The streets of the Capitol were choked with people—merchants hawking wares, nobles in finery, soldiers on patrol—but for the first time since arriving in this strange, gilded cage of a world, the morning light brought Allora a fleeting sense of calm. The sun broke through the haze, warm against her dark chestnut skin, and for a moment, the golden glow painted everything in a softer hue, casting optimism where there had only been dread.
She wore a deep blue velvet cloak, the hood drawn low, embroidered with intricate gold celestial symbols—stars, moons, constellations she didn't recognize. Her neck was adorned with a leather collar, fastened at the front with a silver fox emblem. His symbol.
It was a humiliation. A declaration. His.
But at least she had space—for now. Space to breathe, to think, to sift through the tangle of rage, grief, and the strange, unwanted flicker of longing she refused to name.
Behind her, Malec sat tall and proud on his massive dapple-gray steed, his silver-white uniform gleaming in the sunlight. The attire of the Northlands, tailored to perfection—his long coat sharp at the shoulders, silver embroidery catching the light with every movement. Light gray trousers, black polished boots, every piece of him pristine, powerful.
Together, they looked like something out of a story—majestic, commanding.
But anyone who paid attention could feel it—the tension, thick and suffocating between them.
The crowds parted quickly as they passed, heads bowing, voices dropping to hushed whispers. Pure respect. The warlord and his claimed prize, an unstoppable force veiled in elegance.
But to Allora, this warlord wasn't a savior.
He was a warden.
Her enemy.
Malec's heart was in knots, a turmoil so fierce it left him restless, hollow. He hadn't slept. All night he'd tossed in the king's guest bed, aching for her. His arms had felt too empty, his skin cold without the heat of her body pressed against his.
He wanted her. Not just in his bed—but there, wrapped around him, her breath on his neck, her skin against his, his name on her lips. The thought sent a shiver down his spine, a dangerous heat pooling in his core. He shifted subtly in the saddle, adjusting to maintain composure.
But still—nothing from her. No glance, no word, no reaction.
His heart twisted painfully, the torment of her indifference cutting deeper than any blade. His Allora—his heart, his happiness, and she gave him nothing. How much longer would she punish him?
Time. He had to give her time. He knew this. But it was excruciating.
Physically painful.
Unable to resist, he leaned forward, just enough to feel the velvet hood of her cloak brush his chin. His breath caught as he inhaled her scent—warm, earthy, spiced with the faintest hint of flowers from the bathhouse. Intoxicating.
No drug, no victory, no thrill of conquest had ever made him feel like this.
He had never known a pull this strong, this visceral. She was in his blood, in his mind, a fire that consumed him.
How is this possible?
How can one woman undo a man like him?
____________________________________________________________________________
Malec's body tensed as they approached the luxurious Capitol townhouse, a grand, stately row house with towering columns and intricate stonework. The carriage-strewn street bustled with activity, but Malec barely registered it. His focus was on her—and the sinking realization that this would be the end of his proximity to her for at least a week.
He didn't want to let go.
Not yet.
As the horse came to a stop, he held on for a few more precious seconds, committing to memory the warmth of her body in front of him, the soft rustle of her cloak against his uniform, the way her hair curled beneath the velvet hood.
Then, with reluctance, he swung down from the saddle, landing lightly. He looked up at her.
Allora was staring at the townhouse, her expression unreadable—but there was something different. A glimmer of hope in her eyes. A faint spark, like the embers of her fire had begun to kindle again.
Malec's chest tightened. Yes. This was the right choice.
His needs didn't matter—her health, her well-being, that was everything. He was putting himself aside, even if it felt like tearing his soul in half.
He lifted his hands. "Come," he murmured, voice low and almost gentle.
Allora looked down at him, her dark eyes steady, then pushed herself off the saddle.
Malec caught her, slowly lowering her to the ground, his hands firm on her waist. Her body slid down his, the contact sending waves of heat, longing, and a bittersweet ache through him. Gods, he wanted this every day—her in his arms, safe, real, his.
She looked up at him—just for a moment—and he memorized everything. The curve of her cheek, the defiance and sadness mingled in her gaze, the way her lips parted just slightly as if she might speak.
He would need this memory. To survive the distance.
Malec's mouth parted, words forming on his tongue—something soft, maybe foolish—but before he could speak, a voice cut through.
"Brother," Surian greeted coolly, approaching from the house.
Malec stiffened, his expression shifting to stoic as he turned his head slightly in acknowledgment. "Surian."
Allora brightened, her face lighting up with a flicker of true joy as she moved to greet Surian.
