Page 166 of Labyrinthine
He looks like a king.
But I’m the one in command.
He doesn’t show apprehension, not to them. But his nervousness flows into me through our bond, a quiet unease threading under his control. His gaze moves down the lengthof me—green silk, bare skin, emeralds glinting like armor. He stops. Stares. I feel it as it shatters him.
The crowd cheers again, and I blush—but not for them. Never for them.
Only for him.
He walks toward me, gaze steady, mouth curled in a smile meant only for me. There’s no script now, no performance. Just the two of us, tied together by more than memory.
By thread. By blade. By blood.
“Azhara,” he says, voice quiet despite the noise.
“Mallen.” My voice catches. My throat’s too dry, my chest too tight.
He waits at the final step, giving me the high ground. Marcus stands at my side now, hand resting lightly on his blade. The place Mallen once guarded with silence and fire. The place he abandoned, so I could choose it for myself.
This is the final breath of the world we knew. And the first flicker of whatever might come next.
Mallen bends one knee. Just one.
He lowers his head, not because I ordered it, not because he must, but because it matters. Because we both know the court is watching. Because this lie we turn into truth matters more than comfort.
The air shifts—thin and taut as thread, as if the gods themselves are watching.
The silence that follows is complete. An eternity in a heartbeat. A breath held in expectation.
My heart beats once. Again. Too fast. My hands tremble.
I descend the last step.
His head tips back as I approach. I thread my fingers through his hair, and the world narrows to us. There is reverence in his stillness. A cacophony of unsaid things pass in silence, each more intimate than speech.
“I would kneel for you a thousand times if it meant the world sees you as I do,” he says. “I am yours. Only yours. If you will have me.”
I don’t speak. Just smile and let all I am ripple through the bond.
He takes my hand, and I cling to him—not for ceremony, not for the crowd. For balance. For breath.
“You’re meant to answer,” he whispers, mouth tilted in a grin.
“You’re meant to ask,” I breathe, smiling back.
He laughs, free and bright. I’ve rarely seen him like this before—unburdened. For one exquisite second, he’s not the sword, not the shadow. He’s just Mallen.
“Marry me,” he says. “Let me stand beside you. As your equal.”
His voice carries no question—only truth laid bare. My heart stumbles anyway. I nod once, breath faltering, and he holds me, suspended, in that sliver of stillness, just long enough to feel it break.
“Yes.”
The word brings silence to my soul, but it rings louder than any oath. The crowd shatters into sound. Mallen slips a ring onto my finger, and before I’ve fully seen it, he’s lifting me like a promise, mouth on mine. The kiss bruises and breathes me into being. When we part, the world rearranges its seams to let us fit.
As equals.
The nobles bow as we pass. Not to Mallen—to me.
