Chapter 29
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Darian asks again if I’ll be safe.
His concern isn’t feigned. He’s worried—about an attack, about Mallen, about me changing my mind.
I nod once.
My throat is dry. I don’t let it show. If I speak now, the wrong truth might slip out—bitter and bruised, too fragile to take back.
I can’t afford doubt. Not anymore.
Mallen has every right to be angry. But I don’t believe he’ll hurt me.
We review the plan one last time. Darian and his men will ride east. He’ll tell anyone who asks that he bedded me and then left me behind.
He’ll claim he unleashed my magic to protect Larksbind and left in disgust when it touched him.
A hero’s tale. A convenient lie. One that casts me as the ruinous enchantress while he rides free, his secrets buried with mine.
He lingers. Doesn’t step back, doesn’t look away. His fingers drift from my elbow to my wrist, lingering there like he wants to say more. Then he leans in—not quickly, not possessively. Just a tilt of his head, a pause that invites.
I meet him halfway and kiss his cheek. Not to invite—but to close.
His breath catches. He smiles. Not surprised. Not grateful. Just resigned.
For him, it’s a lover’s goodbye.
For me, it’s closure.
I turn before I lose my nerve.
The cold catches in my throat as I move. Part of me wants to look back, to memorize the shape of him framed by morning light. But I don’t. I won’t allow myself to take anything more from him.
“Did you ever love me?” I ask, uncertain if I want to face this truth.
Darian’s smile is flawless. Wounded and warm. A prince’s lie.
“I love all my women, Princess.”
He leaves without another word. The wind takes the sound of hoofbeats away before I regret hearing them.
I wait for the silence to turn heavy, staring at the dead fire and the rumpled bedsheet, while breathing in the scent of cedar smoke that lingers like memory.
I gather my cloak, fasten the riding gloves I left folded on the table, and make my way to the stables.
The horse Darian left me is fast, but still recovering from yesterday’s ride.
I press him into motion anyway. We pass through woods, pass the Crossroad Shrine—so they whisper—for gods who never answered but still watched.
Time stretches.
The rhythm of hooves blends with the rush of blood in my ears. My hands tremble like a lie I can’t keep holding on to. I don’t know if it’s fear or the ghost of a choice already made.
The longer I ride, the more the dread coils. Mallen will be furious. Not reckless though. He won’t strike me down in anger. But I know him. I know the way his silence bites deeper than his sword.
I just have to reach him before the mask hardens. Before the man I know is gone.
I chose this. Every step, every lie, every hand I didn’t hold—I made those choices. To protect myself. To escape from Starsfall. But that doesn’t undo the damage. Doesn’t erase the pain of what I did to him.
Maybe he wonders if I’ve already forgotten it.
I don’t think I ever will. But that doesn’t matter now. What matters is facing what I’ve broken, even if he never lets me put it back together. Even if I don’t deserve to.
The land begins to change. Roads widen. Grass turns to churned mud. The sound of it reaches me before anything else.
Drums.
Marching.
The army moves like memory—relentless, half-buried, impossible to outrun.
There’s no cover. I don’t look for any.
Instead, I pull the hood of my cloak down and ride to the center of the road. I stop and wait, spine straight, gaze unflinching across the wide plain.
The dust reaches me first.
My horse snorts, ears flicking at the sound. I tighten my grip on the reins and force my limbs to stay still. The dirt stings my eyes. Or maybe I’m blinking back what I can’t let fall—not yet.
Then the army arrives.
Trumpets blare and commands echo. A line begins to form—a disciplined wall of steel and evergreen. At its front, a tall, broad-shoulder rider dismounts, his hair pulled back, his face set like stone.
Mallen.
He passes his reins to an officer, murmurs a brief command—quiet as confession, sharp as a blade tucked between ribs. They both glance my way.
And then the officer strides toward me. The man who poured wine on me at the second trial. He’s younger than I remember. Older than he pretended to be. It was an act, all of it. Now, there’s no pretense. Only command. Only conflict.
“Princess,” he says, without bowing. “The Commander insists you come with me.”
I don’t move.
