Page 41 of Labyrinthine
“It wasn’t him,” I whisper. “He took my hand. Once. For show.”
Mallen doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t growl. Doesn’t rage.
He just exhales slowly, the tension in his shoulders easing.
“Good,” he says simply. “Because if he had touched you, I would’ve buried him before the Reaping and let the gods howl about it after.”
There’s no boast in it. No fire. Just steel.
I sink against him, and through the haze of tears, start to explain. The encounter with my father. His voice. The way it hollowed me out. Mallen doesn’t interrupt. He listens. Every muscle in his body stays coiled, but his hand doesn’t stop moving—stroking my hair, steady and warm.
His touch isn’t soft. It isn’t like Darian’s. It’s harder. More certain. Like armor with breath behind it. Like safety with edges.
“I won’t let him hurt you,” he says, voice low. “You are mine, Azhara. As I am yours. And I’ll deal with your father.”
“Mallen…”
“I’ll deal with him.” His tone sharpens. “He’s only kept his grip because I wasn’t strong enough to stop him. But I can now. I will.”
Sound catches in my throat as air leaves my lungs.
Mallen doesn’t make promises he can’t keep. And this one sounds like a vow.
I rest my forehead against his and whisper, “What now?”
“You fight,” he says, softer now. “Because you can. You just haven’t seen it yet.”
My head finds his shoulder, and I close my eyes. I don’t know if he means my father, or the fear, or the legacy carved into my bones. Maybe all of it. Maybe none.
But I believe him.
And for the first time in years, I let myself wonder what life might look like if I fought to keep it.
The tears fall like torrents carving rivers through stone, finally etching themselves into something that’s been buried for too long.
I am not safe. Not alone.
Now I have a choice. One that will cost me.
Darian or Mallen. Light or shadow.
Neither path is without pain.
Both roads end in fire.
I just have to decide which one I’m willing to burn for.
CHAPTER TEN
The gods requireroyal blood in the week before the Reaping.
Not much. Just a drop. A whisper of devotion to prove we remember who we belong to. A symbol, nothing more—unless you believe the stories that say it binds our will to theirs. And even then, you’d have to believe the gods are listening.
I don’t.
My father derides this rite as superstition and refuses to attend because even he cannot make standing at my side when my blood is taken look like strength. So this morning I follow Mallen through Threnos’s streets before dawn, our boots crunching through the splintered remnants of yesterday’s celebration—trampled garlands, wine-stained ribbons, crushed wax from guttering lanterns. The scent of char and old flowers clings to the air like a warning. The capital is still asleep. Everything is hushed, bruised violet in the half-light.
The shrine at the labyrinth’s entrance must be visited at first light. That’s when the dark is thinnest. That’s when the gods remember.
