"She's getting worse," Malec said, pacing before the fire like a wolf too long in a cage. "You saw it. She couldn't even stand on her own."
Surian watched him quietly, her platinum hair catching the warm light, her expression unreadable. "You need to ask her permission."
"She'll say no."
"Then respect that."
Malec turned, his pale tan eyes burning with something fractured. "Even if it kills her?"
Surian flinched. "It's her choice."
"No," Malec said, shaking his head. "It's not. Not when she's too weak to think clearly. Not when she's suffering because of me."
Luko, seated by the side table, finally looked up from his notes. "This isn't the solution. We don't know what another transfusion will do—"
"She needs it." Malec's voice cracked. "You said her body's looking for something. This is it. It has to be."
"Even so," Luko said slowly, "you don't get to decide—"
But Malec was already moving.
He entered the room like a shadow, silent but purposeful.
Allora lay curled in the blankets, sweaty, her breathing shallow, her skin damp with the aftershocks of nausea. A night nurse sat nearby, dozing upright. Surian and Luko followed close behind, wordless.
Malec crossed to the basin, soaked a cloth in disinfectant, and cleaned his hand in slow, practiced motions.
Then hers.
The room felt still.
Wrong.
As if the walls themselves were holding their breath.
He pulled a thin blade from the table, one Luko used for blood samples. His hand trembled—but only once.
Then he cut his palm.
And then hers.
The pain woke her instantly.
She gasped, body jerking up—but Malec was already there, grabbing her wrist, pressing it to his own, their blood mingling between trembling hands.
"What—" she choked, confused, disoriented. "What are you doing—what is this—"
"Shhh," Malec whispered, pressing his forehead against hers. "It's alright, you're alright."
But she wasn't.
She was not alright.
Luko moved forward, gently holding her other wrist down, his expression taut with guilt. Surian knelt at her side, voice low, soothing, "It's for your health—just breathe, Allora—just breathe."
Her body went stiff.
Her eyes wide.
She looked around at the three of them.
The three people she trusted.
They were all in on it.
She stopped struggling.
And started to cry.
Not soft. Not fragile.
But deep, silent sobs that shook her ribs and burned her throat.
Because this was it.
This was the truth.
No matter how beautiful the room. No matter how soft the hands or how sweet the voice in her ear—
She didn't own her body anymore.
She was no longer Allora.
She was property.
A vessel.
And her owner…
Her owner was whispering in her ear like a lover, his breath trembling, as if sweet words could erase what he had just done.
"As soon as it takes," Malec murmured, voice low, broken, "you'll feel better. I promise. You'll stop hurting. I just… I can't stand seeing you in pain."
Then stop causing it, she wanted to scream.
But no words came.
Just her tears soaking his shoulder as he held her down like a treasure he couldn't bear to lose.
-—————————————————————-
The room was quiet again.
Too quiet.
The kind of quiet that wasn't peaceful, but suffocating.
She lay still, eyes fixed on the ceiling. Her body limp beneath the blankets. Her hand—bandaged, trembling—rested against her stomach, but she couldn't feel warmth from it.
Just the cold hum of wrongness.
They'd all left. One by one.
The nurse first, silent as a ghost.
Then Surian—her face unreadable, as if she didn't want to admit what they'd done.
Luko had lingered a moment too long, his hand twitching like he wanted to say something. Apologize, maybe. But no words came.
Coward.
And Malec.
He was the last to leave.
He'd kissed her temple like a lover. Like a husband.
He hadn't asked for forgiveness.
Because he didn't think he needed it.
Because in his mind, he had saved her.
He always saved her.
And yet here she was.
Still.
Here.
Lying in a bed she didn't choose, in a house she couldn't leave, in a body that was no longer hers.
Allora turned her head slowly, her eyes catching the reflection of the moon in the window. Pale and distant. A light that watched, but never touched.
Her chest ached.
Not from pain.
From rage.
They called it love.
But this wasn't love.
This was war.
She had begged for freedom.
Pleaded for space.
Asked to be trusted.
And instead, they had strapped her down with soft hands and pressed a blade to her skin and told her it was for her own good.
She should have screamed.
Should have fought harder.
But when she looked into their eyes… she hadn't seen hatred.
She had seen devotion.
And that terrified her more.
Because how do you escape a prison built from someone's love?
You run.
You don't ask. You don't warn. You disappear.
She closed her eyes, and tears slid sideways into her hair.
Not because she was weak.
Because this time, when she left…
She wouldn't be coming back.
——————————————————————
It had been three days since Allora's silence began.
Three days since she stopped speaking, stopped asking questions, stopped looking anyone in the eyes.
