Page 70 of Labyrinthine
Darian leans forward, voice soft. “Was he told to sleep beside your bed? To watch you like he’d kill the air for brushing your skin?”
I flinch. He sees too much.
“Why would your father want me to be jealous of Mallen?” he asks, but it isn’t a challenge. It’s a puzzle, laid gently in my lap.
I meet his eyes and find no anger there. No bruised pride. He’s calm. Waiting for my answer.
“To distract you from tomorrow’s challenge,” I whisper, each word a tiny betrayal. “He won’t let me you claim me without a fight, Darian. He’ll take any advantage he can, even if I pay the price.”
Darian nods, his hand brushing mine. He squeezes gently.
“The Reaping isn’t the only game being played,” he murmurs.
My gaze drifts around the room. The decor is subdued, almost forgettable. No gilded mirrors, no grand tapestries. The paintings are old—still water, winter trees, the gods giving gifts.One even shows the first King of Starsfall kneeling to offer the Bow of Honor to a commoner who saved his life. A symbol of humility. Of the crown’s debt to the brave, now all but forgotten.
My father despises this room.
So why bring Darian here?
“What is it?” he asks.
I reach for his tunic and smooth a non-existent crease. “The room doesn’t make sense.”
”Oh, I don’t know.” Darian’s gaze shifts to the painting that dominates the east wall. “It has some appeal.” He leans close and puts his lips against my ear. “If you know what to look for.”
He straightens and rubs his earlobe once and again glances at the painting. As understanding arrives, my knees almost give out. We are being watched. My father is listening.
I force my breath to steady. My stomach knots. I want to be wrong. I want to believe I’ve misunderstood. But of course I haven’t. There’s no garden meeting today. This room was chosen because it serves him.
Darian tilts his head and smiles. “It’s my turn to make Mallen jealous.”
He shifts closer, his gaze heavy on mine.
I don’t move.
He leans in and stops. A breath away.
Our lips don’t meet.
“You’re changing,” he murmurs, his voice a thread of velvet. “You won’t let yourself be used anymore. Not even by me.”
“I’m tired of all these games,” I whisper.
His smile fades. Not fully, but enough.
“I’m not playing,” he says.
I close my eyes for half a breath. I want to believe him. I want to believe anyone. But trust has become a trick mirror—showing me only what I wish to see, never what’s true.
“I will survive the Reaping and win your affection, and not because you’re a prize to claim,” Darian replies, quieter now. “You’re remarkable, Azhara. And you’re finally beginning to realize it.”
I don’t respond. I don’t need to. The silence does what words cannot—it admits he’s right.
We drift into small talk, the kind that’s dull enough to bore anyone listening. It’s all smoke—scattered phrases and idle nostalgia, chosen carefully to hide the deeper pulse beneath them. He leads, weaving a picture of Larksbind like it’s a lullaby meant to seduce the restless part of me. The capital built high on the clifftops, white stone gleaming above the raging sea. Fishermen pulling nets through the surf. Lanterns bobbing like fireflies as ships return to harbor. He speaks of the forest and the salt-thick wind, the hunt and the feasts, and a kind of joy that feels unfamiliar to me—quiet, wild, unburdened.
It sounds like freedom.
It sounds like peace.
