Chapter 16
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
I wake before dawn. Pale light spills across the floor, gilding the velvet rug in shades of gold and ash.
Mallen is asleep on a new chaise he’s brought to replace the one that was destroyed, boots off, jacket folded across the arm. His sword rests within reach. His body does not.
He looks uncomfortable, as if even in sleep he doesn’t quite believe he belongs here.
I shift beneath the sheets, and his eyes open instantly—clear, alert. That familiar stillness settles over him like armor.
“I didn’t mean to wake you,” I murmur.
“You didn’t,” he says, sitting up slowly. “I was just resting my eyes.”
He doesn’t comment on the absurdity of the lie. Just scrubs a hand down his face and stands, stretching the stiffness from his shoulders.
My father’s orders were explicit. I’m to be guarded at all times.
When I sleep. When I eat. When I breathe.
Mallen’s refusing to let anyone stand post. He’d rather swallow his own sword than leave me with one of the palace guards, one of those soulless watchers who obey without thought or care.
Mallen watches, but he thinks. Feels. That’s the danger.
He’s been here every night. Quiet and precise. Folding blankets, tending the fire, standing sentinel with a vigilance that would be touching if it didn’t feel like a wall between us.
He never looks at me when I’m dressing. Never intrudes more than necessary. It would be chivalrous if it weren’t so complicated. It’s the fleeting glances. The longing. The restraint. And the jealous edge that threatens to cut through.
I rise and stare out the window, turning away from the ruins of my room that are being reconstructed around me.
I think of yesterday. Of Mallen beside me in the half-empty streets, his silence heavy but not cruel.
He pointed out a bookshop rebuilt from ash, lingered by the fountain where children once played.
There was no apology, not really. Just his presence, offered like a balm I couldn’t yet accept.
I almost laughed. Almost threaded my fingers through his.
But the things left unsaid were too loud, and the wounds we carried had barely begun to heal.
“The streets are quiet this morning,” I say, peering through the veil of fog beyond the glass.
Mallen crosses the room silently and pours water into the basin, laying out a cloth with the same care he gives to drawing his sword.
“They’ve increased patrols since the attempted kidnapping,” he says. “No one’s taking chances.”
“We both know that wasn’t what happened.”
“That doesn’t matter. If we change the story now, someone bleeds,” he says without looking at me. “Not all lies harm. Some aren’t worth the cost of correction.”
His hands still. He doesn’t ask what I mean. He just wrings out the cloth and offers it to me with eyes that say he’s heard more than he should.
I take it anyway. Our fingers brush. Lightning sparks in the space between them.
“You should eat,” he says, his voice gruff.
I dab at my face and watch him from the corner of my eye. “Do you always order people around this early in the morning?”
“Only those I care about.”
That lands heavier than it should. I don’t thank him. I can’t.
Instead, I nod toward the corner where he’s made his strange little camp—books, maps, an untouched tray from the kitchens. “How long are you planning to stay?”
“As long as it takes,” he says simply.
To keep you safe, is what he means.
From what, he doesn’t say.
From Darian, is what I hear.
We stay like—hands touching, legs pressed together—until time slips from us, quiet as breath. The second challenge is tomorrow, and my father has arranged another meeting with Darian. Neither of us wants to speak of it.
Mallen waits until I’m dressed before breaking the silence.
“Azhara?”
When I don’t answer, he takes my wrist—not roughly, not cruelly, but enough to make me look up and see the storm in his eyes.
“He is unlikely to survive the next challenge, but if he does and so much as lays a finger on you, I’ll kill him myself.”
“You said that last time,” I reply, sharper than I mean to.
Mallen scoffs, the sound brittle. “They performed better than expected. But no amount of strength will see them through the second trial.”
I don’t ask what my father has planned. Mallen wouldn’t tell me, and I’m not sure I want to know. Another jealous outburst could burn the whole room down, and neither of us is ready for that.
“The pink suits you, by the way,” he says, just as I reach for the door.
He means it as a compliment. But this gown is another costume I can’t take off.
I glance down. The dress is a confection of flowers and silk—soft, sweet, utterly unlike me. I loathe it. I told him so ten minutes ago.
“I look like the spring equinox spat me out,” I mutter.
