Page 72 of Labyrinthine
Mallen studies me for a moment and then tilts his head in that familiar way—like he’s watching me from a place I’ll never quite reach.
There isn’t any doubt in his expression.
He knows I’ve lied.
And he’s choosing not to challenge me.
And that hurts more than if he’d lied.
He brushes a finger against my wrist, tracing the spot where Darian’s hand held mine. Darian clings like fire—bright, consuming, dangerous. But Mallen lingers like shadow—patient, watching, always waiting to be chosen.
Mallen’s voice is gentle when he speaks, deep and full of quiet conviction.
“So it’s a lie that comes between us,” he says.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
A heavy goldnecklace hangs around my throat, bright as a sunlit serpent coiled to strike. When the light hits it, fractured beams scatter across the walls like splintered glass. It gleams like something sacred. But it feels like a shackle. Mallen notices, eyes flicking down, jaw tightening.
“You’ll never wear another chain, even if it is gilded in gold,” he says, quietly. A promise, not a question.
My shoulders ease, but he doesn’t reach for me. Doesn’t offer comfort.
“Shall we go?” he asks, cool and clipped.
We walk in silence. His hand hovers near mine, never touching. His jaw is set hard enough to crack and it’s not the trial making him rigid. It’s me. It’s last night. The lie he recognized for what it was—and who it was for. He doesn’t speak of it. Doesn’t rage. He just withdraws, leaving silence in his wake like a blade left hanging in the air.
Guilt churns in my stomach. He’s hurting. And I want to reach through the wall he’s built. I want to say I’m sorry. But I can’t say it aloud. Not when I’m not sure I am.
We stop outside the arena. Mallen turns. His face is granite. His eyes storm. There’s something in the way he’s holding himself—as if his own skin is too tight.
“It will be fast,” he says. Low, gritted. “I’ll be close if you need me.”
I hesitate, reaching for him. A small gesture. A plea.
He steps back. Almost imperceptibly. A slight shake of the head. He nods toward the doors instead. Dismissal cloaked as direction.
I walk forward, spine straightening. Each step is a refusal to be diminished. The arena opens before me like a wound.
My father smiles.
It isn’t warmth. It’s a grin carved from bone and ice, honed on the edge of cruelty. He welcomes me with that hollow, rehearsed benevolence he wears like a second skin. I move to my place beside him, slipping into the role he cast for me—princess, prize, ornament. The sovereign daughter groomed for auction.
Below, the tributes stand in formation, prepared for whatever torment comes next. All of them follow Darian as he steps forward and bows. He stands tall as the others echo his movement. One of them sways, limping.
“Can’t we spare the injured one?” I murmur.
My father’s lip curls. “Rules are rules, Azhara. You’ve broken enough of them already.”
I don’t respond. The crowd roars, free from the burden of his malice. The stone of the arena gleams white under the sun, too pure for what’s about to happen. Arches rise like cathedral bones, and the people give thanks to their gods, blind to the blood being poured in their name. A child balances on the railingwith a fistful of sugared figs, giggling as a blood-stained banner dances in the breeze beneath them.
Darian’s gaze stays locked on mine. Clear, unflinching. Sky blue and sunlit gold. There’s a steadiness in him, a grounding. He’s unafraid. Or he hides it better than most. He turns slightly, directing the others with a single hand.
The arena is unchanged—sand underfoot, walls too sheer to climb, flags whispering in the breeze. But something is wrong. The crates along the edges are too large, too still. Five of them. And the servants waiting by the ropes look like they’d rather flee than follow orders.
I glance at Mallen.
He sees me. But he doesn’t move.
