Page 54 of Labyrinthine
It’s still alive—and still deadly.
Its flanks are shredded, one eye hanging from its socket, but it crouches in a pool of its own blood, snarling. Saliva froths around its broken teeth. It lunges and the men from Larksbind close in, forming a ring around it like a trap snapping shut.
The beast fights back. Its claws sweep low and catch one man’s leg, ripping it open to the bone. He collapses, screaming. Darian moves in to cover him. Another soldier thrusts a spear into the daemon’s ribs—deep—but the creature doesn’t falter. It sinks its teeth into the shaft and snaps the weapon in half.
Still, they press it. Surround it. Bleed it.
The daemon’s roars go hoarse as it weakens. Cuts crisscross its entire body. Blood drips in thick lines onto the floor. It tries to leap away—tries to flee—but it’s too late.
Darian slams his sword through its chest.
It stumbles. A second later, a spear pins it to the ground like an insect beneath glass. The creature screams, an agonizing, gurgling howl that makes my skin crawl.
It writhes. Fails. And then?—
The soldiers charge.
They tear it apart.
One last decapitation. One final spray of blood. The arena floor is a butcher’s yard, soaked with gore and littered with twitching daemon limbs. Of the ten men, three are dead and one might never use his leg again. Darian stands, panting, blood running down his side. His sword drips. Behind him, one of the soldiers hauls up the daemon’s severed head in triumph—but he can barely stand. Another man loops his arm around his waist and half-carries him toward the podium, where my father waits to deliver his approval.
He steps forward, beaming, raising his arms to the crowd like a benevolent god. The audience screams his name.
“Starsfall salutes the valor of Larksbind,” my father says, voice warm as wine. “It is good to see they send soldiers who can stand.” He lifts a hand to the sky. “We thank the gods for their discernment; they have kept alive those worth keeping. May tomorrow prove today was skill, not fortune.”
I press my hands together, a silent offering to Darian. He sees me. And smirks.
“Daughter,” my father calls, his voice cutting through the crowd. “Have you anything to say?”
I step beside him, eyes on Darian, and echo his words. Praise, thanks, reverence. Darian bows and then slowly reaches beneathhis breastplate and pulls out the bloodstained rose petal he kept hidden there.
He lifts it to me. A tribute. A symbol.
The arena falls still.
Everyone is watching.
“For Gods’ sake,” I shout, “get those men to a healer.”
Mallen’s voice cuts through the silence. “We don’t help during the Reaping.” He doesn’t even look at the wounded soldier. “Not even when they’re dying.”
Bitterness drips from every word.
I step forward. “Get. A. Healer.”
My father turns.
His gaze meets mine. He’s standing tall, looming—trying to intimidate me with his presence like he always does.
But I don’t flinch.
If Darian can defeat four daemons, I can stand my ground.
“Why am I repeating myself?” I ask. Softly. Deliberately.
And that’s when it shifts.
His eyes flash with something primal. Not anger. Not even fury. A hatred so violent it almost knocks the breath from my lungs. It tears through him in an instant—and then it vanishes. Replaced by something even worse: a cold, calculated stillness. An evil that doesn’t scream, that doesn’t lash out. It waits. It plans. It kills without blinking.
