Chapter 27
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
I retrace my steps through the labyrinth, the thread wound tight around my wrist. My legs move, but my body feels borrowed—raw and disconnected, like I’m bleeding out something more important than blood.
My skin hums with bruises. I float and sink all at once, waves crashing over me, pulling me under.
The cold stone sweats around me, the air thick with rot and damp, and each footstep lands heavy, uneven. My limbs lag behind thought, as if I’ve slipped loose from myself. I can’t hold onto a single emotion without ten more crashing in its wake, a storm circling tighter and tighter.
I miss him.
I want to go back for him.
I know it’s too late for that. Gods, it’s too late now.
I follow the thread blindly. Time doesn’t move the same way in the labyrinth. It might’ve been hours. Might’ve been minutes. Every turn feels wrong. The slope steepens and I drag myself up it, one foot at a time, lungs heaving.
Then light appears—dim and flickering.
The gate.
I stagger through it into the open courtyard.
Shouts rise. The rush of movement is too fast to process. Metal clatters. Boots thunder. I spin, ducking instinctively. A man barrels toward me and I twist just out of reach—but a second grabs my ankle and yanks.
The world tips sideways. Stone slams into my ribs.
Hands crush me to the ground.
I scream and buck, but there’s no leverage. A knee pins my spine. My face scrapes against rough stone. More weight joins the first. My shoulders and wrists are clamped down, my legs immobilized.
“She’s wild—”
“Hold her—”
My breath tears in and out, fast and ragged. Blood pulses in my ears. I don’t know who’s touching me, and I don’t care—I just need them off. The panic claws up faster than I can choke it down. My magic tries to spark and then slips through my fingers like oil, useless and uncontrollable.
“We’re not your enemy, Princess,” a voice murmurs, too close. A man crouches to meet my eyes.
The weight eases off me, and I’m hauled upright, my knees buckling. Arms loop under mine to hold me up. My feet drag. The stone blurs beneath me. We’re moving again—toward the tunnels.
“She’s done,” someone mutters behind me. “Barely breathing. If she killed him, she spent everything doing it.”
I open my mouth to speak, and only a rasp escapes.
Arms catch me around the waist and I’m lifted again, slung over someone’s shoulder like a sack of grain. My head dangles. The world rocks nauseatingly with each step. Fury sparks hot in my chest, but it burns out too quickly.
I hate this.
A wide door bangs open, and the smell of chaff and mice hits my tongue. The grain store swallows us in must and dust. A hatch yawns open, black and deep. I’m passed down through it like cargo. Another man grabs me before I can find my footing.
“Sorry,” he mutters and then lifts me again. I’m too tired to curse him properly.
The second ride is worse. My shoulder bangs into his collarbone with every step.
I’m relieved when the tunnel finally spills out into night.
Cold air snaps against my skin. Horses shift in the shadows, stamping against the ground.
The group is smaller than it should be. Not enough bodies. Time seems short.
Something’s gone wrong.
A scuffle breaks out near the tree line. Darian is restrained by three men, thrashing against their grip. His face is bloodied, hair clinging to his skin. He roars something I can’t make out.
His eyes lock onto mine.
The fury drains out of him, replaced by something quieter. Sadder. He nods once before he’s hauled onto a horse. Someone leads a gelding toward me, reins swinging, hooves pawing.
I take a step toward it and then another. My legs tremble. My thighs are soaked in dried blood. I reach for the saddle—
“Azhara,” Darian calls. His voice is rough, pleading.
I shake my head. “I can ride.”
I probably can’t. But I’ll try.
Two men intercept. I shove at them weakly.
“I said I’m fine.”
“You’re clearly not,” one says.
Darian’s eyes are wild, desperate. “Please, Azhara. Just let me help.”
I flinch at the word. Help.
“No,” I say, more breath than sound. “Not like this.”
I’m lifted again, too fast to stop, tossed up onto Darian’s horse despite my protest. My side slams into his chest. I twist, trying to slide off, but his arm snakes around my waist and holds me still.
“You’ll fall,” he breathes against my temple.
“You’re not strong enough to carry me.”
“I am.”
He nudges the horse forward before I can argue.
