Page 158 of Labyrinthine
And so is Mallen.
He stumbles toward me, soot-streaked and bloodied. There’s ash in his hair, a gash across one brow, a tear in his sleeve where a sword must have nicked his shoulder—but he’s alive.
“Azhara—”
He breaks into a run. Not from hesitation, nor fear—just the wild desperation of a man who thought he’d lost everything and is still afraid to believe he hasn’t.
I fall into him.
I don’t collapse. I don’t crumble.
But I step into his arms like they’re the only place I’ve ever wanted to be.
He catches me without a word and holds me to his chest. His hands shake against my spine. Mallen presses his mouth to my temple, my hair, and my shoulder. Not as a man claiming a possession or a throne.
As one who’s just been forgiven.
“You shouldn’t have come alone,” he whispers.
“I had to,” I breathe.
“I felt you break.”
“I didn’t.”
I pull back just enough to look at him. He’s still staring at me like I’m half-shadow, half-star. Like I don’t quite belong in theworld anymore. Like I don’t belong anywhere else but here, with him.
“I’m still me,” I whisper. “Still yours.”
He nods.
Then he cups my jaw, tenderly, reverently. Not kissing. Not yet. Justtouching—like he needs to be sure I’m solid.
“I know.”
And he drops to his knees.
Not in worship. Not in surrender.
But in loyalty.
He kneels before his queen.
And I touch his face, his hair, his shoulder.
Then I take his hand. And wait for him to swear. His loyalty. His devotion. His love.
Threnos is burning.
But I am alive.
And I am home.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Marcusand the soldiers reach the throne room, prepared to face the unthinkable. But instead of carnage, they find silence. My father’s blood stains the floor, the crown rests in my hands, and Mallen—bruised and breathless—kneels below the dais, arms outstretched, as if in surrender to me.
The soldiers falter. Confusion ripples across their ranks.
