The camp was built into the rock, nestled near the quarry ridge where the wind screamed through the stone like an animal in mourning. It was bleak, functional, a far cry from the marble grandeur of the Capitol.
Capitol Guard tents flapped in the cold wind—navy and black banners snapped against the iron sky. Soldiers moved like ghosts, silent and purposeful, their boots crunching over frozen mud. Most of them didn't look Surian in the eye as she passed.
They weren't avoiding her.
They were afraid.
Afraid of what this place had become.
Afraid of who commanded it now.
Luko walked ahead, silent, shoulders squared against the chill.
He didn't say much. He didn't need to.
Surian felt it in her bones—the air itself tensed, like the camp had grown sentient and now held its breath.
They passed the central watchfire, its embers low. A few guards sat around it in silence, armor dull, eyes red-rimmed from sleepless nights. No one laughed. No one spoke.
Luko turned toward the largest tent at the edge of the quarry, where snow clung to the canvas like ash.
"He stays here," Luko said quietly. "He doesn't leave unless he thinks she's nearby. Some days, he doesn't even come out."
Surian nodded and stepped forward, heart hammering.
She hadn't seen her brother in nearly half a year.
Not since Allora escaped.
Not since the confrontation.
Not since Malec stopped being Malec, and became… this.
She ducked beneath the tent flap.
And froze.
The inside was dimly lit, warmed only by a small brazier in the corner. Maps covered the walls, veins of red ink drawn over mountain passes and trade routes. Pins. Threads. Dozens of locations.
The center of the room was a warboard turned shrine.
And Malec sat in the middle of it.
He was hunched over the table, fingers twitching as he traced the same path again and again along the border—his eyes fixed, blank, unblinking. His long platinum hair spilled like silk down his back, unbraided, tangled at the ends. His uniform hung looser than she remembered. He was thinner, gaunt, like a man whose body had started to consume itself.
But it was his face that broke her.
But when Malec looked up, it wasn't hope that flickered in his eyes—it was calculation, edged with something frayed.
His gaze passed over her like a man checking for shadows.
"You're not her," he said flatly. His voice was hoarse, unused, but steady.
Surian took a step closer. "No. I'm not."
Malec leaned back from the table, his fingers still gripping the edge of it, knuckles white.
"She should've come through here," he muttered. "I accounted for every passage, every route south. She's not where she should be. She's not anywhere."
"You've been here for months," she said, quietly. "You look like hell."
He didn't respond.
Didn't move.
Only stared at the map like it had personally betrayed him.
"She's hiding. Or someone is hiding her," he said after a long moment. "She should've run to me. She didn't."
There was no sadness in his voice. Just anger.
"And that means someone has to answer for it."
Surian crossed her arms. "What if it means she doesn't want to be found?"
Malec looked at her now—really looked. His eyes were dull but sharp, the way cracked ice still cuts skin.
"I don't care what she wants."
That silenced the room.
He turned away, adjusted a marker on the map like the conversation had ended.
"I'm not here to beg, Surian. I'm here to correct a mistake."
"You already lost her," she said softly, her throat tightening. "You're just trying to rewrite the ending."
He scoffed, low and tired. "Then I'll keep rewriting it until it ends the way I want."
"Even if it breaks her?"
His shoulders tensed.
"I'll put her back together."
Surian stood still for a long moment, her arms folded across her chest, her gaze fixed on her brother.
The weight of him hit her more now than it had when he embraced her.
The way he stood—too still, like movement took effort.
The hollows beneath his cheekbones.
The bruised shadows under his pale eyes.
And worst of all… the quiet.
Malec had once been a creature of cold brilliance—sharp-witted, commanding, a man whose mind spun faster than any room. But this version of him?
He was all blade, no edge.
A blade left in the snow too long—still dangerous, but dulled by rust and madness.
"You know," she said after a long silence, "I used to think you were incapable of breaking."
He didn't look at her.
"I thought the things you did, the choices you made… they came from calculation. From the part of you that didn't feel things the way the rest of us do."
Malec didn't answer. He adjusted another pin on the map.
"And now?" he asked, without inflection.
Surian stepped forward, slowly, like approaching a wounded predator.
