Chapter 5
CHAPTER FIVE
Mallen’s hand brushes the small of my back as he guides me through the palace gates.
It’s a fleeting touch. Nothing the nobles clustered along the marble colonnade could mark as improper.
But it’s different from before. Protective, yes.
But bristling too. Charged. He squares his body behind mine as we pass beneath the arched doorway, as if what happened might harm me.
And I don’t know if what’s burning is his touch or what happened with the prince from Larksbind. Darian.
I keep my head high, my spine regal, my steps measured and slow because Starsfall’s heir must not let the terror. Or the nervous excitement either.
Inside, the cool hush of shadowed stone closes around us. But my pulse doesn’t slow.
The heat of the night still clings to my skin—phantom flames brushing my calves, the echo of Darian’s voice, as smooth as the gold of my dress, still curling in my ears. I try to push it aside, to silence it with the steady rhythm of my steps and the press of mosaic tiles beneath my heels.
But the memory lingers.
So does Mallen.
We walk in silence for three full corridors. A hush pools in the space between us, broken only by the distant flutter of banners in the upper halls and the murmurs of servants scurrying to prepare the reception chamber.
“What is Larksbind doing?” I murmur, low enough that only he can hear. “They sent Darian to face the Reaping. Their heir. He’ll die. Unless they know something we don’t.”
Mallen doesn’t answer at first. The tension in his posture tightens, the corded muscle in his forearm flexing beneath his bracer.
“I don’t like guessing games,” he says at last.
“That wasn’t a guess.” I glance sideways at him, keeping my tone mild. “It was a question. You usually enjoy those.”
He exhales—sharply, but not with frustration. With control. Every movement Mallen makes is carefully banked, like a fire trained to flicker instead of roar.
“I don’t know him personally,” he says. “But his reputation precedes him. Cunning and polished. The kind who shakes your hand to count your rings, and only smiles when he is already winning.”
“You don’t like him.”
This time, the flicker is sharper. Keener. Fiercer. “I don’t know him. I know his type.”
We round the final turn before the great hall. A long stained-glass window casts its fractured light across the corridor, splashing shards of gold and crimson across Mallen’s armor. It softens him. Makes him look almost ethereal.
I stop beneath the window. Not because I need to. But because I want to see his face.
“You mean charming?” I press, just enough to test.
Just enough to feel the edge of what he’s holding back. He doesn’t smile. Not even a twitch. Only those eyes, dark and steady emeralds, glint, watching me like I’m something he’s sworn to protect and been ordered not to touch.
“I mean gilded,” he says. “He’s forged for others to admire—not for truth.”
A pause.
“He’s been raised to make princesses fall,” he adds, so low it would be easy to miss it.
My pulse skitters. The window overhead gleams a little too brightly.
“I’m not the falling type,” I say, pivoting toward the open doors ahead.
“Good.” His voice is rougher now, not angry—just raw, like its tone keeps him in check. “Though you are the hunted kind. For now.”
I stop. He steps closer, close enough that I feel the heat of him at my back. His next words are quiet and measured.
“You cannot lower your guard, Princess. Especially with him. Keep your truth close and your lies closer, no matter the cost.” His breath stirs the back of my neck.
“Even if it tangles the court or causes friction with Moonsrise. You must keep that lie steady. You were afraid. They tried to take you. I stopped them and brought you back. Let it sound like a confession, not a defense. He needs to believe that.”
I turn back. “Of course.”
Mallen exhales, a little too loudly.
He doesn’t follow at once. The space behind me stretches, as if Mallen’s choosing whether to follow or fight. He shadows me instead, and his course is charted.
Inside, the reception chamber swells with sound and silk.
Candles float in golden rings above the vaulted ceiling, their light gilding the room in soft gold.
Marble columns rise like frozen waterfalls along the perimeter, draped in seasonal greenery—late-autumn vines twined with burnished silver.
Courtiers drift between tables laden with wine and honeyed fruit, their laughter brittle and rehearsed.
And every eye turns to me.
A ripple of silence chases me around the room.
I see it in the sudden pause of a goblet mid-air, in the quick draw of fans, the collective sharpening of posture.
I feel it settle over me like a second cloak.
Every hall receives me like this, alone at the center of attention, a figure to be named before it’s heard.
Azhara of Starsfall. Heiress to the throne. Nightborn. Unwed.