His smirk is infuriating. But the way he opens the reception room door—quiet, controlled, bracing himself like he’s sending me into battle—sends a sliver of warmth through me.
On the other side, Darian is already waiting.
He stands the moment he sees me. And then he sees Mallen.
Neither speaks.
Their eyes lock in a quiet clash of history and warning—like swords sheathed but still drawn beneath the skin. Darian refuses to move aside. Mallen’s growl is low, guttural. It vibrates through my bones.
“I’ll be just outside,” Mallen says, gaze never leaving Darian. “One word, Azhara.”
He doesn’t say what he’ll do with that word. He doesn’t need to.
Darian watches him go, only relaxing once the door clicks shut. He sits, as if nothing happened.
“You decided to bring the garden with you, Princess?” he says, eyes flicking down my dress with a bemused smile.
“I hate this dress,” I sigh, sinking into the chair opposite him.
His head tilts. “Your father picked it, then. He did better yesterday, if he wants to provoke me.”
The way he says it is too casual. As though he’s laying out pieces on a board only he understands.
“How was your day outside the palace?”
I blink.
He smiles faintly, almost to himself. “Ah. So he didn’t tell me the truth. How surprising.”
My pulse stutters. “You knew he was lying?”
“I suspected,” Darian says, folding his hands. “There’s no point pretending Mallen doesn’t care for you. He’s made sure I know.”
I don’t know what to say. My cheeks burn.
“He was told to make you jealous,” I say finally, the words flat and defensive. “That’s all.”
Darian leans forward, voice soft. “Was he told to sleep beside your bed? To watch you like he’d kill the air for brushing your skin?”
I flinch. He sees too much.
“Why would your father want me to be jealous of Mallen?” he asks, but it isn’t a challenge. It’s a puzzle, laid gently in my lap.
I meet his eyes and find no anger there. No bruised pride. He’s calm. Waiting for my answer.
“To distract you from tomorrow’s challenge,” I whisper, each word a tiny betrayal. “He won’t let me you claim me without a fight, Darian. He’ll take any advantage he can, even if I pay the price.”
Darian nods, his hand brushing mine. He squeezes gently.
“The Reaping isn’t the only game being played,” he murmurs.
My gaze drifts around the room. The decor is subdued, almost forgettable.
No gilded mirrors, no grand tapestries. The paintings are old—still water, winter trees, the gods giving gifts.
One even shows the first King of Starsfall kneeling to offer the Bow of Honor to a commoner who saved his life.
A symbol of humility. Of the crown’s debt to the brave, now all but forgotten.
My father despises this room.
So why bring Darian here?
“What is it?” he asks.
I reach for his tunic and smooth a non-existent crease. “The room doesn’t make sense.”
”Oh, I don’t know.” Darian’s gaze shifts to the painting that dominates the east wall. “It has some appeal.” He leans close and puts his lips against my ear. “If you know what to look for.”
He straightens and rubs his earlobe once and again glances at the painting. As understanding arrives, my knees almost give out. We are being watched. My father is listening.
I force my breath to steady. My stomach knots. I want to be wrong. I want to believe I’ve misunderstood. But of course I haven’t. There’s no garden meeting today. This room was chosen because it serves him.
Darian tilts his head and smiles. “It’s my turn to make Mallen jealous.”
He shifts closer, his gaze heavy on mine.
I don’t move.
He leans in and stops. A breath away.
Our lips don’t meet.
“You’re changing,” he murmurs, his voice a thread of velvet. “You won’t let yourself be used anymore. Not even by me.”
“I’m tired of all these games,” I whisper.
His smile fades. Not fully, but enough.
“I’m not playing,” he says.
I close my eyes for half a breath. I want to believe him. I want to believe anyone. But trust has become a trick mirror—showing me only what I wish to see, never what’s true.
“I will survive the Reaping and win your affection, and not because you’re a prize to claim,” Darian replies, quieter now. “You’re remarkable, Azhara. And you’re finally beginning to realize it.”
I don’t respond. I don’t need to. The silence does what words cannot—it admits he’s right.
We drift into small talk, the kind that’s dull enough to bore anyone listening.
