Page 47 of Labyrinthine
He steps back without a word, bows, and turns, rejoining the men from Larksbind. The crowd shifts to fill the space he leaves behind. But the whispers remain. A pointed, poisonous hum.
“Did you see that?” someone hisses behind a jeweled fan.
“She turned him down. In front of everyone.”
“No fear at all,” another whispers. “Just ice. Just like her mother.”
“Gods help the man that survives the labyrinth to reach her. I’ve never seen her smile.”
I’m alone, and no one dares to join me.
No woman here knows me well enough to side with me. Not yet.
I lift my chin, take a glass of wine from a passing attendant, and smile at the nearest noble. I force myself into conversation. The man drones on about his painting collection with exhausting pride. I nod, sip, nod again—my magic restless under my skin, pushing for release.
But I don’t retreat. I let the crowd circle me.
Tonight, I’m not the hidden daughter, neither a veiled threat nor a weakness. I’m visible. Valuable. And they know it.
Mallen hasn’t looked away once. He stands near the throne, but his presence is a shadow on my shoulder. Each time a man draws too close, his fingers tighten around the hilt at his side.
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. But he watches.
He’s not my shield. He’s the blade held to the throat of anyone who might harm me.
And yet, despite the darkness in him, I trust him more than any man here.
A hand brushes my wrist.
I spin. My magic flares to the surface, snapping against its leash. My breath catches.
Darian steps back, eyebrows lifting slightly.
“I didn’t mean to startle you,” he says smoothly. “I only came to ask for a dance.”
“You didn’t,” I lie.
He smiles again, slow and knowing.
“May I?”
He holds his hand out. I glance down.
He waits. Patient. Poised. “I’ll tread carefully.”
“I don’t dance.”
He leans in, voice softer now. “Then let me walk with you.”
“I said I don’t dance,” I repeat. “Not that I can’t.”
“Ah,” he says, smile widening. “So it’s a choice.”
Darian smells like wild air, like salt and moss and wind in high places. Like freedom.
“I don’t dance either,” he says, and his fingers brush mine again. “We’ll improvise.”
He takes my hand, before I can protest, and pulls me toward the center of the hall. The court watches, sharp-eyed. A foreign prince should not be leading me to the dance floor. Especially one from Larksbind. This could read as more than a claim. But no one moves to stop him.
