask me to dive into their depths. “Take a chance, Azhara. I swear I’ll tread gently.”
I study him. The curve of his shoulders. The way his hands are still. The way he’s listening like the answers matter.
I don’t owe him anything. Still, the stories rise. Smaller ones. Easier ones. I laugh, and Darian loosens, his smile going golden in the light.
He talks about Larksbind like a boy who loved it. The library stacks he hid in after drill. A tutor with ink on every finger who swore he would sit straight or turn to stone. Dawn runs along the river when he should have been reciting dynasties. A bell tower climbed for the view and the scolding that followed. Honey cakes bribed from the kitchens. A fencing master who counted every breath, every inch of footwork, and expected victory as if it were a birthright. He tells me the mischief and the discipline in the same breath, and it sounds like a map of him.
I offer little pieces back. Roof edges where the wind swallowed my name. Pears stolen from the lower gardens. A book read by a shuttered window until the light gave out. He laughs, and I laugh with him, and for one glorious afternoon, I forget how to hold myself like a princess.
Shadows lengthen and the light softens toward evening. Darian rises too suddenly, and a bitter heat curls in my stomach. Did I say too much? He calls for the guards, and I brace myself until they arrive, confused by the lack of threat.
“The Princess would like dinner here,” Darian announces.
My stomach twists. Notask.Will.Like it’s his right to decide.
And I realize—this is a game to him.
Heat rises up my neck as the guards exchange a glance. One of them tenses, jaw tight. Fetching food isn’t in their purview—not for me, and certainly not at the request of a prince from Larksbind.
“Something light,” Darian adds, his tone calm but unyielding. “And blankets. She’s cold.”
The guards trade a look, irritation smoothed into blank courtesy. One clears his throat and waits on me. I give a small nod, heat rising in my cheeks. They bow, clipped and cool, and go, boots a shade louder than necessary.
Darian watches them go, only his narrowed eyes betraying the vicious edge beneath the calm. “They forget themselves. You shouldn’t have to flinch when you ask for a meal.”
He doesn’t realize that it was a choice I made. To let him speak for me. I could’ve stopped him. Could’ve spoken first. But I didn’t. And I don’t know if that was fear…or something uglier.
Something like comfort.
He turns, and I find myself staring. The sunlight filtering through the colonnade lights him like a dream someone once whispered into being. Not just golden, but bright. Warm. Terrifyingly so. It lingers on his hair, softens the harsh lines of his tunic where it clings to his chest. His expression gives no clues about what he’s thinking, but there’s a gentleness about it now. Less prince. More man.
“Azhara.”
My name in his voice. Steady, low. The quiet sound draws me up straighter.
My heart races, and I’m caught staring. “I—I’m fine.”
“No, you’re not. And I’d like to know why.”