Three days since they'd touched her with gentleness—and carved her open with good intentions.
The estate, once a place of quiet political elegance, now hung under a cloud of uneasy guilt.
The knock on the door came just after the morning tea was set out.
Three voices greeted the servant: cheerful, curious, and very well-dressed.
Lady Kirelle.
Lady Teyel.
Lady Maren.
Surian answered the door herself, dressed in a flowing sea-green robe, her platinum hair braided back.
She was surprised—but not entirely displeased.
"Ladies," she said with a graceful incline of her head. "How unexpected."
Lady Teyel beamed. "We were hoping to see Allora. And you, of course."
Surian hesitated. "She's… not well. She hasn't left her room in days."
Lady Maren's brow furrowed. "Still sick? She looked so radiant at the luncheon."
Lady Kirelle, who had stayed quiet until then, finally spoke.
"I was worried about her."
Her tone was light. Polished.
But Surian didn't miss the glint behind her eyes.
"Come in," Surian said at last, stepping aside. "We were just in the sunroom."
The light in the sunroom was golden, filtered through enchanted glass that kept the heat gentle and the shadows long.
Malec sat in a high-backed chair near the window, one leg folded, one hand curled around a half-full glass of dark fruit wine. His expression was unreadable, jaw locked, eyes sunken from lack of sleep.
He didn't rise when the ladies entered.
Luko sat nearby, hunched over a low table scattered with notes and diagnostic crystals. He didn't even look up.
Teyel and Maren chatted easily with Surian as they took their seats, the tone light—too light.
Kirelle, of course, moved with purpose.
She approached Malec with a serene smile, the kind that glowed from years of training.
"You've been missed at the royal council, Commander," she said.
Malec's gaze shifted lazily to her. "I doubt that."
"I don't," she replied smoothly. "Your absence leaves a vacuum. And you know how we nobles love to fill one."
He said nothing.
Kirelle stepped a little closer. "You look tired."
He drained the rest of his wine and set the glass down.
"I am tired."
There was a pause. A silence that Kirelle took as invitation.
She knelt beside his chair—graceful, elegant. She placed a hand lightly on his forearm.
"You've given everything for her. And still she suffers."
A gentle tilt of her head. "Perhaps she wasn't meant for this world."
Malec's jaw twitched. But he didn't look at her.
"Perhaps," Kirelle continued softly, "you've confused obsession with love."
That got a reaction.
His eyes flicked to her—sharp. Dangerous.
But she didn't flinch.
"Some things aren't meant to be held, Malec," she whispered. "And some things aren't meant to last. Let her rest. Let yourself rest."
He said nothing.
Not yet.
But in the stillness, a tiny crack began to form in the mask he wore.
And Kirelle saw it.
Lady Kirelle rose from Malec's side gracefully, sensing that now was not the time to press too hard. She drifted back to the conversation flowing around the sunroom, slipping effortlessly into her seat beside Teyel and Maren with the ease of a seasoned noblewoman who knew exactly how to manipulate air and silence.
The conversation, bright and harmless on the surface, curled with double meanings like perfume smoke.
"So then," Lady Maren was saying with a laugh, "he tried to bribe the tailor to finish his ceremonial robe early. As if prestige could speed up magic threading!"
"Oh, please," Lady Teyel giggled, "the poor tailor was probably terrified. That family hasn't earned a noble stitch in three generations."
Even Surian chuckled quietly, though her eyes occasionally glanced toward Malec, who stared blankly out the window.
Lady Kirelle, ever poised, sipped delicately from her glass before adding, "You'd be amazed how often influence is mistaken for importance."
She turned ever so slightly, voice lifting just enough.
"Wouldn't you agree, Commander?"
Malec didn't answer.
Not right away.
The ladies fell into a still hush, all eyes turning to him—waiting. Measuring.
He finally looked over. Not at Kirelle. At Surian.
"Who bribed the tailor?" he asked, voice dry.
It was an effort at engagement, but one born of obligation, not interest.
Still, Kirelle smiled like he'd handed her a victory.
"Oh, just Lord Parien's youngest cousin. He's trying to secure a posting in the military, despite having the spine of a glass figurine," she replied smoothly. "I told him he'd be better off marrying into a more suitable bloodline."
Lady Maren snorted. "And what did he say?"
Kirelle's eyes flicked toward Malec, deliberately. "He said he admired strong lineages—unbreakable ones. As if that were enough to earn legacy."
Malec's expression didn't change, but his hand flexed slightly around the arm of his chair.
"You've always been concerned with legacy," he said.
It wasn't a compliment.
