Chapter 1 #2
Anya should be here. My maid. My almost friend.
We weren’t close. Not really. Anya was too kind, too soft, and I could never trust her enough to hold her closer than I absolutely needed to.
We shared small secrets in the dark sometimes—two girls caught in a gilded cage—but there were walls between us.
She served me. Obeyed me. Feared me a little.
And I never told her no. She should be waiting—smiling, laughing, eager to know the joy of freedom.
But there’s only the sound of hooves shifting and leaves whispering.
My fingers drop to my blade as I creep forward, every sense screaming. The horses are uneasy, snorting, stamping the damp earth. I start forward, ready to calm them, but something stops me.
Something primal.
This is too easy, too exposed.
Too wrong.
A trap.
I spin, narrowly avoiding the sword thrust at my neck. My blade catches moonlight as I draw it and drop low, throwing up an arm to deflect. My body pivots instinctively, moving just as I was taught. Mallen drilled these moves into my bones.
Strike. Balance. Move.
It’s almost like dancing—if dancing demanded both blood and surrender.
A man steps from shadow, cloaked and hooded, a soldier’s stillness in his stance and mail glinting at his wrist. My dagger flashes, clashing against a sword. He’s fast. Too fast. He parries every blow with ease.
I grit my teeth and strike again. He dodges, shifting his weight, his blade moving like water.
It gleams under the moonlight, and he forces me back.
He advances in silence, methodical, relentless.
I duck a wide slash and counter low, feinting right and spinning left.
My blade catches the edge of his sleeve—just cloth, no flesh.
He grunts, annoyed now. I press my advantage. A quick jab. A pivot. He blocks, but I can see he’s testing me, not fighting to win.
And gods, that angers me.
I lunge again, this time not pulling back. My dagger arcs for his side. He twists, faster than thought, and the clash of metal rings loud enough to wake the trees. His blade turns mine aside and traps it. One flick of his wrist and my weapon is ripped from my hand, sent spinning into the grass.
I twist and drive my fist into his ribs. Hard.
Steel kisses my neck. Just enough to make me stop. To hold me. Not enough to harm. We stand, both breathing hard. My gaze fixes on roped and scarred forearms, their cadence too familiar to deny. And I know those sword strokes. I’ve spent my life parrying them.
“Princess,” he growls.
I sigh, shoulders slumping. “Mallen.”
The Commander of the Royal Guards stands before me, amused.
Taller than me by more than a head, all sharp angles and disciplined lines, in road-dark leathers and mail.
Dark hair pushed back, jaw rough with stubble, a faint bruise shadowing his cheekbone.
Starsfall green marks his shoulder and catches the light when he shifts.
His eyes stay steady and measuring while his mouth tips into a small smirk.
It is the look of a man who has caught me misbehaving again, and I loathe it.
That look. The one that reminds me how much more experienced he is than me, even though he’s only a few years older.
“You can sit and we can talk, Azhara. Or I can carry you back over my shoulder and let your father decide what’s reasonable.”
Flashes light up my vision, and I lock my eyes on his. His don’t blink. Don’t blur. Don’t even flicker. I know better than to test him.
He’s always protected me. But he’s never been afraid to teach me a lesson, either.
And he’s never hesitated to spill blood.
“Fine,” I grit.
He nods, stepping back without hesitation, and gestures toward a fallen tree. I move slowly, keeping my eyes on him as he sheathes his sword—not with arrogance, but with the casual confidence of someone who knows he doesn’t need it.
“You could’ve let me go.”
He waits until I’m seated before joining me, his tone even. “You brought this on yourself. I’ve spent the evening killing to keep you safe.”
Of course he did. Death follows me as it burns through my veins. It coils behind every step I take, lingers in my shadow, staining everything I touch. Even locked away, even sealed by the gods themselves, the magic inside me hungers. And people die. Whether I will it or not.
“Where’s Anya?” I ask as I sit.