I press my mouth shut. The weight of his arm, the rhythm of the horse, the scent of dust and sweat—all of it crowds too close. I close my eyes, just for a moment. Not to rest. To pretend I made the right choice. Or that I still have one.
The gates vanish behind us. Trees whip past. The rhythm of the gallop rattles every bone in my spine. Darian murmurs words I don’t want to hear—comforting, coaxing, soft—and I stare ahead.
I won’t let myself melt.
The gallop slows as the trees thin and the shadows fall away.
The horses eat the distance in silence, hooves pounding a steady rhythm into the dark earth.
Trees blur past, and when the forest finally breaks, dawn stains the horizon in washed-out gray.
The city lies behind us now. Its breath no longer on our necks.
But its reach? That lingers.
The others glance back too often. We all know it’s only a matter of time before the hunt begins. My father won’t stop. And if Mallen still breathes—he won’t either. That kind of pursuit doesn’t end. It only breaks when one side is gone.
The pace slows as the terrain flattens. I sag slightly, too tired to hold myself upright. Darian shifts behind me. His breath brushes the back of my neck.
“You should rest,” he murmurs.
I keep my eyes fixed on the horizon, but my body betrays me. My head tilts back against his shoulder, lids drooping before I can stop them. I try to sit straighter. Try to pull from his grip. But my limbs turn heavy, numb, and unwilling.
His arm stays firm at my waist, and I hate how solid it feels.
Sleep creeps in anyway, slow and inescapable. It drags me under before I can stop it.
The world tilts again.
Someone lifts me down, and for a moment, I jolt awake, fists curling, breath caught. The face is unfamiliar. The arms, unfamiliar too. Not Darian’s.
I freeze, letting the panic settle before it tips me into making a mistake. I know better. I force my breathing to slow. Force my limbs to stay still. My surroundings blur with movement—riders, trees, the distant whisper of the sea. We’ve made ground.
“You’re safe,” Darian says, riding up beside us. “You’re with my second. I needed to recover my strength.”
His horse keeps pace with mine. I twist slightly to see him, and the effort sends a jolt through my spine. Every muscle aches.
“You’ve been asleep for hours. Feeling any better?”
I grit my teeth as the man behind me shifts again, his thigh brushing mine. My body recoils before I can stop it.
“I’ll ride alone,” I say, voice sharper than I intend.
Darian lifts a brow, half amused. “There’s the Azhara I remember.”
He signals someone and a horse is brought up alongside mine.
The man offers me his hand. I slap it away, glaring as I swing my leg over and transfer with more willpower than grace.
My hands tremble on the reins, but I force them to stay steady.
I don’t care how it looks. I’m on my own now. That’s what matters.
I count the riders as we move. Twenty. Most are strangers. Four I recognize. Tributes. Six are dead.
Darian rides beside me again. “How are you?”
“I’ve been better.”
The others glance back. Conversations die. The weight of unspoken questions fills the space between hoofbeats. They want to know what happened. What I did. What I left behind.
They can wait.
I shift my weight in the saddle. The heat of pain spreads through me with every step of my horse.
My joints throb, muscles pulled too tight beneath skin that doesn’t fit me anymore.
Something stirs beneath it all—cold, coiled, restless.
The magic inside me hasn’t settled. It shifts when I breathe.
Prickles when I think of what was and what may come to pass.
I’m no longer the person I used to be. I don’t know what’s left—what’s mine, what’s stolen, what’s ruined. But I do know this: I’m done being steered. By men, by magic, by anything that thinks it owns me.
Darian reaches for my reins, fingers brushing mine. “You were never meant to carry this weight. Not alone. Not ever.”
His voice is soft. Too soft. I pull my hand back before he can hold it.
“If you’re asking how I killed him, I don’t know that I did.”
The words taste sour. Like failure.
Darian studies me, and I can’t tell if it’s worry or calculation in his eyes. He smiles, too quickly, and it doesn’t reach his mouth.
“I’m not worried about Mallen.”
I study him sideways. “You don’t need to be. I left him in no state to follow.”
His expression shifts. A flicker of something. Not fear. Not grief. Something closer to solace.
“He wasn’t getting up,” I add, quieter now.