But Malec didn't let go.
His hand remained tight on her waist, holding her in place, reminding her, even without words, that while she might be free for a time—she was still his.
His voice was low, cold, and serious as he spoke to her, eyes locked on hers. "I'll be waiting. Patiently. But you'll be watched. If you break my conditions, you'll never see daylight again. Understand?"
Allora didn't respond, but the tension in her shoulders was answer enough.
Surian sighed heavily as she reached them, sliding her arm around Allora's and gently pulled her away from Malec's grip.
"You're too harsh," she said sharply. "Too overbearing. No wonder she needs a break from you."
Malec glared, jaw tight, but then his eyes softened as he turned back to Allora—no longer the warlord, but something fragile beneath the armor. Something aching.
He leaned in and kissed her forehead, a touch that lingered, desperate and reverent, as if he could pour all his emotion into that one act.
Then, reluctantly, he released her.
Surian nodded. "I'll ensure she's safe. And that she stays within her boundaries."
Allora said nothing. Didn't look back. She walked away beside Surian, her cloak flowing behind her.
Malec remained standing at the gates, forlorn, hollow, a man undone by love.
And in the quiet that followed, he whispered to himself,
"I'll wait, Allora. However long it takes."
____________________________________________________________________________
As they stepped through the tall, arched doors of Surian's extravagant home, the air inside was cool and perfumed with fresh herbs and incense. The floors were polished stone, the walls lined with elegant tapestries and golden sconces casting soft light.
A Canariae man, older, with gray hair and weathered features, approached quietly. Dressed in plain brown clothing, his eyes lowered respectfully. Without a word, he took Allora's velvet cloak, bowed deeply, and disappeared down a side hall.
Allora watched him go, a pang of emotion stirring—another one of her people, bound to serve in a world that wasn't theirs.
Turning to Surian, her voice was low but genuine. "Thank you... for stepping in back there."
Surian gave her a sidelong glance as they continued walking through the richly appointed halls. "Don't thank me yet."
There was a pause, then Surian asked plainly, "How long are you planning on not speaking to Malec?"
Allora didn't hesitate. "Until I stop hating him."
Surian sighed, the tension in her shoulders visible. "Listen. I have no problem with you being here. We're nearly family anyway, whether you like it or not." Her voice lowered, more serious. "But you cannot try to escape. And you cannot put me in a position where I'm crossing Malec."
They stopped at the foot of a grand staircase.
"I've survived a lot," Surian continued. "But I won't survive another misstep with him. If you bring his wrath down on me…" She didn't need to finish the sentence. The warning hung in the air.
"You're welcome in my house," she said, her voice firm, "but that invitation is revoked the moment you do something to set him off."
Allora's jaw tightened, but she nodded. "I understand."
Surian led her up the stairs and into a spacious chamber. A bedroom, more modest than the palace, but still elegant—soft linens, fine furniture, warm light spilling through the windows. At one side of the room, a private balcony caught Allora's eye.
She approached it, only to find the door nailed shut, thick iron studs barring the way.
Her heart sank.
Of course. Malec had told Surian.
Surian stood behind her. "Meals are every five hours," she said, her tone matter-of-fact. "If you want to eat, be on time in the dining room. No exceptions."
Allora didn't respond, her fingers trailing over the nailed balcony door.
After a beat of silence, Surian stepped forward and hugged her, briefly but sincerely.
"Settle in," she murmured, then left her alone, the door clicking shut behind her.
Allora exhaled slowly, eyes scanning the room. Not a prison, but not freedom either.
And she wondered how long she could walk this line—between survival and surrender.
____________________________________________________________________________
Days passed, and slowly, the tension eased.
Surian and Allora found an uneasy rhythm—companionship, if not trust. In the garden, they walked among fragrant blooms, sunlight dappled through tall trees, their laughter mingling with the rustle of leaves. In the afternoons, Surian taught her to read Awyan, patient and persistent, while Allora stumbled through foreign symbols, tongue twisting around strange words.
Evenings brought wine and stories. Surian recounted Capitol intrigues, foolish noblemen, and scandalous masquerades, while Allora, cautious at first, eventually shared half-true tales of her home world, her voice occasionally warmed by laughter she hadn't realized she still possessed.
But no matter how calm, how pleasant the days became, Allora's heart never let her forget.
At night, she stood by the window of her third-story room, the mountain range looming in the distance—dark silhouettes against the dusk, holding the ruins of the portal that once offered freedom. Her fingers, stained with ink, clutched a crude writing tool and rough paper, meant for practicing the Awyan alphabet.
