Page 48 of Labyrinth of Broken Vows
twenty-one
Brielle
As I step into the throne room, its grandeur hits me with quiet awe. The vast, echoing space seems to hum with ancient power, the walls rising like cliffs, their intricate carvings pulling my gaze. The soft glow of candlelight flickers off gilded arches, and every step I take echoes through the stone, amplifying the quiet power of the room. My hand is wrapped in his, grounding me as my gaze drifts to the heart of the space; to the twin thrones standing side by side. They are a matched pair, yet so unmistakably different.
The throne on the right looms with an imposing presence, its tall back a jagged line of sharp, ruthless edges. The deep black of its wood seems to swallow the light, radiating an aura of power and strength, a seat that demands respect and submission.
But it’s the throne on the left that truly holds my attention. It’s unlike anything I’ve ever seen. Dark vines twist around its frame,curling in intricate, baroque patterns that soften the severity of its structure. The seat and back are upholstered in rich, dark leather, every stitch precise, every button perfectly placed, the padding almost inviting me to sink into it. Its design is delicate yet commanding, with branches weaving in and out of the ornate woodwork, as if the throne itself pulses with life.
We stop before it, and he turns to me. His gaze is intense, a small smile curving his lips. “This is yours,” he says, his voice low and reverent. “If you wish to take it.”
A thrill courses through me at his words. Mine. I can almost see myself there, seated in that dark majesty, the weight of it fitting around me like a crown. But before I can respond, a weak, broken voice cuts through the silence.
“Brielle… is that you?”
The sound comes from off to the left. It’s a voice I haven’t heard in what feels like a lifetime. I turn, my gaze slipping from the throne, and there, huddled in a cage, pale and gaunt, is Henry. I blink, startled. The man before me is a shadow of who he once was. He’s smaller now, frail even, and his eyes have lost their cold, commanding edge. He stares up at me, his face marked by disbelief, confusion… maybe even fear. The sight of him is jarring, so utterly different from the image of him I carry in my memory, that for a moment, I feel rooted to the spot.
He looks… helpless. Weak. And it’s baffling, like the world has tilted on its axis, unraveling everything I thought I knew. I never imagined I’d see him like this, reduced to such a pitiful state. The familiar war inside me ignites, roaring in my ears like a storm caught between duty and desire. I should feel sorry for him, shouldn’t I? I should pity the shell of a man he’s become, twisted and shrunken behind these iron bars. Everyone has a chance to change, don’t they? But as Henry stares up at me, his brows knitting together in fury, I feel only the cold weight of satisfaction settling into my bones.
He squints, taking in the way I’m dressed—like royalty, like something untouchable. “What is this?” he spits, his voice a rasp. “Why are you dressed like that? Are you withhim?”
I take an instinctive step back, the heavy silk of my gown brushing against my legs. He stands, gripping the bars of his cage, and I try not to flinch as he stumbles slightly. His gaze burns, furious and accusing, yet beneath it, I can see the hollow weakness in his frame, the trembling in his fingers as he clings to the metal.
“Well, don’t just stand there staring at me,” he snaps, his voice raw with anger and disbelief. “Get me out of here. Now, Brielle.”
I don’t move. My legs feel leaden, my body frozen in place, as if some force holds me back. I take another step backward, my spine pressing against Thorne’s solid, reassuring chest. His hands come to rest on my arms, his touch gentle, grounding. He leans in close, his breath warm against my ear, his voice a low murmur that somehow cuts through the chaos inside me.
“Breathe,” he whispers. “You are safe. You are in control.”
Henry’s enraged shout cuts through the stillness, desperate and venomous. “Get your fucking hands off of her!” He lunges against the bars, rattling the cage, his face contorting with anger. “Brielle, my love, let me out of here! We can go home.”
Home. The word feels foreign, hollow, as if it belongs to someone else’s life. I shake my head, my lips parting to respond, but the words refuse to come. They tangle in my throat, trapped by the weight of years spent swallowing my own pain, my own silence.
Henry stares at me, as I shake my head again, more firmly this time.
His face twists, his eyes narrowing with dark rage. “What the fuck do you mean, no?” His voice drops to a threatening growl. “You let me out of this godforsaken cage now, Brielle, or I will—”
Thorne’s expression darkens, his jaw clenched as he steps forward, positioning himself between me and the cage. His eyes flash with fierce intensity, a protective edge sharpening his features. “You watch your tongue, or I’ll cut it out and feed it to you. No more threats. We both know no harm will come to her while I’m breathing.”
I can feel the tension crackle in the air, thick and electric, as Thorne’s gaze shifts to me. His eyes soften. “His fate rests in your hands,” he says, his voice smooth and tempting, wrapping around me. “You can choose to release him if that’s what you desire.”
I see the truth in his words, the weight of my power hanging between us. “Or you can choose your throne.”
My gaze drifts to the throne he crafted for me, the intricately carved vines curling around it, the dark elegance of it calling to a power deep inside me. But Henry’s voice slices through the moment, dragging me back with its bitter bite.
“To leave me to die in here… that’s cruel,” he spits, his voice hoarse with desperation and malice. His eyes narrow, his lips curl as he adds, “You evil, cruel whore. After all I’ve done for you.”
The word "cruel" snaps through my thoughts like a slap, breaking whatever hesitation had trapped my voice in my throat. My head whips toward him, my eyes hard and unyielding, locking onto his. “Cruel?” I echo, my voice sharper, colder than I’ve ever heard it. I see the shock flicker across his face, the faintest widening of his eyes as he realizes he’s lost control of me; lost the power he once held over me.
He stares, uncomprehending, as I take a step forward, my tone deadly calm, each word cutting. “You dare to call me cruel, Henry?” My voice doesn’t waver; it doesn’t break. Instead, it grows stronger, gathering momentum. “What? Didn’t think my voice could rise above yours?” I take a bitter satisfaction inwatching him flinch, the disbelief rippling across his face. “No, I bet you never thought my voice could go higher than a whisper, did you?”
Henry’s mouth opens and closes, grasping for a retort, but I’m not finished.
To call me cruel,” I say, a harsh laugh escaping, “is almost laughable, coming from a man who chose cruelty at every single opportunity. A man who never missed a chance to crush, belittle, and control.”
I can feel Thorne’s presence behind me, steady and silent, a solid reminder that I’m no longer alone in this. But I don’t need him to stand up to Henry now.
Henry stares at me, his eyes wide with disbelief and barely contained fury. His voice shakes as he snaps, “You are my wife, and I demand you let me out of here. This isn’t you, Brielle. Snap out of it.”