"Now I think you feel too much. But only for her."
He stilled.
A muscle in his jaw ticked.
"Say what you came to say," he muttered. "You didn't ride all the way here for poetic analysis."
Surian's voice dropped.
"I came to help you before you do something that can't be undone."
Malec turned then—just slightly—and gave her a look that was neither cruel nor kind.
"Everything worth having comes undone first. You think I don't know that by now?"
"You don't have her anymore, Malec," she said softly.
He inhaled, a shallow sound—controlled. "No. I don't. Because she ran. And now the world is quieter. Emptier. Useless."
Surian stepped closer, trying to meet him in the space between cold logic and the emotion he refused to wear.
"Don't you see what she meant to you?"
He looked at her now. Really looked. And when he did, it was like staring down the side of a cliff where the ocean once was.
"She was mine," he said simply. "And everything after her is a world without sun."
Surian's heart cracked, but she didn't let it show.
"Then why are you still trying to drag her back into shadow?"
Malec tilted his head slightly, studying her like she was a chess piece.
"Because if I can't have the sun, I'll burn with it. I'll build a new world around her until she stops trying to escape it."
"And if she never loves you again?"
His face didn't move.
"Then she'll hate me beside her. But she'll be beside me."
Surian's voice broke then, just slightly. "You're talking about a cage."
"And you think she's not already in one?" he snapped. "This world broke her long before I ever touched her. I gave her something real. A purpose. A way to survive."
"You made her survival your excuse," she whispered. "You made her strength a justification for your control."
Malec turned back to the map, dismissive now.
"You always took her side."
"I didn't take her side," she said, her voice steel beneath the pain. "I just never stopped seeing her as a person."
Silence stretched between them again.
"She was the only thing in my life that ever made sense."
His voice was low, flat—but not empty.
"And now I'm expected to live like I can breathe without her?"
He looked up at Surian then, something colder than fury behind his eyes.
"When you've held something that rare… you don't forget it. You can't. You spend the rest of your life trying to get it back what you lost—even if it kills you."
Surian's breath hitched, but she held her ground.
"You didn't lose her to anyone, Malec. She left you."
He finally turned his head, his voice low and steady.
"No one leaves me."
Surian flinched. Not because of the words—because of how quietly certain they were.
"Then you've already lost her," she said.
Malec's hand hovered over the map again, his eyes sharp on the ink trail.
"I'll decide when it's over."
_______________________________________________________________________
The room was silent save for the slow rhythm of Allora's breathing.
The velvet drapes of Leira's estate were drawn, casting soft shadows over her form as she napped—one arm curled over the round swell of her belly, the other resting above her head, fingers twitching as sleep pulled her under.
And in the dream…
She walked on clouds.
Not fog. Not mist.
Actual clouds—sun-warmed, soft beneath her bare feet, the sky stretched endless and impossibly blue in every direction.
She laughed—lightly, distantly—as wind tangled through her hair. It felt good. Like freedom. Like something she'd lost long ago and just now remembered to miss.
But then—
She faltered.
Her body tilted. The clouds beneath her feet dispersed like breath, and she began to fall.
The sun dimmed.
Her arms flailed.
She reached—grasping for sky, for anything—but there was nothing.
She was plummeting.
Fast.
The air whipped around her like screams, but she made no sound. Her throat tightened, her hands trembling as gravity tore her from the heavens.
And then—
Light.
Brilliant. Sudden. Blinding.
A warm orb of light descended beside her, matching her velocity for a breathless moment.
Allora blinked through wind and fear, eyes wide. The orb wasn't fire—it was pure, white-gold, humming like music without sound.
It hovered, pulsing.
And then slowly… the fall began to slow.
The light enveloped her. Wrapped her in a kind of gravity she didn't understand.
And when she landed, it was gentle. Grass met her back like a lover's touch.
She gasped, breath returning to her lungs as the world became quiet again.
All around her, rolling green hills stretched beneath a sky that shimmered with light—not sun, but something higher.
The orb hovered in front of her now, still and waiting.
Allora sat up, her breath ragged. Her hand touched the soft curve of her belly instinctively.
She stared at the orb.
"…Do I know you?"
The light pulsed, but gave no answer.