Instead, she drew.
Lines scratched onto parchment, jagged and fierce—the mountains, the cliffs, the place where her escape had died. Her strokes were hard, almost violent. She would never forget. Could never.
Surian didn't know. Couldn't. She was the closest thing to a friend in this world, but still—Awyan. And Allora had made a pact with herself: Never trust an Awyan again. Not with her life. Not with her soul.
They would always choose their own survival over her freedom. And she couldn't blame them. That's what anyone would do.
As she stared out over the hills, the paper clenched in her hands, something caught her eye—movement on the path leading to the townhouse.
A figure. Tall, familiar.
Allora's heart stopped, then leapt.
Green eyes. Wicked, mischievous. The first Awyan she had ever trusted—the first to show her a glimmer of kindness before everything fell apart.
Before she could think, she was running—down the stairs, bare feet barely touching the steps, barreling through the hallways. Servants gasped, stepping aside in alarm, but she didn't stop.
Her hand threw open the front door, and she dashed out into the sunlight, the wind whipping her curls around her face as she ran to meet the green-eyed devil who had once held her trust.
Erolyn's dimples deepened as his face lit up, a grin stretching across his handsome features, his green eyes sparkling with joy and disbelief at the sight barreling toward him.
"Allora—" he barely got the word out before she collided with him, and his arms wrapped tightly around her, lifting her slightly off the ground as they embraced. His hold was strong, almost desperate, his hand fisting gently into her curls, anchoring her to him as if to make sure she was real.
Allora clung to him for a moment, her breath caught in her throat. She didn't fully understand why she ran to him, why her body reacted before her mind could catch up. She only knew that Erolyn had never lied to her. He had been honest, painfully so, and still found ways to help her, even when it risked his own safety.
He was the only being in this world she could trust.
But she wouldn't let him forget what he'd done.
She pushed against his chest, lightly but firmly, stepping back just enough to look him in the eye.
"You gave me to him," she said, voice low, sharp. "You gave me away to Malec."
Erolyn's smile faltered, his jaw tightening with guilt, but he didn't shy away.
"I know," he said quietly. "I did. And I'm sorry. But I'm still breathing today because I don't cross Malec. No one does. You know that."
Allora stared at him, her heart aching with the truth of it. She hated that he was right. She hated that survival, in this world, often meant betrayal.
Erolyn searched her face, eyes softening. "Are you happy to see me?" he asked, almost teasing, but with something raw underneath.
Allora hesitated, then lifted her head, a small smile tugging at her lips—but she didn't answer. Not directly.
Instead, she asked, "What are you doing here?"
Erolyn let out a breath, adjusting his gloves—a nervous habit she remembered from before.
"I'm family," he said, giving her a half-smirk. "Surian and I are cousins. I stay here whenever I'm in the Capitol. She's always got the best wine, and you know I can't resist a good drink."
His grin widened, but the warmth in his eyes remained steady, genuine.
Allora nodded slowly, her guard still up, but her heart lighter than it had been in days.
For the first time in this gilded prison, she wasn't alone.
Allora's heart felt tangled, caught in the web of loyalty, survival, and aching loneliness. She knew Erolyn's limits—his loyalty to her could only stretch so far before his own life took precedence.
And could she blame him?
Could she truly expect someone she'd only known for a fleeting moment in time to risk everything—to help her escape, to challenge Malec?
No. That wasn't logical. That wasn't fair.
Her gaze dropped to the ground, her voice soft, almost shy. "I understand… your position. I'm sorry I put you in it. It wasn't fair of me."
There was a beat of silence.
She didn't look up, expecting indifference, perhaps dismissal. But when she did, Erolyn's face was surprised, as if her words struck something he wasn't prepared for. His expression softened, green eyes bright with something gentler, deeper.
His fingers rose slowly, and beneath her chin, he lightly pressed, lifting her face to meet his. Her eyes shimmered, unshed tears pooling there, raw emotion cracking through her calm.
And it melted him.
In that instant, Erolyn knew—this wasn't a game. She wasn't just some bold, feral Canariae who kissed him once and vanished into memory. She wasn't just a rebel with fire in her veins.
He'd fallen for her—the moment she'd pulled him into that kiss, unafraid, fierce, and alive.
He'd thought about it for weeks, replaying it in his mind like a song he couldn't stop humming. That kiss had changed everything. It was why he'd gathered so many ferals, dragged himself back to the Capitol, pretending it was business, when really—it was her. He needed to see her again, confirm what was burning inside him.
