Page 51 of Labyrinthine
My father steps forward, sweeping the sycophants aside with a rustle of silk and steel. He lifts his arms. The crowd erupts. This is what they came for—velvet gowns and crimson gore.
This is Starsfall’s idea of theater.
Even Mallen seems hungry for death.
Once, I believed I wasn’t alone in hating it. Once, Mallen’s disgust matched mine. There had been solace in that shared revulsion. But not this year. This year, he wants blood. This year, he needs it.
My father begins his speech, thanking the gods for this abomination. I bow my head out of necessity, not reverence, my teeth clenching as I mouth their names. If this is divine will, then their thrones should be overturned and set to fire. I would rather burn than worship what they are. I would rather let Larksbind swallow all Starsfall’s magic than endure this again.
“Azhara,” my father says, and my name becomes a weapon.
I step toward him, still shaking. I cling to Mallen’s arm until the last possible second. My father watches the weakness with thinly veiled contempt.
He walks to me and takes my hands, all fatherly grace and cruel affection. His smile is for the audience. His voice is for me alone.
“He wants a challenge, not a fragile disappointment,” he murmurs, his voice silk-wrapped venom. He kisses my cheek. “You managed to be bold last night. Don’t shame me now.”
I lift my chin. I do not flinch. Then I turn and step to the edge of the platform, fingers dipping into the silver bowl. The petals are soft as breath, crimson and gold. I cast them over thetributes, and the breeze takes them like ashes. There is no joy in this. No celebration. No triumph.
The crowd cheers. Darian steps forward and lifts his sword in salute. He is playing the part they want from him—the golden prince, bold and brazen—but his eyes are on me.
He kneels, picks up a fallen petal, and raises it to the sky before sliding it beneath his breastplate. The gesture is pure theater. The court sighs and claps. The women swoon. They still think it’s a love story.
They still believe.
His gaze never leaves mine. And despite myself, I flush.
My father notices.
“You’d almost think you cared for him,” he hisses through clenched teeth. “Do you?”
“No,” I say, the word shaped like poison.
He isn’t just another man about to die. His isn’t a name to be forgotten or a body to be buried. I don’t know what Darian is to me—but I know he’s not nothing.
Darian smiles again, slow and knowing, and the court devours it. I clench my hands until my nails bite flesh. Too late. They’ve seen it. It doesn’t even have to be true. The story writes itself.
“Can we get this over with?” I snap before I can stop myself.
“I thought you’d never ask, Highness,” Mallen says, stepping forward with grim elegance. He raises his hand, and the roar of thousands falls into silence. Even the wind obeys. Starsfall holds its breath. Darian bows once more and strides into the arena’s heart. The sand waits. The gods wait. The gates groan.
Three daemons. That is the usual offering. Creatures torn from nightmare, caged beneath the arena. Mallen traps them himself, ensuring the quota is met. What we were, what we are, and what we might yet become. Their hunger is the same as mine, their darkness born from the same night.
Blood buys us peace.
And they are the price of containing my magic.
Mallen lowers his arm, and the trial begins. Trumpets tear the hush. Winches catch, and the iron gates grind upward, chains screaming under the tiers. Sand whispers as the crowd stills. The ward sigils along the rim flare cold and then steady. But this year, something’s different.
The first daemon bursts into the arena on two legs, towering three times Darian’s height, its shoulders scraping the lifted gate. Its hide is oil-black stone, ridged and scarred beneath the ward light. Ram horns curl from its skull, and its jaw unhinges too wide, rows upon rows of jagged teeth. Spittle hits the sand and smokes. Its arms hang to the knees, fingers hooked into sickles, and jointed legs end in split talons that bite the ground. A barbed tail lashes, carving furrows. It roars, and the sound shudders through the tiers.
The tributes don’t scatter. They form a line—shoulder to shoulder—at the heart of the arena, boots set in the churned sand. Blades lift. Helmets turn as one, like a dare thrown at the dark. Not frightened boys. Not desperate conscripts.
A unit.
Darian barks commands. Two clipped words. His hand cuts left, steadies, and the line shifts with him. They move like water, fluid and precise. Gone is the charming rogue with the devil’s smile. What remains is colder. Sharper. A commander born of blood and battlefield.
These men aren’t carpenters. Not merchants or dockhands dragged into sacrifice. They are trained. Drilled. Ready. They hold the ground and make it theirs.