It turned—just slightly—and began to drift away. Not fast. Just far enough to make her want to follow.
And she did.
She rose and walked after it.
Not because she understood it.
But because it felt like a part of her.
Like something familiar she hadn't met yet.
Allora followed the orb through the hills for what felt like both seconds and eternity.
The wind had stilled. The colors around her blurred into softness—like a memory painted in watercolor. The only thing sharp was the orb, glowing and weaving ahead of her, always just far enough to keep her moving.
Then—
She heard it.
A soft, broken sound.
Not words.
Not wind.
A whimper.
Faint. Fragile. Like the world itself had bitten its tongue and was crying in silence.
The orb pulsed brighter, faster—anxious.
It veered left, and Allora followed without thinking, her feet barefoot against the plush grass, her heart picking up its pace.
She crested a small hill—
And froze.
There, nestled in the curve of the earth, lay a silver fox.
Its fur shimmered like moonlight, matted and slick in some places. Its side moved in shallow breaths. Blood—silver, glinting like starlight—painted the grass beneath it.
The orb descended immediately, circling the fox once, then again—faster now, as if agitated, as if it already knew.
The light bounced gently off the fox's nose.
The fox stirred.
Its ears twitched.
And then—
It opened its eyes.
Beautiful. Pale. Tan eyes.
Eyes that struck her like lightning to the ribs.
The fox stared.
And then it growled—low and defensive.
But the moment it saw her—really saw her—its expression changed.
Recognition.
The fox staggered to its feet.
And limped into her arms.
Allora dropped to her knees and let the creature crawl into her lap, its breathing ragged, its body trembling.
She held it without hesitation, hands stroking its fur, soothing the burrs and blood and terror out of its coat. The fox pressed its head to her chest, and then—
It whimpered again.
A soft, cracked sound that nearly broke her.
She felt her throat tighten.
She pulled the fox closer, protectively, instinctively, tears pricking her lashes.
"I've got you," she whispered. "It's okay. You're not alone."
And then—
The orb floated between them.
It settled right where the fox's side met her belly.
And there they stayed.
A mother. A memory. A myth.
Held together in silence.
As the fox cried, she cried too.
And the orb pulsed gently with their grief—like a heartbeat trying to remember how to be whole again.
_______________________________________________________________________
Malec woke with a gasp.
He shot upright, the furs tangled around his legs, sweat slicking his chest despite the cold.
His breath came in shallow, rapid bursts. His hand instinctively reached out—to the empty space beside him.
The sheets were cool.
Untouched.
Empty.
But for one second… she had been there.
He could still smell her—jasmine and wind, skin and dusk.
It wasn't just memory.
It was presence.
He blinked wildly, eyes adjusting to the dim light of the tent. The fire had burned low. Shadows flickered like spirits across the walls.
He turned, scanning the room. His gaze darted to the door flap, then the far corners, like maybe—maybe—she'd just left. That she had been here. That she'd touched him and vanished.
But no one was there.
His fingers clenched the bedsheets, trembling now with the echo of something real.
He had felt her.
His pulse thundered in his ears. He pressed both hands to his face, then dragged them through his hair, breathing ragged.
"I'm going insane," he whispered.
It wasn't a question. It was a quiet confession.
The madness had long since crept into his bones—he knew that. It walked with him. Sat at his side. Told him what he wanted to hear. But this? This had been different.
She had been with him.
Or… he had been with her.
He could still feel the trace of it on his skin.
Like light.
Warm.
Weightless.
But it wasn't just her.
No—there had been something else.
Something small. Quiet.
But powerful.
The sensation returned like a memory not quite his: a weightless, pulsing warmth hovering just outside his reach. Not foreign. Not malicious. Just… there. Watching. Knowing.
A presence beside hers.
He stood, unsteady, and stepped away from the bed like the room itself might collapse under the weight of what he couldn't explain.
His fingers went to the ring on his hand. Her ring. The one he never took off.
"What are you hiding from me, dove?" he whispered.
The wind picked up outside. The tent groaned against its poles. Somewhere in the back of his skull, a pressure bloomed—a tight, gnawing instinct.
She was alive.
He was sure of it now.
And something—someone—was with her.
