Chapter 26
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
“There’s no need for her to know,” Mallen snaps. His voice is low, guttural. Not desperation—warning.
Darian steps forward, lips curled in a curve too close to a smile. His eyes find mine, watching like he’s waiting for me to flinch.
I don’t.
“I didn’t want you to know, Azhara,” Mallen continues, blade held low, but taut with tension. “When the gods bound the magic in Starsfall, they stripped away its hope. What’s left had to be sealed—this place, this trial. The balance hangs on—”
“You. You’re the choice. Our salvation or ruin,” Darian cuts in. “That’s why he wants you. Not for love—leverage. Choose him and he’ll chain Starsfall’s magic to the crown. He’ll keep you bound to feed it.”
Mallen growls—not words, just fury—and drops into a crouch, weight shifting as Darian edges closer. Neither moves yet. They circle each other in the square, blades at the ready, expressions sharp. Waiting for the right moment to tear the other apart.
Darian isn’t trying to kill him yet. He’s goading him. Picking at fault lines. Trying to crack the mask Mallen’s held on too tightly for too long.
“You hold the power,” Darian says, eyes locked on me even as his blade angles toward Mallen. “He wants it for himself. To claim the throne. To bind you to him.”
“That throne means nothing to me,” Mallen spits.
Darian lunges. Steel meets steel.
The impact rings through the dark—fast, clean, brutal. Mallen blocks, ripostes. Their swords blur. Feet scrape against stone. A rhythm forms and breaks as they step, slash, retreat.
Neither lands a blow. Not yet.
Another tribute moves, a flicker on the edge of the square. I shift my weight and raise my blade, watching—but Mallen’s already adjusted, his stance shifting subtly to cover both threats. No flourish. No wasted movement.
“All I’ve done is protect you,” Mallen says, not breaking form. “You know me.”
I don’t answer. My fingers tighten around the hilt. He doesn’t look back.
Across from me, Darian’s gaze flicks to mine. His expression hardens, then drops—eyes closing just for a breath. As if it costs him something to keep pressing forward.
“He’s the monster,” Darian says softly. Not to Mallen. To me.
A cold pressure builds in my chest. The torchlight flickers. My breath shortens.
“He comes here to gather the darkness,” Darian continues, advancing. “He feeds on it. The power. The pain. It makes him strong. And it’s consumed him.”
My heart stutters. I force myself to meet Mallen’s eyes.
He doesn’t speak. But the answer is there—in the set of his jaw, the stiffness of his shoulders, the way his blade wavers for the first time.
The mask drops and behind it I see what I always should have.
Guilt.
He was never going to tell me. Never going to stop.
Mallen is the monster in the labyrinth.
He’s what I’ve feared in every shadow and the darkness my magic couldn’t bear to name.
“He’s filled this place with rot,” Darian says. “He’ll do the same to Starsfall. To you.”
Mallen’s blade trembles once, and then he roars. He lunges—no control. No tactic. Just rage.
Darian meets him head-on. Steel flashes. Mallen’s momentum carries him too far, his footing misjudged. He twists mid-motion, barely dodging a blade aimed to take his heart.
His feet skid. He spins and tries to recover.
Darian doesn’t let him.
Strike. Block. Strike again.
Darian drives Mallen back. Step by step. His blade never slows, never hesitates. Mallen’s foot grazes stone, shoulder brushing the rough curve of the labyrinth wall. Another step, and there’ll be nowhere left to go.
He won’t survive.
Not without killing Darian.
They clash again—metal biting metal—each strike faster, heavier. Then something shifts. Mallen pivots. Regains footing. Pressure changes. Darian’s forced to yield, to give space. He’s retreating now, breath shallow as Mallen surges forward.
I don’t move. Not yet. It’s madness in front of me. Even thinking of stepping in is lunacy. Their blades want blood, and I don’t know whose they’ll draw first.
A blur—Darian staggers back. Mallen throws him off, hard enough to send dust spiraling into the air. Another figure leaps in—one of the others, grabbing Mallen’s arm, trying to hold him off just long enough for Darian to recover.
It works.
It shouldn’t.
Mallen should’ve ended it.
Darian catches my eye as he straightens. He knows it. We both do.
He lifts his chin and steps toward me. Just a fraction. Just enough.
Mallen sees.
His heel slams into the other tribute’s chest, sending him crashing into stone. Mallen twists, grabs Darian, and hurls him sideways. A blur of limbs and air. Darian crashes into the ground, dust clouding around him.
And then—
Mallen waits.
Sword ready. Muscles taut. But still.
He waits.
No strike. No advantage taken.
Honor. Of all things, it’s that.
He should’ve finished it. He’s trained me never to hesitate. But here he is—offering mercy.
I don’t understand it, and yet, I do.
Darian drags himself to his feet and points past Mallen, past everything, to me.
“Destroy him,” he calls. “End it, Azhara. That’s your freedom. He’ll take everything if you don’t.”