They’re wondering if I’ll be won this year. If I’ll kneel for Larksbind, or if I’ll release Starsfall’s sorcery. But the Reaping will only bend to us if I choose a man for love, and my heart has not chosen.
They watch as I move forward slowly. My gown’s gold and chiffon whisper as I move, offering hints of secrets that fall from the braided filigree at my waist. The jewels adorn my neck, catching the light like stardust. My braid falls to my shoulder, decorated with star-flung pins.
And the slit in the skirt parts with every step, baring one leg to thigh.
Enough to entice. Not enough to scandalize.
Every inch of me has been designed to make them doubt. To make them want. To make them fall.
There’s power in performance.
That is what my father wants. What he wields.
And tonight he wants me to be an instrument of destruction. A beautiful weapon that the men from Larksbind will willingly impale themselves on while thanking him for letting them bleed.
I make it almost halfway through the chamber before I see him.
Darian.
The Prince of Larksbind stands at the far end of the hall, surrounded by foreign dignitaries and a flutter of pale-robed diplomats.
He wears no crown, but he doesn’t need one.
His presence is a royal decree. He laughs with easy grace, and gestures with subtle elegance.
The kind of manner that feels rehearsed but not hollow.
Poised but not posed. Charming enough to cover any viciousness.
He sees me the moment I see him.
And parts the crowd like silk.
He moves without urgency but with the quiet force of someone who’s always known people will move for him.
He bows when he reaches me—fluid, flawless, precise.
“Starsfall’s beauty lives up to its name,” he says, voice pitched low and warm, for my ears alone. “Though I find myself most dazzled by its heir.”
It’s the kind of line that should sound trite. But somehow it doesn’t. Not from him. Not with that mouth, curved in soft amusement. Not with that voice, as smooth as water over stone.
I lift one brow. “Careful, Prince. I bite.”
“Then I’ll bleed gladly,” he murmurs, straightening.
He gestures. A servant steps forward with a velvet tray bearing three offerings.
The first is a hairpin—moonstone carved into a single falling star, set in filigree silver so fine I can’t see the seams. He lifts it delicately, holding it like something sacred.
“To light your path in darkness,” he says.
I accept it with a nod, brushing his fingers by accident. Warm. Uncalloused. The hands of a man who’s never held steel long enough to earn the scars.
The second is a book—slim and leather-bound, glinting with silver thread. The title gleams in old Larksbind glyphs, but they are easy to recognize: love poems, written for kings and queens who ruled by star and fire and devotion turned to ruin.
“I had it translated,” he says with a sly smile. “Though some words are best in their original tongue.”
This gift is clever, too clever—designed to charm, not unsettle. I set it aside.
The third gift is a pendant.
At first glance, it looks like glass. Fragile. Pure. But when he places it in my palm, the weight catches me off guard. It drags against my skin like a chain—cool and solid, with a coldness that sinks deeper than it should.
“Delicate,” he says, “but unbreakable. Like you, I suspect.”
Unbreakable.
But I feel like crystal. Both a brittle and transparent thing, made to gleam under candlelight and be admired from a distance. Something already fractured—hairline cracks hidden beneath polish and poise, waiting for the blow that will finish the shatter.
I don’t speak. Or move.
The pendant lies in my hand like a truth I didn’t ask for.
Around us, laughter rises, soft music unfurls from the dais, and the court resumes its dance.
Silk sleeves brush jeweled wrists. Perfumed air swells with false joy.
But I remain very still and keep my smile steady.
My fingers close over the chain, and I tuck the pendant into my palm, concealing it from view.
“You presume a great deal,” I say.
“I observe,” he replies. “Observation is a skill in Larksbind. One could call it…an art.”
A flash of heat rises as my gaze meets his, and I stare into irises the color of summer skies reflected on still water—eyes that are stunning, and too serene to trust. Then his attention slips to the line of my throat and stays, the calm stretched too tight, and a want flickers as he tracks my pulse.
I’m not flattered. Not entirely.
He’s too bold. Too poised. Too…certain.
And yet.
And yet.
The pendant bites where my grip hardens.
It’s a relief to be chased so openly. To be seen, not as a dangerous or fragile or sacred thing, but as something desirable. Not as a relic to protect or a queen to shape—but as a girl. A woman.
There’s power in that.
And danger.
The flicker in my pulse begs me to test the lines of both. Want is easy. But this? This feels like recognition—as if he’s named the part of me no one else sees.
I tilt my head. He mirrors me.