He reaches for my reins and I wheel my horse sharply, forcing it to rear. The officer stumbles back, rage flickering in his eyes.
“Remind the Commander he taught me not to surrender an advantage. If he wants to talk, he’ll meet me halfway.”
The man pales.
“Mallen said no exceptions.”
“I outrank him.”
For a moment, I think the officer might argue. But then his jaw clenches and he turns. Each step back to the line is reluctant, as if he’s counting them out like a man walking to the gallows.
Mallen watches his approach but his eyes never leave me.
When the message reaches him, he doesn’t hesitate. He steps forward—not far, not halfway. Just enough to make the point. Just enough to force my hand.
I see it now—the way his gait stutters, his right arm held too close, the shadow developing beneath his jaw like rot that mars his skin. He doesn’t mask it. He wants me to look. Wants me to know I left marks. Not just blood-deep, but bone-close. That I still matter enough to hurt him.
I press my heels to the horse’s side. Slow. Intentional. Each step devours the hush between us like fire licking dry parchment.
Eyes rake across me—soldiers, strangers—and I let them. Let them witness me try to heal the wound I carved into him.
He’s hurt.
He wants me to notice.
And I will not look away.
I stop when there’s barely a breath of space between us.
“Princess.”
His voice is low. Cold.
“Commander.”
A breath shifts his mouth—not a smile, but the memory of one. A bruise creeps across his cheek like dusk swallowing the sky. Guilt lances through me. I hurt him. I had to. But still—
He steps closer.
My horse shifts and lets out a nervous breath.
“Did my father send you?”
His eyes narrow. “He did not. I came anyway.”
The wind shifts and carries the distant clatter of hooves and armor, the heavy press of a hundred gazes. Neither of us looks away. Not yet. Not while this last distance remains.
A hawk shrieks overhead. The silence deepens.
Mallen doesn’t move. Neither do I.
It becomes a standoff, not of weapons but will. A contest of pride, of pain.
And then he speaks.
“Get down off that damn horse, Azhara.”
“Ask me as the woman with a crown and a choice, Mallen. Then I will come to you.”
His gaze flicks down my body like a blade meant to draw blood, and he’s too careful, too far away. What halts him isn’t fury—it’s distance, honed and hollow. The kind of pain that folds inward like frostbitten fingers: too numb to feel and too far gone to scream.
“You wanted me to stand; now I’m standing. You taught me to choose. I chose to come more than halfway for you, now choose for me.”
His throat works like it’s trying to swallow words that might splinter him from the inside. He steps close—closer—and the air between us strains, fragile as spun glass.
“Fine,” he says, low. “Please.”
It’s not polite. It’s not tender. But it costs him to say it. That’s what matters.
I slide from the saddle, landing lightly, dust curling around my boots.
Mallen watches, eyes unreadable. The silence stretches again.
I drop my shoulders. “Are you angry with me?”
It sounds like a plea. The answer’s already written in the way he looks at me.
“Yes.”
My gaze drops.
“Did he hurt you?” Mallen asks.
I glance up.
Mallen’s eyes are storms of pain barely held back, clouded with rage and fear he won’t name. He cares. Too much. Enough to burn the world down if I say yes.
“No,” I say, my voice carrying. “He’s gone back to Larksbind. He’ll tell his men he abandoned me. That way, your involvement stays buried.”
Mallen’s jaw twitches. He grips the bit, helping me dismount. I feel the fury rolling off him.
“Did he? Abandon you?”
“No. I let him go. I gave up my name to protect yours.”
His roar fractures the air. His hand clenches, unclenches. “I never cared about mine. Yours—gods, Azhara—”
“I made my choice. You’re all that matters to me.”
His brows lift, eyes boring into mine. Searching. Disbelieving. Needing me to say it again, to prove it wasn’t some cruel joke.
We’re close now, and still too far—his breath uneven, mine held hostage between one heartbeat and the next.
I lift my chin. “You lied to me.”
He looks down. “You wouldn’t have believed me.”
“You didn’t trust me enough to try.”
The silence between us stretches so long it starts to fray.
I can’t speak.
“You hid from me,” I manage finally. “Behind duty. Behind sacrifice. You didn’t give me the chance to see you.”
