Page 45 of Labyrinthine
Mallen’s expression doesn’t change. But I see his dark eyes darken further. “They won’t make it through this year either.”
He says it like a fact. Like a warning. Like the Reaping is already rigged, and the ten men from Larksbind have no hope. Like their prince is leading them to certain death.
A glint of rose-gold catches on the statue’s blade, and I pause. It’s the dawn—it must be—but for a moment, the edge gleams wet, like fresh blood rather than rust. I blink, and it’s gone. Just morning light on old iron. Still, an unpleasant cold slides down my spine.
“We should go,” I say, my voice quieter than I intended.
He inclines his head. He doesn’t look back at the statue, doesn’t ask what I saw. He knows better. We scale the stone steps together, side by side, and the wind does not follow. It stays behind us, caught in the ribs of the labyrinth, as if reluctant to let us leave.
The streets are still empty when we reach them. No carriages yet. No bells. Just the abandoned aftermath of celebration,scattered like bones across the flagstones. I sidestep a broken wine cup, its lip stained red, and brush my fingers against the wall beside me for balance.
Mallen doesn’t speak, but his nearness speaks for him. Every step he takes is perfectly matched to mine. Not dominating. Not deferent. Just...aligned.
I feel him look at me, once. I don’t return it. I don’t need to. His gaze is a gravity I’ve already surrendered to—and it steadies me more than any wall beneath my hand.
“Why do you come with me? Every year?” I ask, finally turning to him. “You could send your guards instead. I don’t understand why you insist on this.”
“I don’t take orders from your father,” he says simply.
“Everyone takes orders from my father.”
His gaze settles on mine. His eyes are so dark in the shadow of his hood that they look like they’re brown or black or a color far colder than the green I know them to be.
“Because you are here,” he says. “That’s why I come.”
He says it like it’s a truth he doesn’t need to defend. Like it’s reason enough.
And maybe it should be. But I’ve heard too many pretty lies dressed up as loyalty. I’ve seen too many promises rot before they bloomed.
“Do you make a habit of following girls into holy places at dawn?” I ask, a brittle edge to the words.
His mouth curves—barely.
“Only the dangerous ones.”
We don’t speak again until the palace rises into view, its pale towers catching the dawn like spears of light. The silence is no longer quiet. It hums with a different tune—one that’s low and rising and refuses to be suppressed.
I stop. So does he. His face is inches from mine, the hood shadowing his sharp cheekbones. Tension knots his jaw; I see the effort it takes not to move.
Not to reach.
Not to claim.
“Your father wouldn’t approve of more,” Mallen says at last.
“No,” I reply. “He wouldn’t.”
Another pause passes.
“That’s not a no.” He presses his lips together.
“Maybe it should be,” I whisper.
His eyes search mine, his green and gleaming in the shifting light. “If that’s what you want, why don’t you run?”
I shouldn’t answer. I shouldn’t say anything. But I do.
“Because I’ve already been caught.”