____________________________________________________________________________
Surian was halfway to the mess hall, her cloak tight around her shoulders, when she heard the quick, uneven footfalls behind her.
"Surian—!"
She turned, catching sight of Luko, barreling toward her, breath fogging in the cold, hair disheveled, panic written all over his face.
She frowned. "What is it—"
"She's here," he gasped, hands gesturing wildly.
Surian blinked. "Luko, breathe. You're talking like a madman."
He leaned in, still breathless. "Kirelle. She's here. Asking for Malec. Pushing past the outpost guard. Wouldn't say why."
Surian went still.
The color drained from her face like ink spilling from a cracked bottle.
Kirelle.
Here.
At Malec's camp.
Without another word, she spun on her heel and took off, skirts flaring behind her, her boots crunching against frozen ground.
"Find Malec," she threw over her shoulder. "Tell him nothing until I say."
Luko nodded and darted in the opposite direction, heading for the command tent with urgency in his step.
By the time Surian reached the edge of the camp, she saw it: Kirelle's unmistakable silhouette, draped in fox-fur and arrogance, arguing with one of the gate officers.
The poor man was sweating despite the chill.
"I told you," he stammered, "civilian entry is not permitted beyond—"
"Oh, for the gods' sake, I've already bedded half of you officers in my time, spare me the pretense of rules," Kirelle snapped, her eyes glittering with disdain. "Tell your precious king his betrothed has come bearing gifts."
"Enough," Surian called out as she approached.
The guard straightened. "My lady, I—"
"She's expected," Surian lied smoothly, lifting a hand. "Let her through."
The guard looked relieved to have the responsibility removed. Kirelle shot him a triumphant look as she stepped into the camp proper, her heels clicking against frozen stone like a ticking clock.
"Well," she said, brushing her gloved hands together. "Are we walking, or am I to be paraded?"
Surian narrowed her eyes but waved her forward. They walked side by side, their paces matched in speed if not in tension.
"What are you doing all the way out here, Kirelle?" Surian asked, voice low but sharp. "This is a military outpost. Not your fashion circuit."
"Oh, sweet Surian." Kirelle's tone was sugar-laced venom. "If I had known you missed me, I would've sent letters."
"I asked you a question."
Kirelle's smile turned razor-thin. "It's family business. And Malec needs to hear it. So do you, actually."
Surian narrowed her eyes. "What kind of family business?"
Kirelle tilted her head, lips curling in that familiar smirk. "You know, it's adorable how neither of you seem to realize how relevant your mother still is."
Surian stopped dead.
Kirelle took two steps before noticing, then turned with a slow, feline elegance.
"…What did you say?"
Kirelle's voice dropped into something sharper.
"I said—it's about Leira."
The tent was dim again.
Malec stood at the war table, sleeves rolled to his forearms, eyes fixed on a weather-worn map that he had nearly memorized. Dozens of colored pins marked sightings, rumors, intercepted whispers.
But his gaze wasn't on any of them.
It was locked in the space between the borders—where nothing was marked.
That's where she was.
He knew it now.
And something else was there too.
That presence he'd felt in the dream.
Small.
New.
Undeniable.
His hand clenched the edge of the table.
He was about to draw a new pin when—
"Malec!"
The tent flap slammed open.
Luko stumbled in, out of breath, snow flurries still clinging to his shoulders.
Malec didn't look up.
"You'd better be dying," he said flatly.
"Worse," Luko panted, voice quick and cracking. "Kirelle's here. In the camp. Asking for you."
That name—
The room went still.
Malec raised his eyes slowly. "...What?"
"She showed up ten minutes ago," Luko continued. "Already at the gate, arguing with the guards. Surian intercepted her—she's trying to get to her first."
Malec's grip on the table tightened. His jaw locked.
Kirelle.
Here.
That could only mean one thing: Leira moved.
He straightened. Not fast. But with the kind of precision that came before a blow.
"Why is she here?"
Luko shook his head. "She says it's about your family. About Leira."
Malec's head snapped up at that.
Luko added, "She wouldn't say more—just that it concerns you and Surian directly."
Malec's expression turned cold.