“You did.” His laugh is broken, bitter. “I’m a monster.”
“No,” I whisper. My hand rises to his chest. “You make me stronger. Hold me accountable. Make me choose. You don’t let me run.” I swallow hard. “If that makes you a monster, then you’re the one I want.”
He stills beneath my hand like a man standing in the ruins of a temple—bare, waiting for the stones to fall or the gods to answer.
I press my palm flat against him. His breath hitches.
“I never stopped protecting you,” he says, voice like gravel. “Even when you didn’t want me to.”
I exhale slowly. This shame has teeth.
“I know.”
Mallen’s eyes flicker. He waits. I don’t know for what.
Apologies are too small. Excuses too easy. I offer neither.
Instead, I draw in a breath and step back from him.
Then I bow.
Not the shallow dip of the court. Not the languid gesture of a woman trying to charm.
I fold low, one arm crossed over my chest, the other behind my back—a king’s bow.
The one that only the rulers of Starsfall make when they offer the highest honor to a worthy equal.
A sign of humility. Of reverence. Of concession.
Gasps ripple through the line.
Mallen doesn’t move.
The wind tugs at my cloak. I stay bowed, eyes fixed on the dust at my feet, and the silence bears down—taut and breathless—as if all of Starsfall holds its breath against my spine.
Let him reject it. Let him walk away. Let it end here if it must—but not for want of trying.
At last, he speaks.
“Never beneath me. Always beside me.”
I rise.
He stares at me a moment longer. He stares at me like a man trying to remember the shape of mercy. Then, without a word, he reaches for me.
He lifts me into his arms, and the world disappears. His hand closes at the back of my neck, drawing me in like gravity. Our mouths find each other in a kiss that isn’t soft or clean or sweet—it’s bitter and bruised and full of all the things we haven’t said.
And when I kiss him back, we don’t offer forgiveness.
We offer surrender.
He pulls away first. His breath is uneven.
“You don’t get to break my heart and pretend nothing happened.”
“I’m not pretending.”
His hold tightens and I lean into it. “I wanted you to choose me. Not for what I could offer. Not because I was safe or useful or ordained. I wanted it to be me. Flawed. Mortal. Me.”
A breathless silence falls.
“Is that so wrong?” His voice cracks. “To want to be loved as I am?”
”You never gave me the chance.”
He growls low in his throat. Desire, frustration, hurt—it’s all tangled in his expression.
“I’m done fighting you,” I whisper. “But I’ll fight for you. Every day, every breath. I choose you, Mallen. Not for what you could be—but for who you are. Because now I finally see you.”
His smile is faint. Reverent. Disbelieving.
“And I don’t want my heart back,” I add. “Don’t even try.”
He brushes a curl from my face, his thumb lingering.
“Choose me,” I say. “All of me.”
His eyes close for the briefest second. Then open. Dark and shining emeralds.
“Always.”
My heart stumbles.
He tilts his head, and the smirk returns. Not cruel. Not mocking. Just his—familiar and alive and unbearable in how much I missed it.
“I rather like you bowing to me,” he murmurs.
Then he laughs. Loud and unrestrained. And for a moment, he’s golden with it—reborn, radiant, like a hymn risen whole from the ash.
He steps back. The warmth between us doesn’t cool.
Mallen turns, calling the officer still waiting behind him. The man approaches with two horses. Mine and his.
Mallen swings up onto his saddle with practiced ease, though he grits his teeth as his body twists—and a wince flickers across his face, sharp as a bell’s crack in a ruined cathedral.
I mount without help. His eyes catch the movement.
“We have more to talk about,” he says.
I nod. “I know.”
Mallen raises a brow as he pulls his horse alongside mine. He leans in and kisses me again, and I hear the cheers rise behind us this time. The sound of swords against shields. Shouts and whistles.
I don’t care.
He breaks the kiss first. “Are you blushing?”
“No,” I say. “But you might be.”
“Careful, Princess,” he teases, his voice velvet over steel. “Say one more thing like that, and I’ll be claiming you before we reach the next ridge. We are thread and blade and blood, and I won’t let you escape from me again.”