Page 129 of Labyrinthine
Instead, I pull the hood of my cloak down and ride to the center of the road. I stop and wait, spine straight, gaze unflinching across the wide plain.
The dust reaches me first.
My horse snorts, ears flicking at the sound. I tighten my grip on the reins and force my limbs to stay still. The dirt stings my eyes. Or maybe I’m blinking back what I can’t let fall—not yet.
Then the army arrives.
Trumpets blare and commands echo. A line begins to form—a disciplined wall of steel and evergreen. At its front, a tall, broad-shoulder rider dismounts, his hair pulled back, his face set like stone.
Mallen.
He passes his reins to an officer, murmurs a brief command—quiet as confession, sharp as a blade tucked between ribs. They both glance my way.
And then the officer strides toward me. The man who poured wine on me at the second trial. He’s younger than I remember. Older than he pretended to be. It was an act, all of it. Now, there’s no pretense. Only command. Only conflict.
“Princess,” he says, without bowing. “The Commander insists you come with me.”
I don’t move.
He reaches for my reins and I wheel my horse sharply, forcing it to rear. The officer stumbles back, rage flickering in his eyes.
“Remind the Commander he taught me not to surrender an advantage. If he wants to talk, he’ll meet me halfway.”
The man pales.
“Mallen said no exceptions.”
“I outrank him.”
For a moment, I think the officer might argue. But then his jaw clenches and he turns. Each step back to the line is reluctant, as if he’s counting them out like a man walking to the gallows.
Mallen watches his approach but his eyes never leave me.
When the message reaches him, he doesn’t hesitate. He steps forward—not far, not halfway. Just enough to make the point. Just enough to force my hand.
I see it now—the way his gait stutters, his right arm held too close, the shadow developing beneath his jaw like rot that mars his skin. He doesn’t mask it. He wants me to look. Wants me to know I left marks. Not just blood-deep, but bone-close. That I still matter enough to hurt him.
I press my heels to the horse’s side. Slow. Intentional. Each step devours the hush between us like fire licking dry parchment.
Eyes rake across me—soldiers, strangers—and I let them. Let them witness me try to heal the wound I carved into him.
He’s hurt.
He wants me to notice.
And I will not look away.
I stop when there’s barely a breath of space between us.
“Princess.”
His voice is low. Cold.
“Commander.”
A breath shifts his mouth—not a smile, but the memory of one. A bruise creeps across his cheek like dusk swallowing the sky. Guilt lances through me. I hurt him. I had to. But still?—
He steps closer.