"She's not family," he said. "She's an opportunist. She circles power like a hawk, and she only lands when there's blood on the ground."
"I know," Luko said carefully. "That's why I came here first. She's not here by accident. And if she knows something about Leira…"
Malec turned toward him fully.
His hair, unbound and wild, glinted in the brazier's low light. His eyes, shadowed and sharp, fixed on Luko with a precision that cut through the fatigue.
"She wouldn't drag herself out to Dremond's Gate unless she thought there was leverage in it."
Luko nodded. "Which means it's something big. But if you're going to face her, Malec… you need to keep your head."
Malec's stare didn't waver.
"My head is the only thing I haven't lost."
A beat passed.
Then slowly, he began rolling down the sleeves of his coat, deliberate and silent.
"Send her in."
Luko hesitated. "Maybe Surian should speak to her first—just in case she's—"
"Send. Her. In."
The words were low and sharp, and the tent felt colder for them.
Luko's jaw tensed. He nodded once and turned, disappearing out the flap.
The cold wind followed him.
Malec stood still in the center of the room, staring at the red pins on the map.
The tent flap rustled and lifted as Kirelle, Surian, and Luko stepped inside.
The heat of the brazier flickered, casting long shadows against the canvas walls. Malec stood in the center, unmoving, silhouetted like a statue carved from frost and rage.
Kirelle's sharp gaze swept over him as she entered—and the breath caught, ever so briefly, in her throat.
Malec was still beautiful.
But in the way of dying stars—brilliant, collapsing, dangerous.
His once-vital frame was thinner now, the muscles beneath his uniform drawn tight like a bow pulled too far. His skin had gone pale beneath its silver hue. Gaunt. Hollowed. His cheekbones sharpened, not with elegance, but with erosion.
But it was the eyes that chilled her.
Shadow-ringed and sunken deep, they flickered with something feral—starved.
Like he hadn't slept properly in weeks. Like he had bitten down on his soul and hadn't unclenched since.
She had come to play the game.
But now she wasn't sure he knew it was a game anymore.
"Malec," she purred, softer now, adjusting her tone. "Still alive, I see."
He didn't answer. Just watched her. Silent. Staring. A predator deciding whether the mouse at his feet was worth pouncing on.
Kirelle braced herself.
She clasped her hands behind her back and cleared her throat.
"I've come with information. But you already knew that."
Still no response.
"But it comes at a cost."
Surian narrowed her eyes. "What kind of cost?"
Kirelle smiled. "Simple. A trade. I give you the name of the person hiding your little dove, and in exchange—"
She looked straight at Malec.
"—you give me what I've wanted from the beginning."
Luko exhaled slowly. "What the hell does that mean?"
Kirelle stepped forward.
"A child. I want an Awyan heir. Yours. I want you—at least once. I deserve that much after what Leira stole from me."
Malec's head slowly tilted.
His eyes snapped up—and for one instant, one heartbeat, Kirelle felt her skin pull tight over her bones.
He stepped forward.
She took a half-step back. Reflex.
Because now she could see it—
She wasn't talking to a prince. Or a commander.
She was talking to a cornered, starving animal.
Malec's voice came low. Dry. Measured.
"If what you tell me is true…"
Another step closer.
"If you give me the name…"
Closer still.
Kirelle's throat tightened.
"I'll give you what you want," he said, stopping inches from her. "Once. Twice. As many times as you think it'll take. As long as I get her back."
The way he said her was not soft.
It was a vow.
Kirelle's lips curved upward.
"Deal."
She stepped to the side and turned to the others, her tone smug with power now.
"It was Leira," she said simply. "All this time. She made a deal with me months ago to deliver the Canariae. She's had her hidden—somewhere remote. Off-record. Even I don't know where."
Surian's hand flew to her mouth.
"Leira?" she breathed. "No—she wouldn't—"
"She did," Kirelle cut in. "I came to collect, and she's stalling. Playing her own game. But I've had enough of her tricks."
Malec's body trembled, not from weakness—from fury.
He turned sharply, grabbed the nearest object from the table—a bronze bowl used for ink mixing—and hurled it across the tent.
It shattered against the far wall, pieces clattering to the floor in a rain of sparks and rage.
"Of course it was her," he spat.
