Page 20 of Labyrinthine
“Larksbind sent their prince?” I whisper.
CHAPTER FIVE
Mallen’s handbrushes the small of my back as he guides me through the palace gates. It’s a fleeting touch. Nothing the nobles clustered along the marble colonnade could mark as improper. But it’s different from before. Protective, yes. But bristling too. Charged. He squares his body behind mine as we pass beneath the arched doorway, as if what happened might harm me.
And I don’t know if what’s burning is his touch or what happened with the prince from Larksbind. Darian.
I keep my head high, my spine regal, my steps measured and slow because Starsfall’s heir must not let the terror. Or the nervous excitement either.
Inside, the cool hush of shadowed stone closes around us. But my pulse doesn’t slow.
The heat of the night still clings to my skin—phantom flames brushing my calves, the echo of Darian’s voice, as smooth as thegold of my dress, still curling in my ears. I try to push it aside, to silence it with the steady rhythm of my steps and the press of mosaic tiles beneath my heels.
But the memory lingers.
So does Mallen.
We walk in silence for three full corridors. A hush pools in the space between us, broken only by the distant flutter of banners in the upper halls and the murmurs of servants scurrying to prepare the reception chamber.
“What is Larksbind doing?” I murmur, low enough that only he can hear. “They sent Darian to face the Reaping. Their heir. He’ll die. Unless they know something we don’t.”
Mallen doesn’t answer at first. The tension in his posture tightens, the corded muscle in his forearm flexing beneath his bracer.
“I don’t like guessing games,” he says at last.
“That wasn’t a guess.” I glance sideways at him, keeping my tone mild. “It was a question. You usually enjoy those.”
He exhales—sharply, but not with frustration. With control. Every movement Mallen makes is carefully banked, like a fire trained to flicker instead of roar.
“I don’t know him personally,” he says. “But his reputation precedes him. Cunning and polished. The kind who shakes your hand to count your rings, and only smiles when he is already winning.”
“You don’t like him.”
This time, the flicker is sharper. Keener. Fiercer. “I don’t know him. I know his type.”
We round the final turn before the great hall. A long stained-glass window casts its fractured light across the corridor, splashing shards of gold and crimson across Mallen’s armor. It softens him. Makes him look almost ethereal.
I stop beneath the window. Not because I need to. But because I want to see his face.
“You mean charming?” I press, just enough to test.
Just enough to feel the edge of what he’s holding back. He doesn’t smile. Not even a twitch. Only those eyes, dark and steady emeralds, glint, watching me like I’m something he’s sworn to protect and been ordered not to touch.
“I mean gilded,” he says. “He’s forged for others to admire—not for truth.”
A pause.
“He’s been raised to make princesses fall,” he adds, so low it would be easy to miss it.
My pulse skitters. The window overhead gleams a little too brightly.
“I’m not the falling type,” I say, pivoting toward the open doors ahead.
“Good.” His voice is rougher now, not angry—just raw, like its tone keeps him in check. “Though you are the hunted kind. For now.”
I stop. He steps closer, close enough that I feel the heat of him at my back. His next words are quiet and measured.
“You cannot lower your guard, Princess. Especially with him. Keep your truth close and your lies closer, no matter the cost.” His breath stirs the back of my neck. “Even if it tangles the court or causes friction with Moonsrise. You must keep that lie steady. You were afraid. They tried to take you. I stopped them and brought you back. Let it sound like a confession, not a defense. He needs to believe that.”
