Chapter 30
CHAPTER THIRTY
For the second time in as many days, I’m galloping toward a mansion abandoned now that autumn’s here. And it’s not desperation that drives Mallen forward now—but intent.
The estate rises from the hills like a sunlit relic of privilege, its windows drunk on dusk light, reflecting the gold like a secret too beautiful to keep.
Officers ride behind us, silent save for the rhythmic pounding of hooves.
Mallen rides ahead now, his gaze fixed on the road, jaw set like carved stone.
We’ve barely spoken since we mounted our horses.
There’s no need.
His body speaks for him—leaning too close, brushing my arm with deliberate carelessness when he’s not riding just far enough ahead to let everyone see who brought me here. He doesn’t need words to stake his claim. It’s there in the line of his shoulders, the protective tension in his frame.
And I let him. Because some small, reckless part of me likes it.
I should resent that—should chafe at the idea of being claimed like territory—but there’s a hush threaded through with hunger—no longer for battle, but for proof I’m still beside him. This isn’t a show of conquest. It’s possession, yes, but born of desperation. Of loss.
As if looking away might dissolve me back into dreams.
As if I’m still more ghost than girl in his eyes.
I’ve chosen to stay—but trust like his doesn’t surface without scars.
Servants scatter at our arrival, their confusion swallowed by the brisk orders of the officers dismounting behind us.
Within moments, the house begins to shift—its quiet halls invaded, its staff repurposed, its rooms claimed by men in uniform.
Tents will rise on the outskirts, and the barns will fill with the weight of an army.
But not us.
Mallen’s hand finds my waist as I dismount, the touch gentle, grounding. “The servants will run a bath,” he says, his voice a low rasp. “I’ll settle a few matters first. I have to make sure that Darian returns to Larksbind without declaring war and buy us time to deal with your father.”
“Do you want me there?”
“Not this time,” he replies, and the ghost of regret flickers across his face. “I’ll tell you everything soon.”
A familiar officer waits nearby—the same one who Mallen sent to bring me back. His expression is unreadable as he leads me through the echoing corridors, the hush of old stone closing in around us. The master suite yawns open before us, gilded and quiet, suffocating in its grandeur.
He checks the room quickly, his gaze never quite meeting mine. “I’ll be outside if you need anything.”
“You should join them. I’m not in danger.”
He stops short, as if I’ve struck him. Slowly, he turns back, his face unreadable but tight with something like pity. “You think that’s why I’m staying?”
I blink.
“He isn’t guarding you. He’s guarding himself. You don’t see it yet, do you?”
“See what?”
The man exhales, his silence sagging under the strain of truths he won’t share. “You’ll understand soon. When he lets you.”
“He’s not like that.”
“No,” the officer murmurs. “He’s worse when he cares.”
He doesn’t linger. The door closes behind him with a finality and the echo of it lodges somewhere deep—beneath the ribs, where secrets tend to settle.
Servants pour in, arms full of linens and water, scurrying like mice in the presence of an invisible god no one dares name, but all feel breathing down their necks. None look me in the eye. The room transforms around me—rugs rolled back, a brass tub dragged in, steam rising into the velvet hush.
One girl remains when the rest have gone. Her hands tremble as she reaches to help me undress.
“I’ll manage.”
She stares for a beat too long and then flees, her footsteps echoing down the hall like she knows I could curse the floor just by walking it.
I undress slowly, shedding layers of sweat and dust. The bath scalds my skin, but I sink into it anyway, welcoming the pain.
My legs ache, my shoulders burn, and the heat seeps into the cracks I didn’t know had formed.
I scrub the battlefield from my skin. I comb the knots from my hair. I float, weightless, just for a moment.
And then the air changes.
“You know better than to drop your guard,” Mallen growls.
I don’t startle. Just open my eyes to find him standing at the foot of the tub, shirtless and furious.
Bruises ink across his chest in shades no sky has ever held—a map of my undoing etched into him like myth. The wound on his arm gapes slightly, red and raw.
“You look like hell,” I say, voice quiet.
He doesn’t answer. Doesn’t flinch.
He’s showing me what I did. He wants me to look. To remember.
“Does it hurt?”
“Only when I move,” he replies. “It was worth it.”
The words drop between us, heavy with everything he isn’t saying.
His eyes flick lower, trailing across the surface of the water, over every visible inch of me. He sways slightly, bracing his hands on the edge of the tub. His breath is unsteady. Controlled.
“What did you discuss?”
“The future of Starsfall.” He doesn’t look away. “Your father and what to do about him. I’ve spent five years planning for this moment. We march at dawn.”
