Page 152 of Labyrinthine
The ground shakes—another blast hits behind me. My horse screams again—but she does not stop.
The gods do not either.
We reach the courtyard. It’s empty. There are no guards at their posts. No nobles on the balconies. Doors gape onto still halls. Banners hang without breath.
Just gone. Like someone cut the strings of the storm.
The silence that follows is worse than the fire. It swallows everything. My breath. My heartbeat. The scream that still echoes in my skull.
I pull hard on the reins.
We skid to a halt in the center of the courtyard.
The palace looms above, blackened and hollow-eyed. The doors are ajar. A gust of wind—or magic—slams them fully open with a groan like the belly of the earth cracking.
I dismount.
My legs almost give. I’m shaking. Covered in ash, blood, soot. My hands tremble—but I’m still standing.
I made it.
And then agony tears through me.
Behind me.
The bond.
Mallen.
He’s coming. Fast. Reckless. His rage is a cacophony of pain. His grief too. His desperation. He’s cut off, and finding another path. Gods, he’ll make one if he has to. He’s fighting like a manon the verge of losing everything, and his thoughts batter against mine like fists against a locked door—wild, bloodied, desperate. Each one lands with the weight of a truth he’s too late to stop.
“Azhara, no. Stop. Please, gods, STOP.”
But I already have.
I’ve waited too long. Lived too small.
I won’t beg for freedom from men who name it love.
I’d rather burn than belong to anyone but myself.
I would rather stand alone than be loved on someone else’s terms.
I’m not turning back.
I step toward the palace.
I will not kneel. I am not a tribute. And I will not offer supplication.
The air inside bites, like breath drawn through shattered crystal and broken dreams. Frost feathers across the scorched stone, and my exhale ghosts white before me. Black marble shudders beneath me, and the fire fades, its echoes clinging to my skin, to my bones.
The walls close around me—vaulted stone, marred by smoke.
The frescoes survive—half-burned saints with soot-ringed halos, their gold leaf flaking like scabs. They do not bless me. Their painted gazes follow as I pass, not in reverence, but in mourning.
And still I walk forward.
He lies ahead. My tormentor. My father.
