Page 98 of Labyrinthine
“No,” I say quickly. “No, it’s not—he didn’t?—”
Mallen’s eyes are wild, voice trembling. “I was on the road to Nyxford when I heard. Gods, I thought?—”
“I’m fine,” I lie. “The horse bolted. I fell. Darian found me and made sure I got back.”
Mallen rounds on Darian again, as if that should somehow be proof of guilt.
I step in between them before he can speak. “He didn’t touch me,” I say sharply. “He didn’t hurt me. He helped.”
Mallen’s jaw ticks. “You shouldn’t have been alone.”
“I wasn’t.”
He looks at me then. Really looks. Takes in the bruise on my cheek, the tear in my sleeve, the dried blood at my temple. His expression crumples—just a little—and I hate how desperate I am for that to be real. That grief. That fear. That sorrow.
“You’re shaking,” he says softly.
“I’m tired,” I snap.
He nods once, drawing in a long breath. “Come. Let’s get you home. I’ll call for a healer. We’ll talk later.”
A coil of anger tightens behind my ribs and gods, it burns. Not now. Not here. Later. Always later. Always after the damage is done.
Mallen doesn’t even look at Darian again. Just wraps his cloak around my shoulders and guides me toward the path.
I glance back once.
Darian hasn’t moved. He stands at the edge of the clearing, arms at his sides, gaze locked on mine. He doesn’t call out. Doesn’t try to follow. Not yet.
But his eyes are lit with a quiet fury.
Conviction.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Men saythat Starsfall rests when its royals return.
It doesn’t.
And I don’t either.
The corridors whisper. The torches burn low. Shadows stretch across the walls like wounds that never close. And Mallen—he doesn’t speak. Doesn’t look at me. Just walks two paces ahead, every line of him wound taut with rage he’s trying to contain. I should say something. I should lie again. But I’m too cold, too tired, and too unsure of my own truth to remember what version I’m supposed to be telling.
The silence breaks when he stops.
“You’re limping.”
“I’m fine.”
He turns. Just slightly. “You’re bleeding.”
“It’s nothing.”
His gaze drops to the shredded fabric of my sleeve. His jaw hardens. “Let me see.”
I shake my head.
He doesn’t ask again. Just reaches for the nearest servant with a flick of his hand, voice cool and clipped: “Bring the healer. Now.”
