Page 43 of Labyrinthine
The wind shifts—barely a breath—but it lifts a lock of hair across my cheek, and I don’t brush it away. The moment is balanced on a blade’s edge. One move could break it. Or change everything.
“Thank you,” I say.
He frowns. “For what?”
“For not trying to fix it.”
He nods. So simple.
“I’m not here to mend you, Azhara.” His voice is steady. Constant. “I’m here to make sure no one else breaks you.”
The way he says it is tender and terrifying. Not a promise. A certainty. A warning.
A shadow moves at the top of the steps, and I glance up just in time to see the priestess who oversees the shrine as she turns away. She’s always here for the blood. For the prayers. But she leaves us alone now, her white robes catching the wind as she slips back toward the palace walls.
The gods have no faces. But their servants know when not to interfere.
We are alone at the labyrinth’s entrance.
I should walk away. The offering is done. Dawn has broken. There’s nothing left to say. But I don’t move. And neither does he.
Mallen watches me with that impossible patience. The kind that isn’t passive at all—it’s feral, coiled, waiting for permission. It burns through his stare, in every little glance he gives me. Not lust. Something hungrier.
“I hate this,” I say at last.
He nods.
“I hate the Reaping.”
He nods again.
I take a breath, and it comes out crooked. “But I hate being afraid more.”
He exhales. And inclines his head.
The silence stretches. I let it.
The cold sinks deeper now that the ritual is over. My blood still stains the shrine blade. A single droplet trails from my wrist, winding down the curve of my palm, catching at the edge of my dress. I don’t wipe it away. The gods are greedy. Let them take what they want.
A gull cries high above the palace walls, ragged and sharp. In the clearing below the statue, the wind shifts, drawing through the iron bars of the labyrinth gate. It makes a low sound—half breath, half sigh.
“I used to fear this place,” I say.
Mallen doesn’t look at me. “You still should.”
“I don’t.”
He glances down, eyes unreadable. “Then you’ve forgotten what waits inside.”
“No,” I murmur. “I learned to bleed slower.”
His eyes narrow, barely. His jaw ticks, just. The flicker of understanding that flashes over his face is not gentle, nor comforting, but it is real. He sees me—as he’s always seen me. A girl gifted violence for a spine, who has the discipline to hold it back. A woman who could become ruin, if I chose to stop pretending. The princess who beat Darian without blinking, not the daughter my father kept in velvet cages.
I am not soft. I am not tame. I am not afraid of monsters.
The rusted gate looms in front of us, every bar twisted into a shape that suggests movement—like barbs mid-thrash, like teeth about to bite. The shimmer of the royal seal is barely visible now, but its presence pulses behind my eyes, crawling down my spine like a thought I didn’t choose. It’s old magic. Labyrinth magic. And it’s waking. Maybe it’s changing.
I step closer, until the iron is only inches from my skin.
