Page 38 of Labyrinthine
I stare at the rug, tracing its patterns like a prayer. I don’t need to look up to know what his face will be—serrated and shadowed, the weight of fury carved into every angle. Age has not softened him. The years only scorched him hollow. His hair, once reddish like mine, is veined now with gray, as though the fire in it is slowly burning itself out.
He taps his foot once. It’s not loud, but the room still flinches.
“Enough. We will not waste time. Does he intend to marry you?”
“Darian didn’t ask.”
His fist hits the desk. The sound is not loud, but I jolt anyway. It never is loud—not with him. He never needed volume to terrify. Just certainty. Just the cold inevitability that pain will follow. Once, he didn’t raise his voice for three months straight. I still bled.
The chair groans beneath him as he sits, eyes dark and narrowing. He jabs a finger toward the opposite chair.
“Of course not. He’s a prince. Will he or won’t he?”
I sink into the chair, nodding numbly.
“You seem uncertain.”
I clasp my hands together, pressing my thumbs into each other until the pain helps me breathe. I imagine what it would be like to speak with him without fear. Without raised voices. Without broken things or bruises. Without blood.
He snaps my name like a whip, and my eyes lift, even though I don’t want them to.
“I thought you despised Larksbind,” I mumble.
He leans forward and lifts the letter opener from the desk. It’s shaped like a ceremonial dagger, its hilt adorned with dull rubies. My father loves that blade. Not for its elegance, but for the blood it’s tasted.
I’ve seen it at too many throats.
And known it at mine.
“Azhara,” he says, almost gently, “Larksbind is weakness dressed in silk. And you—” his mouth curls, “—you were the gods’ cruelest jest.”
He turns the dagger in his hand like he’s rolling a coin, slow and deliberate.
“I need an end to the disgrace you brought on this house the moment you breathed. If he marries you, the curse breaks. And I can finally be done with you.”
This is not the moment to speak. This is the time to disappear into myself and hope he loses interest.
He returns to the treaty—his favorite complaint. The one that chained his hands and barred him from the conquest he believes is his divine right. The Reaping, with its annual parade of suffering, is less about alliance and more about punishment. He doesn’t care about peace. He cares about being seen as a man who is not wrong.
“Even I couldn’t stop you from killing your mother.”
The words crack through me. My breath goes thin, sharp-edged. I stare at the floor until it steadies.
He wears martyrdom like armor, as if surrendering his magic to cage the power that lives in me was noble. That magic became daemons—half-beast, half-curse. He calls the creatures necessary. Most call them barbaric.
He always circles back here—to the death he couldn’t prevent, the strength he sacrificed, the kingdom that would be complete if it wasn’t for me.
I curl behind the walls I’ve learned to raise when his voice turns to venom. I push my feelings into the deep, dark places where even he can’t reach.
“I am sorry, Father.”
“That doesn’t change what you are. Or raise the dead.”
I nod again. Not in agreement. In survival.
He paces. His breath turns harsh. I feel him thinking, scheming. Trying to fit Darian into his vision of control.
“Heirs with Larksbind blood,” I murmur, thinking aloud.