Kirelle didn't flinch.
"I've always been concerned with preservation," she replied, sweetly. "And history has shown how easily greatness can vanish when those with power refuse to nurture it."
The air between them was taut, too charged to be called polite.
Lady Teyel, sensing the shift, tried to lighten the mood. "What about Allora? I'd wager she's got half the city whispering by now."
"Half?" Lady Maren said with a grin. "Try the whole of the Capitol. My brother said the Black Dove's swordplay was discussed at Council—twice."
Surian straightened subtly at the nickname, though she said nothing.
Lady Kirelle turned her head again, her voice velvet-smooth.
"Do you think she was trained in secret? Or did it just come to her, Malec? Like instinct?"
Her smile was too soft to be innocent.
"I imagine she's full of surprises."
Malec's jaw clenched, but he said nothing.
Inside, his mind was elsewhere—upstairs, in that quiet room where his firebird lay, refusing to look him in the eye.
Lady Kirelle leaned back, appearing to relax, though her gaze occasionally flicked toward him like a hunter watching for weakness.
She didn't need to win him over in one sitting.
She just needed to plant the doubt.
The conversation in the sunroom had dragged for over an hour. The warmth of early afternoon shifted into the golden light of pre-dusk, long shadows stretching across the enchanted glass.
Lady Maren and Lady Teyel were still engaged in light political gossip, sipping fruit wine and playfully mocking noble proposals. Surian was poised and cordial, hosting with grace.
Luko sat in a corner, nearly invisible.
Which, honestly, he preferred.
And Malec?
He sat in his same high-backed chair, a silent mountain. Distant. Answering only when directly spoken to, his eyes flicking now and then toward the stairs—her room. Not here. Not with them. With her.
Lady Kirelle had watched him for long enough to know when she was being ignored.
So, she changed her strategy.
"Perhaps I could see Allora," she said lightly, interrupting a half-finished anecdote about a failed engagement. "Just for a moment. I did come here to see her, after all."
The room quieted.
Malec's eyes lifted sharply.
"She's resting."
"Then I'll be quiet."
He didn't answer.
Kirelle stepped forward, her smile cool. "You look like a man in need of answers, Commander. Perhaps she'll tell mewhat's wrong."
Malec's lips tightened. He hated the idea. Hated the thought of her going into that room alone. But he also knew he couldn't keep her locked away forever—not publicly. He needed… something. Anything to give.
His eyes shifted to Surian, silent plea in his gaze.
Surian gave the faintest nod. "Let her in. She's not a threat."
He didn't like it. But he nodded.
Kirelle bowed her head slightly, then turned and walked with perfect grace to the stairs, her long gown whispering behind her like silk in wind.
She knocked softly.
No answer.
She called through the door. "Allora?"
A beat of silence.
Then rustling.
The door creaked open a moment later.
Allora stood there—disheveled, unwashed, in a loose nightgown. Her curls were wild around her face. Her eyes dull, rimmed with exhaustion. There were faint lines down her cheeks from where tears had dried and dried again.
"Lady Kirelle," she said flatly. "Come to rub it in?"
Kirelle blinked once. "May I come in?"
Allora gave a limp gesture and turned away.
Inside, the room was a wreck.
Papers scattered. Books thrown. A chair turned on its side. The sheets on the bed were half-torn, knotted as if she'd fought them in her sleep. A tray of untouched food sat near the window—and on that window, bars. Not ornamental. Not decorative.
Real.
Kirelle stared for a long moment, saying nothing.
Then her gaze drifted to Allora again.
To the fresh bandage on her hand.
"What happened?" she asked softly.
Allora sat down at the edge of the bed. Her nightgown slipping slightly from her shoulder. She didn't bother fixing it.
"He cut me," she said. "Again."
Kirelle didn't move.
Allora kept going, voice flat. Tired. "Malec. Did it while I slept. Pressed my hand to his and shared his blood. Said it was the only way to stop the pain. Luko held me down. Surian said sweet things while I cried."
The silence that followed was unbearable.
Allora looked up then.
Right into Kirelle's stunned, pale face.
"Is this what you want?" she asked. "Because you can have him."
Kirelle blinked.
"I'm serious. You want the Commander? The Silver Fox? You can have the cage, the sleepless nights, the paranoia of being watched and studied like an experiment. You can have the fear. You can have the way he calls it love when he presses the blade to your skin."
She laughed then—quiet, empty.
"I don't want to be here anymore."
Kirelle said nothing at first.
Then her voice came, soft as lace. "Why are you telling me this?"
"Because," Allora said, "you think I'm your competition."