I stare straight ahead. The road’s just a smear of dirt and dust, vanishing into morning light. I don’t want to see his face. I don’t want to see judgment.
“But I didn’t…check.”
“I see,” Darian says, voice too smooth.
I hear the crack of bone against stone. Taste copper. Hear my screams echoing off the walls, though I don’t remember screaming. And Mallen’s silence stayed louder than any sound.
I killed a man the last time I tried to escape Starsfall. That was clean. Simple. Necessary.
But this?
This was different.
This wasn’t self-defense. It wasn’t fate, or magic, or justice. It was messy and personal and cruel. It was Mallen—his voice, his hands, his silence. It was me, screaming. Him, not screaming back.
It was choosing.
Darian’s hand closes around mine. His palm is warm, firm.
“I assumed Mallen taught you how to kill.”
“He never made me do it.”
I let the silence settle over that truth. Another fracture in the armor I’ve barely held together.
We ride in quiet for a time, his hand still wrapped around mine. I don’t pull away. Not yet. But I don’t lean in either.
This isn’t comfort. This is consequence.
Just a day ago, I’d chosen him. Last night, I’d defended him. Today, I’m not sure what I’ve done. Or why.
And gods help me, I still want Mallen to tell me I didn’t have to. That it was all a test. That he’d forgive me anyway.
But he’s not here.
And I made my decision.
“You shouldn’t feel ashamed,” Darian says gently. “You made a hard choice.”
I nod, because I don’t know what else to do.
“He was my friend,” I say, voice catching on the word as tears slip down without permission.
Darian’s jaw tightens. “No, Azhara. He wasn’t.”
The words cut, not because they’re cruel, but because they’re true—and I’ve known it. Gods, I’ve always known it.
But knowing and accepting are not the same.
He was the one who kept the monsters at bay. Who showed me where to aim and when to run. Who stood behind me like a wall no one else could see. My protector. My shadow. The one person who knew the truth and didn’t look away.
He was everything in a place that gave me nothing.
And I betrayed him.
The image of his face—bloodied, stunned, hollow—won’t leave me. It plays behind my eyes like a punishment. I want to scream, but all that comes is silence and salt.
“He was a monster,” Darian says carefully, watching me like he’s afraid to press too hard. “The sooner you can see that, the better.”
My gaze drops. “He might not be dead.”
The bitterness slips in before I can soften it.
Darian tenses. His fingers flex hard on the reins. For a second, he doesn’t speak. Doesn’t blink.
“That would be...inconvenient,” he mutters, too low for anyone else to hear.
Then, as if catching himself, he softens his tone.
“Do you regret it?”
I don’t answer. Not with words.
Instead, I turn forward. The road stretches on—unchanging, silent, cruel. It offers nothing but distance and dust, no absolution and certainly no answers. I can’t turn back. I wouldn’t even know how.
Mallen carried darkness, but he never let it drown me. He never screamed at me without reason. Never struck first. He hated Darian—yes—but that rage was never for me. All I knew was his restraint, and the way he never let me fall, even when he was the one who put me on the edge.
He taught me to fight, not so I could kill, but so I could survive. So I could become something dangerous in a world that chewed girls like me to pieces. When the palace crushed me, he was the one who stitched me back together.
He made me strong enough to betray him.
Darian reaches over, his fingers brushing mine. I let him take my hand again, even though it feels wrong. His warmth doesn’t reach me.
He waits—soft, silent, patient. The opposite of Mallen in every way.
Darian doesn’t press, like the answer is mine to give. He’s gentle where Mallen was relentless. Careful where Mallen cut deep. And gods, I know he’s trying. He’s trying to make this easier.
I shake my head, and my voice comes like splinters. “No.”
Because nothing about this feels like freedom.
Darian watches me carefully, the way someone watches a candle about to go out. He expected something different. He expected relief. Gratitude. A clean break. But I’m still bleeding. Still braced for a fight that already ended.
He sees the truth, whether I say it aloud or not.
He sees the pain I shouldn’t feel. The pain I shouldn’t let him see. And worse—he sees the doubt.
And worse—he sees I’ve lied. To him.
I made my choice.
But I can’t shake the feeling I buried the wrong man.