Page 165 of Labyrinthine
About power. And sharing it.
The knock comes. Marcus enters, takes one look at me, and forgets himself.
“You look stunning.”
“You’re not bowing,” I say.
He grins and then corrects himself with exaggerated flair. “Majesty.”
I arch a brow. “Does he have the ring?”
“He does.”
My fingers trail over my jewelry. Casually. Perhaps too easily.
“He’s still in a mood?”
“Oh, yes. Don’t let that fool you. Mallen would kneel for you a thousand times if you asked him to. He resents it because Threnos needs toseeit. He’s your equal, Majesty, not your better, and he’ll make damn sure the nobles know it.”
They say that Mallen conquered Starsfall. They believe he tamed the monster locked inside it—and me. But they’re wrong. I am not caged. I only learned how to dance inside the bars.
And today, I will claim what’s mine.
We walk the long route through the palace, taking the same path I walked each year for a decade as I entered into a gameI never wanted any part of. I played it anyway—and remade its rules. Not just to survive, but to win on my terms.
Today, I walk this path freely.
For the last time.
Today, we begin to rebuild what my father broke.
We reach the final corridor, where light fractures through the windows like spilled wine on glass. My footsteps echo—soft and ceremonial—across marble veined with memory. Every tile remembers.
The doors ahead yield without protest, opening to the altar of the Reaping: bare, wide, aching. Once a place for death. Today, it waits for a vow.
The nobles are already gathered. The square is full to bursting, every level and ledge packed with people. Banners ripple in the breeze, their colors brighter than memory. Children dart between their elders’ legs, playing swordfights with sticks, their laughter piercing the murmurs of the crowd. A woman sells flowers from a worn cart, tossing blossoms like blessings into the street.
Still, Starsfall holds its breath—hope and hesitation braided so tight they bleed at the edges.
I step into view, and a hush falls over the crowd.
We descend the steps, and the crowd erupts as I raise my hands—not in praise, but in acknowledgment. The gesture they expect. Starsfall roars for freedom, for victory, for the start of a new monarch’s reign. It believes itself reborn. It wants to believe we’ve turned the page, that history won’t repeat.
The nobles speak in reverent murmurs, but their silence says more. They remember what a crowned monster looks like. They know my father is gone. What they do not know is whether we are a lull or the next disaster, wrapped in finer cloth.
They fear what lies behind the veil—war at the doorstep, ash in the well, names carved into gravestones before they’ve been spoken aloud.
Our reign will be different. That’s the lie I breathe like a prayer. That’s the truth I want and bleed toward. A time of healing and laughing. Of peace, too, if we are fortunate.
I close my eyes and reach for the magic that’s returned to Starsfall. It stirs like it’s waking from a winter’s sleep. It flows in our rivers, floats through the air, and roots itself in the trees. It whispers beneath our feet. It threads through the kingdom, glimmering in the sunlight. I feel it now, humming just under the surface—certain, waiting, wild.
It gathers on my skin like dusk before the fall of night—too close, too quiet. It stains my breath. And when I open my eyes, the sky gleams like a fever dream. The colors too vivid, the edges too bright. Unbearably alive.
The wind moves through the trees, and they answer in elegy. The meadows smell of dust and pollen and new beginnings. Somewhere, a child laughs. Somewhere else, a bell tolls once, low and strangely solemn.
A poet will write a sonnet about this day and miss the point entirely.
My gaze finds Mallen. He waits at the base of the steps, his clothes marking him as royalty. As my equal. But it’s his eyes that hold my attention—green as moss after rain, green as envy, green as memory. The same shade as mine. A mirror. A message. A vow returned.