It’s all smoke—scattered phrases and idle nostalgia, chosen carefully to hide the deeper pulse beneath them.
He leads, weaving a picture of Larksbind like it’s a lullaby meant to seduce the restless part of me.
The capital built high on the clifftops, white stone gleaming above the raging sea.
Fishermen pulling nets through the surf.
Lanterns bobbing like fireflies as ships return to harbor.
He speaks of the forest and the salt-thick wind, the hunt and the feasts, and a kind of joy that feels unfamiliar to me—quiet, wild, unburdened.
It sounds like freedom.
It sounds like peace.
But it also sounds like danger.
Because I know what magic costs, and I know what my father took from them. Larksbind has already bled for its safety, and that may not be enough. If I leave with Darian, if the curse breaks and my father comes for us, the price of safety will rise. And it won’t be paid in coin.
He taps my hand, drawing me back. I blink once and smile. He softens in relief.
If he knew what I was thinking, he’d stiffen instead.
“How are the injured men?” I ask, voice low.
His composure falters—just for a beat—as if the truth touched a raw nerve, and the mask slips a little. “The healer’s done what he can. But one won’t last another trial like the last.”
No one will, I think. Not if my father wants blood this time.
Outside, the sky is bruising with night. Time’s run out.
Darian shifts closer, head tilting. I can see the intent in his eyes a moment before he leans in—slow, deliberate. A kiss. For the watchers. For my father. Maybe even for himself.
I turn my head, and he pauses mid-motion, his breath touching my cheek.
“The next trial isn’t physical,” I whisper, quiet as a prayer.
He’s still for half a second. Then his fingers twitch once against the chair, and his expression smooths into studied elegance, like a man already imagining the next move.
He gazes at a painting on the far wall like it’s suddenly caught his interest, and then turns back to me and reaches up.
As if there’s another strand of hair that needs brushing from my face, even though we both know there isn’t.
Just like he did earlier.
Just like Mallen did yesterday.
It’s deliberate. And it’s enough. A perfect performance, for whoever’s watching. My father will be pleased Darian’s still in pursuit. If it’s Mallen, he’ll be jealous—but not as jealous as he would have been if I’d let Darian kiss me. That line I won’t cross.
Not tonight.
Maybe not ever.
Darian’s mouth tightens slightly, and I see the confusion he quickly disguises with a half-smile. He doesn’t look like he understands. He thinks I’m worried he won’t survive the next trial. He thinks I’m beginning to fall.
And, heavens help me, maybe I am.
And what terrifies me is how easy it would be.
To believe.
To trust.
To hope.
“I’m not dying,” he says softly. “Not yet.”
I nod anyway and let the silence return, because I don’t want to explain what I’m really feeling—the twist in my gut, the quiet ache I don’t have a name for.
I don’t like how much Mallen’s silence is beginning to mean to me.
I don’t like how wrong it feels to keep walking this knife’s edge between two men who’ve both risked everything for me.
I’ve been used all my life; shaped into a weapon, molded into a daughter who can serve a king’s purpose. But this guilt is new. This dread is mine.
Eventually, Mallen comes for me. He’s quiet on the walk back to my room, one hand always close to his blade, the other near my spine like a ghost of a touch. The palace is too quiet. The stone hallways echo in ways they shouldn’t.
Inside, I undress slowly. Mallen stands with his back turned at first, but when I slip into bed, he moves to my side and crouches low. His face is darkness without light, carved from shadow and restraint, and his eyes lock to mine with fierce precision.
“What did you whisper to him?” he asks.
I don’t flinch. I lean into the lie like it’s armor. “Nothing of any importance.”
Mallen studies me for a moment and then tilts his head in that familiar way—like he’s watching me from a place I’ll never quite reach.
There isn’t any doubt in his expression.
He knows I’ve lied.
And he’s choosing not to challenge me.
And that hurts more than if he’d lied.
He brushes a finger against my wrist, tracing the spot where Darian’s hand held mine. Darian clings like fire—bright, consuming, dangerous. But Mallen lingers like shadow—patient, watching, always waiting to be chosen.
Mallen’s voice is gentle when he speaks, deep and full of quiet conviction.
“So it’s a lie that comes between us,” he says.