And without even realizing it—he leaned down, heart pounding in his chest, and pressed his lips to hers.
A kiss—passionate, breathless, his hands trembling as they cradled her face. Her warmth, her taste, the soft tremor of her breath against his skin—it was more than he'd dreamed.
And for one moment, there was no war, no collars, no chains.
Just them—lost in a kiss that had waited far too long.
The kiss shattered like glass beneath a sudden, thunderous voice.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?!"
Allora jerked back, breath stolen from her lungs as Surian appeared between them like a force of nature, her eyes blazing with fury as she shoved Erolyn away, standing protectively in front of Allora.
Erolyn's green eyes widened, startled, lips still parted from the kiss as Surian's wrath crashed over him.
"Are you out of your mind?" she hissed. "Reckless idiot! Malec has eyes everywhere—do you want to lose your head? Both of you?"
Erolyn raised his hands slightly, trying to calm her, but the smirk on his face was anything but helpful.
"It's not a crime, Surian," he drawled. "It's not uncommon for Awyan to share their Canariae. Everyone knows that."
The temperature seemed to drop around them.
Surian grabbed his collar, yanking him close until their faces were inches apart, her eyes glinting with warning. Her voice was low, venomous.
"This isn't just any Canariae. This is Malec's Canariae. And he doesn't share. Ever."
Erolyn's cocky smile faltered.
Before he could say a word, Surian spun toward Allora, who stood frozen, heart pounding in her chest.
"Inside. Now."
Allora didn't hesitate. She turned and ran, skirts brushing her legs as she darted into the house, chest tight with panic.
Behind her, Surian dragged Erolyn after her, his confusion now shadowed with dread as the weight of his mistake came crashing down.
And in the halls of the townhouse, Malec's presence was everywhere, even in his absence—a storm building on the horizon, and they had just dared to stand in its path.
____________________________________________________________________________
The parlor crackled with tension, warm sunlight filtering through the tall windows, illuminating the rich crimson drapes and the polished floors—but neither Surian nor Erolyn noticed.
Surian paced, her boots clicking sharply as she argued, her voice clipped and sharp with fury barely contained.
"You can't toy with this one, Erolyn," she snapped, eyes flashing. "I'm responsible for her. Malec made that very clear—he already threatened me. I cannot afford your games."
Erolyn sat lazily forward with one hand on his leg and the other one under his chin as he supported his head, a mischievous glint in his green eyes. "Games?" he echoed, raising a brow, the corner of his mouth quirking upward.
Surian stopped, whirling on him, catching the glint in his eyes—that calculating look, the one that meant he was already working the angles, seeing the cracks, the possibilities.
She stepped closer, her voice dropping to a hiss. "Don't even think about it. If you try to leave these grounds with her—I swear by every god in the sky, Erolyn—I will castrate you myself."
Erolyn's grin widened, his dimples deepening as he placed his hands behind his head, sinking back into the velvet settee like a man enjoying a play, not a warning. He sighed dramatically.
"I promise," he said lightly, "I won't do anything to Allora that she doesn't want."
His eyes lifted, glinting with challenge, holding Surian's gaze.
Surian clenched her fists, exasperated. "I have to write to Malec. That you're here."
Erolyn's expression shifted—from teasing to serious in a blink. He sat up straight, the easygoing air suddenly gone. "Surian," he said, voice low, almost coaxing, "don't be hasty. Let's not cause chaos. I'll talk to Malec myself. I'll promise—nothing with Allora until I speak to him."
Surian studied him for a long moment, the tension between them crackling like fire.
Finally, she relaxed slightly, giving him a curious, wary look. "Fine. But if he finds out from someone else that you're here, you're dead, Erolyn. And I won't stop him."
She turned on her heel and strode from the room.
Erolyn watched her go, then leaned back again, eyes flicking toward the window where sunlight danced.
His smile returned—quieter, more thoughtful.
Malec had no idea how complicated things were about to get.
____________________________________________________________________________
The maids moved with trained precision, their fingers deft as they worked on Allora's hair and gown, but beneath their composed expressions was an undercurrent of uncertainty. They were Awyan—servants of nobility, yes, but never of Canariae. It was unnatural. Wrong. The hierarchy was clear in their world, and this blurred the lines too much.
Still, they did their best.
Allora sat still, patient, her long, curly hair woven into a thick braid that cascaded down her back, tiny flowers tucked within the dark strands like stars in a midnight sky. Her dress, gifted by Surian, was a vision of elegance—a deep sapphire hue, low-cut to reveal the smooth expanse of her shoulders and full breasts, the fabric clinging to her form before flowing into a train of silk that trailed behind her like a dream.