"She's always in the middle. Always watching. Always pretending to be ten steps ahead."
He ran a hand through his hair, pacing now.
"Why didn't I see it? Of course she had her. All this time—and she let me go mad looking."
Luko scratched his head, eyes narrowing in suspicion. "How sure are we about this, Kirelle? You're not exactly known for… honesty."
Kirelle didn't rise to the insult. Instead, she reached slowly into the side pouch of her cloak and pulled out a folded letter, the paper worn and slightly stained.
She held it up like a prized trophy.
"Found this tucked in the pocket of a caravaner near the Capitol outskirts. Said it was dropped by a runner. Sealed with Leira's signet."
She smirked. "I assume it was meant to mislead, but… you'll want to read it regardless."
Surian stepped forward. "Wait—what kind of letter?"
Kirelle handed it to Malec, who snatched it with stiff fingers and unfolded it carefully.
The seal cracked.
The paper rustled.
He read it in silence.
His eyes scanned the script once.
Then twice.
Then stopped.
For a moment, he just stared at the words—his face unreadable, hollow as stone.
Kirelle broke the silence.
"According to that little note, your Canariae isn't just missing…"
She let the silence stretch like a blade before delivering the blow.
A slow, freezing silence filled the tent.
Malec didn't move at first.
Then, with slow precision, he unfolded the letter in his hand. The paper crackled—Leira's seal already cracked by his thumb. His eyes moved across the page, reading it once. Then again.
Something in his jaw twitched.
His breath slowed to a crawl, and the knuckles on his left hand turned white as he clenched the edge of the map table.
Surian stepped forward cautiously. "What does it say?"
He didn't answer.
His eyes were still locked on the letter. But his pupils had narrowed into pinpoints—dark, fixed, unreadable.
And inside him, something began to churn.
Pregnant.
And not with his child.
She ran.
She disappeared without a word, and now she was carrying—not his future, not their legacy—someone else's blood.
Another male.
A Canariae male.
His mind blanked.
He didn't remember dropping the letter.
But he did remember the sound of the ceramic bowl as he grabbed it and smashed it into the floor.
The shattering sound cut through the tent like a blade, startling even Kirelle. Surian jumped. Luko flinched.
Malec turned away from them, one hand pressed hard against his mouth, his chest heaving.
"That little whore," he hissed beneath his breath. "She's with child? She let another touch her."
The room gasped except for Kirelle.
"Malec," Surian said gently, "we don't know that—"
He spun on them, and the look in his eyes stopped her cold.
They weren't Malec's eyes.
They were a stranger's.
"She ran from me. Lied to me. She said she was mine, and now she's playing house with some backwater male, letting him put his hands on her like she never belonged to me?"
His voice cracked—not from grief. From fury.
Luko stepped forward, trying to ease the air. "We don't even know if the letter is true—"
"She's with child," Malec snapped. "That much is real."
He pointed to the page on the ground like it was evidence of war.
"And if it's not mine…" his voice dropped. "Then it doesn't deserve to live."
Silence.
Even Kirelle blinked, unsure if she had misheard.
Surian's face went pale.
"Malec, you don't mean that—"
But he did.
"I'm going to find her," he said, his voice like steel cooling in flame. "And I will take back what's mine."
"And the child?" Luko asked, quietly.
Malec turned his eyes on him—slowly. Carefully.
"If she let someone else put a bastard in her, then she can watch me bury it."
No one spoke.
Even the wind outside seemed to go still.
Malec's chest rose again. His fists trembled at his sides. His voice was almost quiet when he finished:
"She belongs to me. No one else. Not him. Not the brat. Me."
He turned, kneeling to pick up the letter again. He stared at it, just for a moment, the paper now wrinkled in his hands.
And then:
"Kirelle," he said, voice suddenly calm. "You wanted a child?"
She hesitated. "Yes…"
"Then help me get her back. And I'll give you anything you want."
His voice dropped, dark as the shadows circling his face.
"But if you lied—if this is a trick—then I'll give you nothing. Not even your name."
Kirelle swallowed hard.
This was not the Malec she had once fantasized about controlling.
This was a blade honed by betrayal and obsession—and now, murder.