Page 17 of Labyrinthine
His entire body stills.
He shakes his head, and the angles of his face sharpen.
I move past him slowly, dragging my hand across his breastplate as I go. My fingers catch the edge of the polished metal and linger there.
“I’ve watched this farce unfold for years,” he says, voice tight. “You’ve suffered enough. They will not touch you without consequence.” His gaze flickers, just briefly. “If they are suitably...repentant, I may grant mercy. But that decision is mine, Princess.”
I don’t push further. Instead, I nod, and he opens the door.
The corridor beyond is lined with banners, candelabras, and guards who stiffen at our presence.
This is the tenth time I’ve done this. The tenth Reaping. The tenth procession. The tenth evening that I’ve worn a gown like armor and walked these steps like a condemned woman to her own funeral.
I was ten the first time. Mallen had been almost fourteen—tall and gangly but already dangerous. I still carried the innocence of a child and hadn’t understood then. It was only in the years that came after that I understood why Mallen had sat with me throughout every banquet. Why he’d stood between me and every man who came from Larksbind. Why he’d refused to leave me alone with them, standing guard while my father did not intervene.
Now I know.
As I know my hatred isn’t only of the Reaping. Or even of its men. Nor is it because I know my father will whisper that I’m lucky to be loved, while their bodies are dragged past my feet.
It’s the performance I hate most, pretending I don’t know how this ends. A week of leading men to their deaths with grace and feigned laughter, while my magic presses like a scream behind my ribs.
“Princess?” His voice cuts through my thoughts.
I glance back as we descend the stairs. Mallen steps closer.
“You are stunning tonight.”
The words are soft, reverent.
My palm settles against my stomach as I stop and inhale and ground myself in the rhythm of breath and blood.
The wind murmurs through the courtyard ahead. I think of running. I think of what it felt like, days ago, to almost be free.
Mallen places his hand against my back. It’s too familiar. Too dangerous. Too right. It’s not protocol. It’s not allowed. But he does it anyway.
“I’m here, Azhara,” he says, voice low. His breath brushes the edge of my ear as he leans closer. “This is the last time. I swear it.”
He doesn’t remind me of what I could have chosen. Doesn’t mention peace or politics, or war. He doesn’t say my magic could have cost less than it does now. His restraint says it all. His hand presses into my spine just slightly—not possessive, but anchoring. And despite everything, I breathe a little easier.
The doors open ahead. The music starts. The Reaping begins.
We face the palace’s Grand Square, a lamplit basin of stone and water held within the palace walls. Balconies brim, banners lift, the fountain scatters torchlight into shards as the twilight colors dazzle. The cheers rise like a song, but I stand apart from it, untouched. Their joy moves around me but never through me—like a warmth I can no longer feel. Maybe it’s because I know this ritual is built on blood and silence. A charade we all endure, because its truth would destroy us all.
Mallen and I descend the stone steps, pausing before the marble columns that flank the palace gates. Beyond them, the procession winds its way uphill. Ten cloaked figures, swathed in Larksbind blue, glide like wraiths through Starsfall’s sunset streets. I watch them as I cross the threshold and take my place beside my father. One step behind him, as is expected. As required.
“You are late, Azhara.”
His voice is mild, a velvet sheath. It cuts anyway. The court tilts to listen.
If I give him my maid took her time, he will break her. If I say it was my fault, he will find a way to make me pay for it later. So I find a third way. The one learned at his knee. The dance Mallentaught me the steps to: use praise as cover, silence as a blade, make the room your witness, and let him love his own reflection.
“Am I, Father?” I lift my chin and turn into the torchlight so the jewels do their work. “Perhaps the procession should wait for its prize to appear. You want me perfect.”
Silk hushes. Goblets still. On my other side, Mallen sets his weight, a quiet shift that reads like a shield finding the ground. His jaw cuts hard, eyes on the king, and the smallest nod tells me that my father saw the move and will not challenge it.
“The next time, be here on time,” my father says.
“Of course,” I answer, smooth as poured wine. “The procession shall have what you want.”