His voice cuts through the air like a blade of its own.
“He’ll consume you. Even if he doesn’t want to. He’s been overcome with darkness, and it gives him no choice. That’s the secret he’s kept from you, that he’s tried to hide all these years.”
I step back. Just one. The stones feel unsteady beneath my boots.
Mallen doesn’t speak. His body shifts again, poised like a coiled predator, waiting. Not for Darian. For me.
“No,” I whisper.
Mallen blinks. The smallest motion. And in that moment, Darian lunges.
I move too.
Three bodies collide. The labyrinth swallows us.
Someone grabs my arm—I’m yanked the opposite way. Darian. Mallen. Both trying to fight each other. Both trying to protect me. And I’m trying to stop both from dying.
One blade whistles past my ear. Another clashes against it.
Too close. Too fast.
Mallen roars—low, guttural—and drives forward. His sword slices through the air, forcing Darian back. I’m shoved aside.
Darian hits the ground. Hard.
Mallen’s blade rises.
I throw myself between them.
My sword lifts just in time, catching his. Sparks flash. The impact shudders through my bones.
Mallen stares down at me.
Disbelief. Then something darker.
His sword doesn’t move.
He sees what I’ve done. What I’ve chosen.
I’ve saved Darian.
From him.
Mallen’s jaw tightens. His eyes—once stormy green—go dark. Whatever held him together falls apart.
I don’t speak. But everything in me pleads.
Not for mercy.
For him to understand.
That I didn’t want this.
Darian’s hand finds my shoulder—and his blade finds its mark.
It slips through the narrow space between us and slices clean across Mallen’s arm.
He snarls in pain. I drive my elbow back into Darian’s ribs. He gasps but doesn’t stop.
“You don’t have a choice!” he yells.
Mallen steps forward, bleeding, swinging. I block—barely.
He doesn’t hold back.
There’s nothing left of the man who trained me. Only rage. Fury. Betrayal. The anger of a man who’s overcome with a darkness powerful enough to turn him into a monster.
There’s no alliance left between us. Whatever tether held us together snapped the moment I stood between him and Darian. And now, I’m not an ally, I’m a target.
Steel clashes. I push off. He follows. Faster. Wilder. I brace, twist, dodge.
This is real.
And I’m not letting him win.
I drive him back, foot by foot.
Then I strike. Upward, fast. Around. I spin and pivot—pulling him with me, away from Darian.
He doesn’t flinch. Meets me, strike for strike. We’ve done this before—but never like this. Never with blood on our blades.
“Go!” I shout to Darian. “Leave!”
Mallen surges.
I don’t back down.
He hammers against me and I match it—parry, counter, drive.
He’s stronger. Heavier.
But I’m faster.
And I’m done running.
I twist and kick. He stumbles. I press, blade flashing again and again. I don’t let up.
He trained me for this.
And now he’ll see exactly what he created.
He counters. I twist away, narrowly avoiding the blow. He wheels around—ready—but I’ve already stepped back, drawing him on.
He follows.
Behind him, the other tribute hauls Darian upright. He shouts something—I don’t listen.
“Go!” I scream again. “Get him out!”
I keep pulling Mallen with me. Deeper into the labyrinth. Into narrower passages. With no room to dodge. He presses hard—blow after blow.
Each one closer to breaking me.
He knows. So do I.
He slams his sword down. I block—barely. His blade glances off mine with brutal precision. I stumble.
His hand seizes my wrist and twists.
Fire rips through my arm.
I hit the wall. Hard. His knee forces my legs apart. One hand clamps around my neck. Not enough to kill. Just enough to show he could.
He pauses.
“I want to know,” he says. “Why him, Azhara?”
I don’t answer. I won’t.
It’s all I have left—my silence.
His grip tightens. My lungs burn and my vision dims.
He tilts his head back. Just slightly.
That’s the moment.
I take it.
My fist slams into his throat.
He reels back, coughing. I throw myself forward—fists flying. One lands. Then another.
I fight on instinct. On fury. On every unanswered question I never let myself feel. On every shattered dream, every ounce of fury I never let myself feel.
And I pour all of it into him.
He staggers. His sword drops. But I don’t stop.
I drive him into the wall. My knuckles split. My shoulders ache. I slam my fist into the side of his head.
His skull hits stone. He crumples.
I freeze.
Pain hits—sharp and sudden. Devastation erupts through my chest, like it’s breaking the remnants of my heart. My hands shake. I can’t bring myself to check if Mallen’s breathing. Blood paints the walls, his skin, and the floor beneath him. His breath rattles, a jagged scrape of noise.
He doesn’t move.
I can’t make myself touch him. Can’t even kneel. My heart thunders. It lies, and tells me he’s alive.
Because the alternative—
No.
“I didn’t choose him,” I whisper, voice hoarse, barely audible. Tears fall. “You made it impossible to choose you.”