Page 5 of Labyrinthine
And he’s never hesitated to spill blood.
“Fine,” I grit.
He nods, stepping back without hesitation, and gestures toward a fallen tree. I move slowly, keeping my eyes on him as he sheathes his sword—not with arrogance, but with the casual confidence of someone who knows he doesn’t need it.
“You could’ve let me go.”
He waits until I’m seated before joining me, his tone even. “You brought this on yourself. I’ve spent the evening killing to keep you safe.”
Of course he did. Death follows me as it burns through my veins. It coils behind every step I take, lingers in my shadow, staining everything I touch. Even locked away, even sealed by the gods themselves, the magic inside me hungers. And people die. Whether I will it or not.
“Where’s Anya?” I ask as I sit.
Mallen doesn’t answer.
“Where is she?”
“Taken care of, Princess,” Mallen says.
My breath hitches. Those words could mean anything from banishment to execution.
“What have you done?” I ask.
He exhales slowly, the way he does when calculating risk.
“I didn’t lay a hand on her. I would have captured her, but a group of thieves got to her first. I assume they were targeting the celebrations—looking for coin, distraction, chaos. I made sure they won’t bother anyone again. Let’s hope it won’t take any more sacrifices to keep you safe.”
Maybe things are better this way. Maybe the gods were right to bind me. Because even shackled, my magic leaves bodies in its wake. And I don’t flinch. Not like I should. Not like Anya would have. Her death doesn’t hollow me out. It just confirms what I’ve always suspected: I was born wrong. A weapon pretending to be a girl.
His logic is always convenient. Cold. Effective. He’s a blade honed for strategy, not sentiment—it’s why my father made him Commander so young. He doesn’t hesitate. He never does. And that’s what terrifies me most—that somewhere in me, I’m glad he didn’t.
But something about this feels...off?
“Why?” I press.
A flicker crosses his face—not quite regret, but something less carved in steel.
“Because it matters to you,” he says simply.
His body shifts, muscles relaxing, and he leans just enough for his shoulder to brush mine. It’s nothing like his presence during training—there’s no force behind it, only weight and warmth. But it unsettles me more than his judgment ever has. I start to shake. He notices.
Without comment, he places his hand gently over mine, steadying it on my thigh.
“Azhara,” he says quietly. “Why did you run?”
Those green eyes—they’ve always been sharp, unyielding, the kind that makes men fall silent in his presence. But now they’re unreadable in a different way. Still intense. Still dangerous. But no longer aimed like a weapon. More like a question.
“I can’t bear another Reaping,” I whisper. “They’re going to die. Again. It’s cruel. It’s pointless. I don’t know how else to end it.”
He doesn’t speak right away. When he does, his voice is steady, not unkind.
“It’s ten men a year. Men with no ties to Starsfall. It keeps Larksbind in check, and the rest of us safe. Peace comes with a cost.”
I shake my head against him. Against the firm, solid frame I’ve leaned on too many times to count.
“I don’t want it. I don’t want to be the prize two countries fight over.”
His chest rises with a quiet laugh. It’s low and dry, more breath than sound. His arms wrap around me slowly, like they have all the times I’ve needed his calm before. Like he’s offering something instead of taking it. And I don’t know what it is. Comfort, perhaps. Or loyalty. Or something far more dangerous.