Mallen doesn’t answer.
“Where is she?”
“Taken care of, Princess,” Mallen says.
My breath hitches. Those words could mean anything from banishment to execution.
“What have you done?” I ask.
He exhales slowly, the way he does when calculating risk.
“I didn’t lay a hand on her. I would have captured her, but a group of thieves got to her first. I assume they were targeting the celebrations—looking for coin, distraction, chaos. I made sure they won’t bother anyone again. Let’s hope it won’t take any more sacrifices to keep you safe.”
Maybe things are better this way. Maybe the gods were right to bind me.
Because even shackled, my magic leaves bodies in its wake.
And I don’t flinch. Not like I should. Not like Anya would have.
Her death doesn’t hollow me out. It just confirms what I’ve always suspected: I was born wrong. A weapon pretending to be a girl.
His logic is always convenient. Cold. Effective. He’s a blade honed for strategy, not sentiment—it’s why my father made him Commander so young. He doesn’t hesitate. He never does. And that’s what terrifies me most—that somewhere in me, I’m glad he didn’t.
But something about this feels...off?
“Why?” I press.
A flicker crosses his face—not quite regret, but something less carved in steel.
“Because it matters to you,” he says simply.
His body shifts, muscles relaxing, and he leans just enough for his shoulder to brush mine. It’s nothing like his presence during training—there’s no force behind it, only weight and warmth. But it unsettles me more than his judgment ever has. I start to shake. He notices.
Without comment, he places his hand gently over mine, steadying it on my thigh.
“Azhara,” he says quietly. “Why did you run?”
Those green eyes—they’ve always been sharp, unyielding, the kind that makes men fall silent in his presence. But now they’re unreadable in a different way. Still intense. Still dangerous. But no longer aimed like a weapon. More like a question.
“I can’t bear another Reaping,” I whisper. “They’re going to die. Again. It’s cruel. It’s pointless. I don’t know how else to end it.”
He doesn’t speak right away. When he does, his voice is steady, not unkind.
“It’s ten men a year. Men with no ties to Starsfall. It keeps Larksbind in check, and the rest of us safe. Peace comes with a cost.”
I shake my head against him. Against the firm, solid frame I’ve leaned on too many times to count.
“I don’t want it. I don’t want to be the prize two countries fight over.”
His chest rises with a quiet laugh. It’s low and dry, more breath than sound.
His arms wrap around me slowly, like they have all the times I’ve needed his calm before.
Like he’s offering something instead of taking it.
And I don’t know what it is. Comfort, perhaps.
Or loyalty. Or something far more dangerous.
“Your father doesn’t need you to control Larksbind,” he murmurs. “And you won’t be marrying anyone who isn’t worthy.”
I pull back, just enough to see his face.
I’m confused. He’s always respected the tributes, more than anyone in the palace.
Yet here he is, dismissing them with uncharacteristic ease.
He even narrows his eyes as he looks down at me and his lips part, his mouth curving down like he’s trying to swallow the words he knows he shouldn’t say.
“If the Reaping doesn’t kill them, I will,” he says. “I won’t let you be forced into an arrangement you despise.”
Relief washes through me. The emotion doesn’t make sense because Mallen has always kept me safe, but it steadies the heat rising through me. Or maybe it makes it worse. And now he’s brushing another loose strand of hair from my cheek and tucking it behind my ear with an unexpectedly gentle touch.
“Will you stop it?” I ask softly. “For me?”
His gaze meets mine, and there’s something in his eyes I’ve never seen before.
It’s too potent to ignore, but I don’t know how to name it.
It isn’t disappointment. It isn’t envy or anger.
And it isn’t hunger. It’s more resolute.
Fiercer. Like Mallen’s just been handed the reason he’s been searching for.
Waiting for.
Like he’s falling apart and holding on and he doesn’t know which will prevail.
“That depends,” he says, his voice low and sure, without threat. “On what it is that you choose to do next.”