Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
Evie sets the final pin in my hair, admiring the way the moonstone catches the light before placing her hands on my shoulders and smiling at me in the mirror. Silver and jade have always suited me, highlighting my chestnut hair and making my hazel eyes appear greener.
“Beautiful, Highness,” she says. “The Prince will be pleased.”
Behind us, Mallen sets his cup down with a clink. Not slammed. Not messy. Just…firm. Exact. A full stop.
Evie carries on, oblivious.
“He’s so handsome, Princess. The ladies say his eyes remind them of the ocean, and the gods must’ve—”
“He’s waiting.” Mallen’s voice cuts in—smooth, cool, and unmistakably final. “You have other duties, Evie.”
She blinks and then gathers her things quickly. “Of course, Commander. Enjoy your afternoon, Highness.”
The door clicks shut.
I cross the room slowly, aware of the quiet weight of Mallen’s gaze. I reach him just as he lifts his head to meet me—no hesitation. His hands settle at my waist, firm and familiar, and he pulls me gently to him. He doesn’t bury his head in my stomach. He keeps his chin up, his eyes on mine.
“You’ll get through this,” he says, his voice low and certain. “I’ll see to it.”
I start to speak, but he beats me to it, a wolfish grin ghosting his mouth.
“Darian learned his lesson yesterday.”
I arch a brow.
“You should’ve seen his face when you walked away. And the court.” He leans in, brushing a kiss just below my jaw. “You were magnificent. They should know it. You shouldn’t doubt it.” His fingers flex against my waist. “Magnificent. And mine.”
His words settle over me like armor.
I nod.
“Do you regret it?” he asks.
I pause, fingers curling lightly around his wrist as the last few days play through my mind. I do not know which part he means: the prince I humbled before the Court, the kiss I allowed, or the promise I made.
“No.”
“You regret something.”
The silence hurts. It goes on a beat too long.
“I don’t like the way you were last night. It felt like anger.”
His gaze holds mine—steady, unflinching.
“I wasn’t angry,” he murmurs. “I was jealous. It was controlled, measured, and entirely justified.”
He kisses my hand once, and then again, slower.
“I’m not asking you to like it,” he murmurs. “But you’ll never be unsure where I stand. I’ll do better, Azhara. But I won’t stop protecting what’s mine.”
He brushes a hand down my cheek and then leans back, as if the conversation is complete.
Because for him, it is.
We step into the corridor. The guards fall in, one to either side. I smooth my face into the one they expect. Wax and steel hang in the air. Our footfall measures the distance. I flex my hands once and let them settle. We reach the stateroom doors, and I taste copper—and then curse under my breath.
My father stands beside Darian, speaking as if they’re old friends. His gaze skims me, quick and weighing, then moves on. He’s seen enough, and I am here, as he ordered.
“It’s good to see you looking well,” my father says, every word lacquered with care. “An afternoon with Darian should help you feel even better.”
“I thought we could revisit the gardens,” Darian offers with an easy smile, holding out his hand.
I hesitate and then take it, careful to school my expression, aware of Mallen’s presence behind me.
“Without the fighting this time, Princess.”
We walk toward the door. Mallen follows, almost silent.
“I think we can trust a prince to keep Azhara safe,” my father says. His words ring loud in the room, and the walls press in.
I go still. My breath snags.
Mallen steps forward, calm and exact. He stops a pace from Darian.
“We’re all aware of the recent intrusion.
Moonsrise reached the inner halls and attempted to remove the Princess.
Until that breach is sealed, no movement is routine.
Your men will coordinate with mine. If anything touches her, Larksbind will answer. ”
He gives nothing away. I hear the heat under the ice only because it is for me.
Darian doesn’t draw back. He nods once, cool and composed, and steers us away. The guards peel off once we reach an enclosed garden, settling along the outer walls.
“Your guard dog barks loudly,” Darian says as he takes a seat. “Is he always this protective?”
I sit beside him—apart. In case Mallen’s watching.
“He’s always been there,” I say.
“He’s in love with you.”
I laugh, though it doesn’t reach my eyes. “He’s known me since I was a child. He cares for me. It’s not…”
Darian is still watching me. His eyebrows knit.
He shifts closer, his thigh brushing mine, his fingers resting next to mine as he lowers his head. “What was it like, growing up with him always around?”
His tone dares me to answer wrong.
So I don’t.
