Page 48 of Labyrinthine
The music shifts.
Soft. Slow. Something old and ceremonial. A lullaby for ghosts.
He turns and steps into me, his arm slipping around my waist. His other hand lifts mine with careful grace, and I let him guide me, my body stiff at first and then fluid. It’s a simple pattern. Intentional. Familiar.
“Is this walking, then?” I murmur.
He laughs, low and velvet. “No, Princess.”
“You lied.”
“Only because of you.” His hand tightens at my waist. “You’re impossible not to follow. Spin.”
I blink, startled by the shift in tempo as Darian spins me away from him, releasing my hand so I pivot alone. The silk of my gown arcs like water, catching the light as I twirl back and reach for him again. Our hands meet. The music bends. And he pulls me into him with perfect ease, the movement smooth as breath—too practiced to be chance.
“You dance like you were born to it,” Darian murmurs, smiling without arrogance as we sweep into the next movement. “I suspected as much when I saw you fight. The way you move—” his fingers flex around mine, just enough to remind me of his strength “—it’s like watching fire move with a breeze.”
I arch as he turns me again, head tilting back to stretch the line of my body. We hold at the apex of the movement, breathless and still. The room blurs at the edges, like a paintingsmeared by rain. The strings climb and slip into our breathing. His hand finds my waist, and my body answers without thought, step answering step, the music threading us closer.
We are not prince and princess. Not pawns.
Only two bodies suspended in a truth too fragile to name.
A sharp inhale ripples through the crowd. We haven’t broken the rhythm, only suspended it—and for that single beat, we’re untouchable. The still point around which the court turns. Darian lingers, his palm pressed to my spine, then draws me into motion once more. A sigh follows us like a tide. The women watch as if, just for a breath, I’ve stepped into the life they wish they were promised.
“It’s a shame,” he says, leaning closer. “That you only let yourself move like this when it can be mistaken for duty.”
We drift, circling each other in tense silence. His gaze never leaves mine. A step. A turn. Our fingers brush, hold, release. He mirrors me. Or I mirror him. The world falls away, and only the rhythm remains.
“You loathe the Reaping,” he says softly.
I nod in time with the music.
“Not dislike. Not tolerate. You hate it. And nothing they’ve told you has ever made it make sense.”
Another turn. My skirts flare as he leads us into another sweeping step, the spin tighter, quicker than before. He shows me off, not as a trophy, but as a blade in motion. Something honed. Something dangerous. My head swims with it.
“Maybe,” I whisper.
His hand shifts lower, settling with intention just above my hip, and he draws me closer—less than a breath between us now. I feel the tremor beneath his skin.
“What were you told?”
My heart scrapes against its prison, frantic and wild.
This feels dangerous.
Risky.
And I make a choice.
“It preserves peace. Ten men are offered the chance to win my hand in three trials set by both kings. If Larksbind wins my hand, Starsfall loses its magic.”
He exhales sharply and spins me again, this time counter to the last.
A flash of temper beneath the grace.
“Those aren’t the terms,” he growls. “My father has no say in the challenges. Men don’t volunteer, Azhara. They train knowing they’ll die. They do it anyway, praying one of them will sever the treaty and save Larksbind.”