She looked radiant. Powerful. Awyan, almost.
Surian stood in the doorway, arms folded, watching with a faint smile tugging at her lips. It should have made her proud. Instead, it made her ache.
She had been angry—afraid—of Malec, of the danger Allora brought to her doorstep. But watching Allora in her guest room, wearing her dress, something lonelier stirred.
Surian realized, with a pang, how isolated she truly was.
Her father, Surin, was always present, always commanding, but never someone she could share herself with. Her mother… gone. A stone-cold Awyan, the memory of her more of a shadow than a presence. Distant. Untouchable.
Malec… gods, Malec was just like her.
Cold. Calculating. A genius beyond comprehension.
They didn't live in this world—they watched it, manipulated it, owned it. Surian knew the weight of that all too well.
That's why she was drawn to Allora.
Why she needed her.
Because Allora understood what it was like to be forced into the orbit of someone like that. Someone who loved only in chains. Surian had spent her whole life around power like Malec's, and it broke people, even if they didn't realize it.
She'd always wanted a sibling she could be close to—to share her fears, her sorrows, her life. But now? Now she was complicit. Helping the brother who had caged the only person who had ever made her feel seen.
Allora stood, walking to the mirror, studying her reflection. Surian followed her gaze—and then she saw it.
The change.
No longer sad. No longer empty.
There was life in Allora's eyes, a glow returning to her face.
She looked… happy.
And that terrified Surian more than anything.
Because Allora's happiness would lead to their doom. Malec would destroy everything for her—burn the world, kill them all, if it meant keeping her.
Surian stepped inside, the mask already sliding into place.
"You look beautiful," she said softly.
Allora hesitated, then looked at her through the mirror's reflection, their eyes locking.
"I feel better," Allora admitted quietly. "Knowing I have a friend who won't give in to Malec. Not here. Not in this world."
The words struck deep. Surian flinched—barely—but it was there. A flash of hurt, swiftly buried beneath the stoic mask she wore so well.
"You shouldn't be fooled by Erolyn," Surian said after a breath, voice cool. "He's a rake, Allora. If Malec comes for him, he won't think twice before leaving you behind."
Allora turned from the mirror, facing her fully.
"I don't expect anything from Erolyn," she said softly. "Just a little relief from this… nightmare. It might be temporary, but it's necessary. I need it to keep my sanity from slipping."
Surian nodded, though her heart clenched.
Because she understood—more than Allora could ever know.
Surian lifted a hand and waved the servants away, her expression unreadable as the maids bowed and slipped silently from the room. The moment the door closed behind them, she stepped forward, eyes fixed on Allora's reflection in the mirror.
There was something nagging her—a fear, sharp and insistent.
Surian moved behind Allora and, without a word, wrapped her arms around her, a soft, almost hesitant embrace. Her hands came to rest lightly on Allora's waist, her brows furrowing as she felt her frame—slim, too slim. Her fingertips grazed the curve of Allora's spine, noting the delicate sharpness of her bones beneath the silk of the gown.
Her heart sank.
She wasn't imagining it. Allora was losing weight too quickly. Fading, slowly but surely, beneath the pressure, the grief, the fury.
Surian held her for a moment longer, the silence heavy, then slowly let go, gently turning Allora around to face her.
"You need to eat," Surian said quietly, but didn't press the matter further. Instead, she offered a small, knowing smile. "Dinner's ready. And… I invited Erolyn to stay."
Allora's eyes lit up, her lips parting with a breath of joy—a glow blooming across her face that Surian hadn't seen since she arrived.
Allora didn't say anything. She didn't need to. She turned quickly, a blur of motion as she began to run past Surian, eager to reach the dining room, to reach him.
But Surian's hand shot out, gently grabbing her arm. "Allora—wait."
Allora stopped, glancing back with a raised brow, breath caught halfway in her chest.
Surian's eyes met hers, and though her tone was light, there was warning beneath it. "Don't do anything foolish while you're under my roof."
There was no malice in her voice, just concern. Desperation, maybe. She needed to protect herself. But a small part of her… wanted to protect Allora too.
Allora nodded, solemn but still smiling, and with a quickening heartbeat, she hurried down the stairs, the sound of her footsteps fading into the hall.
Her heart guided her now—to the man she wanted most, if only for tonight.
A brief escape. A flicker of freedom. A chance to feel alive again.