I tell him how the nobles’ sons learned where to press, and how they decided to make it a sport one afternoon in the archery yard.
How their hands held my arms, and their laughter flooded my ears.
Then a torch came too close, and my hair singed while they called it a game.
I did not cry. I swallowed smoke and counted breaths, and hid the bruises under my sleeves at supper.
Mallen found me before the light failed.
He took off his cloak and set it over my shoulders.
He did not ask why I’d let it happen. He asked for their names.
I told him. The next morning, those boys arrived for drills with split pride and new respect.
No one spoke of why. After that, he began to meet me at dawn.
To teach me stance and breath and how to break a grip.
How to move when you are smaller. He stood at my back in ceremonies and at my side in corridors.
The nobles’ sons tried once more. Only once.
“Before Mallen, I had no one. My father called it independence.”
Darian doesn’t speak at first. Just stares at me like I’d uttered a truth too painful to hear.
“Azhara,” he says, and it’s not flirtatious or smooth now—it’s horrified. “You were a child.”
The quiet thickens around us, and I feel it settle over my skin like dust. Like ash.
“I didn’t realize it was strange,” I murmur. “It’s just how it was. My father had to raise me and rule a kingdom. He—”
“Neglected you,” Darian finishes, tightening his grip. “You’re not a distraction. You’re his daughter. His future. He should’ve protected you.”
The words land heavy. Like a cold hand pressed firmly against my chest—not breaking skin, just making sure I couldn’t forget it was there.
But he doesn’t know what I cost. That I’m the reason my mother died. He thinks I’m a prize, a way to end the Reaping. He doesn’t know I’m a monster who could destroy the treaty between our nations.
That my very presence is a wound still bleeding.
He doesn’t know about the darkness inside me—the hunger, the pull, the cold rush of power that waits for a crack to slip through. My father has made sure only those in his inner circle know of my gift, and every year that circle grows smaller. Like a snare tightening around its prey. Or a noose.
I look away, gaze fixed on the flowerbeds trembling in the wind.
“Tell me more,” he says gently.
I don’t want to.
There’s something stripped bare in his expression now. He’s not a prince. Not a suitor. Just a man trying to understand the shape of me. And maybe it’s a game. But maybe, just maybe, it’s real.
And sincerity doesn’t erase danger. Because in Starsfall, even honey can turn to poison.
“There isn’t much.” I shrug.
“You’re holding back.” He waits, and those blue eyes ask me to dive into their depths. “Take a chance, Azhara. I swear I’ll tread gently.”
I study him. The curve of his shoulders. The way his hands are still. The way he’s listening like the answers matter.
I don’t owe him anything. Still, the stories rise. Smaller ones. Easier ones. I laugh, and Darian loosens, his smile going golden in the light.
He talks about Larksbind like a boy who loved it.
The library stacks he hid in after drill.
A tutor with ink on every finger who swore he would sit straight or turn to stone.
Dawn runs along the river when he should have been reciting dynasties.
A bell tower climbed for the view and the scolding that followed.
Honey cakes bribed from the kitchens. A fencing master who counted every breath, every inch of footwork, and expected victory as if it were a birthright.
He tells me the mischief and the discipline in the same breath, and it sounds like a map of him.
I offer little pieces back. Roof edges where the wind swallowed my name. Pears stolen from the lower gardens. A book read by a shuttered window until the light gave out. He laughs, and I laugh with him, and for one glorious afternoon, I forget how to hold myself like a princess.
Shadows lengthen and the light softens toward evening. Darian rises too suddenly, and a bitter heat curls in my stomach. Did I say too much? He calls for the guards, and I brace myself until they arrive, confused by the lack of threat.
“The Princess would like dinner here,” Darian announces.
My stomach twists. Not ask. Will. Like it’s his right to decide.
And I realize—this is a game to him.
Heat rises up my neck as the guards exchange a glance. One of them tenses, jaw tight. Fetching food isn’t in their purview—not for me, and certainly not at the request of a prince from Larksbind.
“Something light,” Darian adds, his tone calm but unyielding. “And blankets. She’s cold.”
The guards trade a look, irritation smoothed into blank courtesy. One clears his throat and waits on me. I give a small nod, heat rising in my cheeks. They bow, clipped and cool, and go, boots a shade louder than necessary.
Darian watches them go, only his narrowed eyes betraying the vicious edge beneath the calm. “They forget themselves. You shouldn’t have to flinch when you ask for a meal.”