She leaned back, exhausted.
"But I'm not. I don't want him."
She looked at the window. At the bars.
"I want out."
Lady Kirelle stood motionless in the center of the room.
Her porcelain features, always so perfectly arranged, had faltered. Her carefully sculpted posture now felt rigid, unnatural. She was staring at Allora—not with condescension, not with jealousy, not with court-bred detachment—but with something close to horror.
Not at Allora.
At the truth.
The bars.
The bandage.
The brokenness.
Allora sat like a ghost, draped in grief and apathy. Her skin was dull. Her voice hollow. The spark Kirelle had once loathed—envied—was gone.
And for the first time, Kirelle felt something coil in her chest that wasn't competition.
It was recognition.
"You're not a consort," she said, quietly.
Allora looked up, slow and tired. "No. I'm a vessel. A political solution with breasts."
Kirelle swallowed. "You always seemed so… untouchable. Loud. Defiant. You embarrassed me, made me feel like I was made of paper next to fire."
"I was fire," Allora said. "Now I'm just smoke."
A long pause.
Kirelle stepped further into the room, carefully avoiding the books scattered on the floor. Her heels clicked against the stone like a ticking clock.
"Do they know what they've done to you?"
"They think they've saved me."
"And Malec?"
Allora looked her dead in the eye.
"He whispers like a lover while holding me down."
Kirelle's breath hitched, a flash of guilt—or rage—flaring in her throat.
She turned, her gaze sweeping across the wreckage again. The shattered reflection of a life no one in Awyan society would ever see.
"I thought you were my obstacle," Kirelle said softly.
"And now?"
Kirelle met her eyes.
"I think you're a mirror."
Allora blinked.
Kirelle continued, voice low. "We were both born into chains. I was taught to beg for his attention. You were never meant to want it at all. But here we are. Two women buried alive by the same man. One because she wanted him, the other because he couldn't let her go."
Allora was silent.
Then: "So, what now?"
Lady Kirelle stepped closer.
"If you're serious about leaving…"
"I am."
"…then you're going to need help."
Allora's eyes sharpened—just slightly.
Kirelle didn't smile.
She extended a hand instead.
"I still have something he wants," she said. "Access. Distraction. A name he's known since we were children."
Allora stared at the hand for a long time.
Then took it
The air between them shifted.
The weight of unspoken history, once thick with jealousy and quiet contempt, melted into something strange. Cold. Calculating. Dangerous.
Kirelle slowly pulled off one of her long, silk-lined gloves.
From its hidden inner seam, she drew a small black paper packet—folded precisely, sealed with an Awyan sigil that flickered silver in the candlelight.
She held it out.
"This," she said quietly, "is a sleeping agent. Concentrated. Refined. Smuggled in from the border colonies—completely undetectable in warm drinks."
Allora reached for it, her fingers brushing Kirelle's.
"Why give this to me?" she asked. Her voice was cautious. Tired, but no longer defeated.
Kirelle's gaze held hers, sharp and unflinching.
"Because I can't be involved. Not directly. If they suspect me—if Malec even whispers my name in connection to this—my house will fall. My parents will disown me. My younger brothers will lose their inheritance."
She took a step back, carefully sliding her glove back on, securing her appearance.
"I am giving you one chance. Quiet help. Nothing more."
Allora looked down at the packet, then back up. "Will it work?"
Kirelle nodded once. "It's highly effective on Awyan. It won't knock out a Canariae for more than a few minutes, if at all. But Malec, Surian, Luko? It will put them out cold."
Allora tucked the packet into her sleeve, hiding it like a secret beneath skin.
Kirelle continued, her voice now a whisper. "I will leave a bag for you—coin, food, a change of clothes, and a map—by the base of the old stag statue. Near the dressmaker's shop."
Allora's eyes flickered with recognition.
"The place we first met," she said softly.
Kirelle didn't smile, but there was a flicker of memory in her face.
"You must act quickly," she said. "They won't sleep forever. And if you're caught…" Her voice turned hard. "You didn't get the drug from me. You never saw me. You were alone."
Allora gave a small nod. "Understood."
Kirelle held her gaze for a moment longer.
Then extended her hand.
A gesture of pact. A bond not born of friendship—but choice.
"Shall we set the stage?"
Allora looked down at the hand.
Then took it.
"Thank you," she whispered.
Kirelle gave the faintest nod. "Do not waste this."
Then with the poise of a noble, Kirelle turned toward the door. Her hand still looped in Allora's as she led her out of the wrecked bedroom—down the stairs and back into the sunlit performance of courtly life.
The first curtain was rising.
The escape would come next.