Page 146 of Labyrinthine
“We’re dead if she’s not,” Marcus snaps, wheeling his horse and galloping back toward the line of officers. Dust flares in his wake.
Mallen doesn’t look at me.
Ahead, the capital rises from the dusky earth like a wound in the hills—white stone glowing faintly against the bruised sky. The walls shimmer—not with magic, but with memory. Light slicks the stone like sweat, like grief, like a city holding its breath. The flags above the ramparts flutter in the twilight, red and gold catching the last of the sun. They should be beautiful. Instead, they make my blood run cold.
This was my city once. My home. My prison.
It’s too quiet. The breeze barely stirs the grass. The army is still. Horses shift, bridles clinking softly, soldiers adjusting gear that doesn’t need adjusting. Beneath the calm, tension coils. The men know what’s coming. Some wear blank expressions, others grim resolve. A few look up toward the distant towers—wondering if tonight, they’ll breathe their last.
Mallen raises his hand. The movement is smooth, deliberate, and unmistakable. A pause follows—thick enough to choke on—then his hand drops, cutting the dusk in half.
Everything erupts.
Marcus bellows orders. Formations shift. Runners bolt toward flanking units. Hooves strike stone. The army flows forward like a tide breaking loose from its dam. There’s a strange kind of order in it—controlled chaos, fierce and exacting. This is what Mallen’s built. These are his soldiers. They don’t hesitate.
I do.
I freeze—not from fear, but recognition. The stillness before the first note of a requiem. The last inhale before the sky gives way to fire. Then Mallen turns, gives me one look—nothing soft in it, just command—and I move.
“Stay close,” he hisses, already urging his horse ahead.
His voice isn’t anxious. It’s resigned. Like he expects this to go to hell, and he’s made peace with it.
We ride hard. The wind claws at my cloak. The trees fall away behind us. The road narrows and then dips. The walls of Threnos draw closer, gleaming pale and ghostly in the gloom. A crescent moon glints against the silver trim of Mallen’s armor as he leads the charge—half warrior, half myth.
It sounded so simple.
Take the south gate fast, before the palace realizes what’s happening. Marcus’s unit would slip through the forest and open a second front on the east side. It’s daring. Bold. Reckless, if anyone but Mallen were leading this attack. We’re counting on speed over subtlety—and Mallen’s not a commander who gambles unless he’s certain the odds are in his favor.
I ride behind him, close enough to feel the churn of his horse’s wake, the burn in my thighs worsening with every jolt. My fingers ache. My ribs are tight. I don’t know if I’m afraid or angry or both.
Then something shifts.
Not in us—but in the world itself.
I glance up. The battlements are still. No archers. No alarms. Just the flags, limp now in the windless dusk.
Mallen slows. I match him, heart hammering.
He’s seen it too.
We should be under fire by now. We should be dying. But the gate looms ahead, unbarred. Open. Two guards on either side, pacing as if it’s any other night. No reinforcements. No barricades. No blood.
A shiver crawls up my spine.
It’s wrong.
Everything about it screams wrong.
But we ride through anyway, slipping past the threshold like knives through silk. The moment we enter the gatehouse, our soldiers swarm forward. Mallen’s voice rings sharp andcommanding—orders, names, instructions shouted across the courtyard.
The city guards don’t resist.
They just drop their weapons. Hands up. Expressions blank.
I pull my horse into a tight circle, watching in disbelief as men move up the stairs to secure the towers. Within minutes, the south gate is ours.
Not a single drop of blood spilled.
