Page 10 of Labyrinthine
I gaze at the murals and friezes adorning the royal chambers, letting my thoughts drift to the myths they depict. The stories of heroes and villains, of monsters and men, and of great battles and romances that tore the world apart. At the men who were worthy of Starsfall’s greatest honor, who were brave enough that the crown bent for them, offering not just gratitude, but reverence. A gift my father has never learned to give.
He paces, presumably thinking of treaties, borders, and optics. Mallen receives no thanks as my father pours wine, his silence a verdict. His thoughts are not on me. They never are. I’ve lived here too long to foster such foolish delusions.
“Is she intact?” he asks finally.
“Unharmed, Your Highness.”
It’s a clinical term. A transactional concern that ought to make me flinch. Instead, it leaves me feeling nothing. That’s what I am to my father. A commodity. A prize to be claimed. A bauble to dangle in front of kingdoms like Moonsrise and Mistsong and even Rivenmere.
The nobles fidget and I wonder if they’re surprised by his callousness. I don’t move. Let them see the truth. Let them know I’m not the adored daughter he makes me pretend to be.
“Azhara’s had enough for one night,” Mallen says quietly. “She could use rest.”
My father blinks and then recovers, plastering on a smile. “Of course. You’ve had quite the ordeal. Come, dear girl—anything you need, just say the word.”
He takes my hands like this is a fatherly gesture. We both know it’s theater. I play along before excusing myself. As I slip away, my father and Mallen remain to speak—behind closed doors, where politics matter more than people.
I’m gone before the men notice I’ve stopped listening.
Before I can ruin my father’s reputation, like I almost did the moment I was born. When the magic flared in me like a star exploding—blinding, beautiful, fatal. The gods bound it before it could destroy both the kingdom and its queen. But the ash of what burned stayed inside me, and its shadow never left. And neither did the bodies.
CHAPTER THREE
The palace guardsescorting me to my rooms are as silent as specters, but I hear their relief when the door shuts behind me. They didn’t speak a word the entire walk. They didn’t need to. No one wants to witness a princess fall apart.
I don’t cry. Not yet. I bite it back like poison on my tongue. I’m still swallowing it down when the servant girl enters—new, young, her voice trembling. It’s the sound of her that shatters me. The way her auburn hair cascades over her shoulders.
She isn’t Anya. She’ll never be Anya.
And Anya is dead.
My heart claws for denial, insisting it’s a mistake. But my head knows better. Starsfall is not a place that lets weakness survive, and Anya was never meant for this life. She was too naïve. Too easily manipulated. And I made her a target just by being close to her. My grief isn’t clean—it curdles into guilt,bitter and thick, because she died for me. Because I was careless. And I should have known better.
Because my magic brings death, even when it is caged.
The girl introduces herself. Her name escapes me. She smiles as she offers a kind word; I return a glare so sharp it could draw blood. She stammers something about a bath and flees and I barely notice her go.
The magic inside me is rising again—hot and cold at once, pressing against my ribs. It ought to be dormant but it isn’t. It’s a darkness that doesn’t belong here. It never did, because it came from somewhere far darker than even the depths of my father’s ambitions.
My fingers trace the carvings on the table edge as I lean toward the ornate mirror and stare at the girl looking back at me. She’s tired. So very tired. Her cheeks are hollowed, mouth pinched, as if every word she’s swallowed has left a scar. There’s a tremble in her hands she can’t disguise, and her hazel eyes—once sharp, once shining—are now rimmed with exhaustion, dulled like glass buried too long in sand.
And somehow, I’m touching my lips. Absent. Thoughtless. Remembering the way his mouth met mine—how soft it was, and how hard it turned when I didn’t pull away. The heat. The shock. The terrifying sweetness of being wanted.
Or maybe I kissed him. I can’t remember quite how every kiss with him happened. Only that some of it was gentle. Some of it was not.
It was a reckoning. It was a mess.
A knock comes, followed by the servant’s timid voice. “Your bath, Princess.”
She leads me through the torchlit halls, chattering about herbs and salts and how everything’s been drawn fresh for me. The guards flank us without comment. It is only three turns and one stair from my rooms, a short way that feels longer tonight.The unease sits too heavy for the simple ritual of a bath in the royal pools, and I know that even the warm waters of the royal pools cannot wash away the ruin of me.
We reach the bathhouse and the guards take their stations outside. Jailors, not protectors. Inside, the water steams like fog over glass. The scent of lavender and bitterwood curls through the air, earthy and calming. Light flickers across marble and shadow. The space is beautiful—ancient, serene, intimate—but I know none of its peace.
The servant girl helps me undress, her hands trembling. I lift my chin and unclasp the cloak myself, draping it over her arms. “I’ll manage from here.”
She opens her mouth, uncertain.
“Go,” I say, gentler. “I need to be alone.”