My fingers drift through the water. “You’re seizing Threnos?”
He nods. “It’s time. He has few soldiers left. He won’t expect a night assault.”
“And after?”
“You take what’s yours,” he says simply. “Your crown. Your kingdom. I’ll make certain no one takes it from you.”
There’s no hesitation. No pause for doubt. Just the fierce promise in his voice and the quiet, implacable rage behind it. He doesn’t speak of vengeance, but it lives in him, buried deep. And this time, it’s not for himself.
I should be afraid. He could shatter nations, and yet he kneels to no one but me. But the fear that lingers isn’t his fury—it’s how easily I ache to be chosen by it. To fold into the promises he carries like prayers clenched in his teeth.
Starsfall. A crown. A throne.
“What if I don’t want it?” I whisper, mostly to the bathwater.
He moves across the room and pours a glass of wine with one hand, never looking away.
“You can decide whether you want the throne once your father’s gone,” he says. “You can shape it how you want. We will rule as equals, Azhara. Not because of what you’ve done. Or the magic you carry. Because of who you are.”
I want to believe him.
I want it not to terrify me.
He sets the wine aside and begins removing what’s left of his clothing. There’s nothing seductive in the gesture—just quiet purpose. His back is marked by battle, not desire. His skin is darkened with blood, ash, and sweat.
He doesn’t ask if he can join me.
He just waits.
“The water’s still warm,” I offer.
He steps in. The water rises around us, rippling. I sit forward, press a cloth to the curve of his shoulder, and begin to clean him. Gently. Carefully.
His hands remain at his sides. He lets me touch him. Lets me see him.
“We are equals,” he says at last. “We always have been. Bound by more than blood or fate. Bound by our will, yours and mine.”
“You’d risk the gods’ wrath for me?”
He doesn’t hesitate. “Gladly. But this isn’t defiance. This is faith.”
I stare at my reflection on the water’s surface. “In me?”
When I glance up, I half expect Mallen to look wary, but there’s only quiet surprise in his expression. As if he hadn’t expected tenderness. As if he’s the one bracing to be left behind.
“I’m not afraid of you,” I whisper.
He flinches like it’s a lie. I reach for his hand before he can draw away.
“Not now. Not ever.”
Silence unfurls between us, steeped in steam and heartbeat and the sound of water shifting like breath beneath moonlight—slow, tidal, inevitable.
“Darian said you hold Starsfall’s darkness. That you gather it in the labyrinth and it will consume you. Me too, if I let it.” I hold his gaze. “But that isn’t true. I don’t hold Starfall’s light, and you’re not its darkness. I don’t understand how or why, but I know we balance each other. We fit.”
Mallen’s jaw shifts. “What else did he tell you?”
I press my palms to his chest and trace the contours of his body, slow and deliberate. My fingers knead over bruises, scar tissue, muscle. His breath stutters.
“He said you were working for my father. That in time you’d turn on him. Become worse than him. And that if I chose you, I’d be all that contains you.”
I pause. Then—
“He admitted lying about what he said in the labyrinth.”
Mallen tips his head back. A low sound escapes him as I dig my thumbs beneath his shoulder blades. He doesn’t answer. He lets me finish, lets me serve him. His body relaxes under my hands, but his silence is louder than speech.
Then he lowers his forehead to mine. His voice is quiet, but the words slice deep.
“He’s not wrong.”
He doesn’t say it bitterly. There’s no anger in it. Just weariness. Honesty.
“He’s just not right.”
Mallen’s hand finds mine.
“The truth lies with the gods,” he murmurs. “But I know this—your magic is more than death. Your darkness is vast. And if it isn’t shared, it consumes. Darian would return that power to the heavens. Strip you of it. Leave you pure.”
His fingers tighten around mine.
“I would share it. Bear it with you. Carry it when you cannot.”
My breath catches.
“Share it with you or surrender it with Darian,” I say. “That’s always been my choice.”
He nods. “Did he say more about the labyrinth?”
“No.”
Mallen stills. His spine aligns like a pulled thread, and the quiet around us sharpens to glass.
“Then he doesn’t know,” he says.
I blink. “Know what?”
He doesn’t look me in the eye. His voice turns brittle.
“Azhara…the labyrinth isn’t where I draw power from. It’s where I go. To cage it. Myself too. When I’m losing control.”
He pauses. His breath is barely a whisper.
“The darkness isn’t mine.”
I freeze.
Steam curls off the surface of the water, but my skin goes cold.