As Kirelle led Allora down the grand staircase, the low hum of conversation in the sunroom paused like someone had pulled a string taut.
Allora's appearance—messy curls, nightgown wrinkled, eyes hollow but alert—drew every gaze in the room. Lady Maren's lips parted softly. Lady Teyel blinked. Even Surian straightened in surprise.
Luko looked up from his notes, eyebrows raised—but it was Malec who moved first.
He rose like something ancient waking from slumber, eyes locking on her with something fierce and worshipful. There was exhaustion in his expression, yes, but also hunger. Hope. Possession.
"My dove," he breathed, striding to her.
To everyone's shock, he didn't scold. He didn't question.
He looked at Lady Kirelle with actual—gratitude.
"You brought her back," he said, stunned. "Thank you."
Kirelle tilted her head, graceful and poised, but beneath the surface her eyes were sharp.
"She needed a nudge," she replied softly. "Though I must say, you haven't taken the best care of her."
Malec's expression shifted slightly.
Kirelle stepped forward, all elegance, and looked at Allora pointedly.
"She's unwashed, clearly fevered, her hair's in tangles. She looks more like a ghost than a guest."
Malec blinked as though seeing her anew—and frowned.
"She deserves better than this," Kirelle said, voice dipping lower, almost conspiratorial. "If I were you, Commander, I'd draw her a bath. Personally. She's too proud to ask. Too tired to do it herself."
A pause. Then a smirk. "And it might help you win her back."
Malec turned to Allora immediately, the shift in his posture so eager it made Surian's chest tighten.
"I can draw the bath," he said gently, eyes searching hers. "Just you and me. You'll feel better."
Allora opened her mouth to protest, already flinching at the thought of him touching her again. Of pretending to be something soft and cherished while beneath it all—she still burned with the memory of being held down.
But then—
A sharp, delicate nudge to her ribs.
Kirelle.
The silent look said it all.
This is the plan. Let him think it's love.
Allora bit back her reaction, drew in a shaky breath, and gave a small, reluctant nod.
"Fine."
Malec didn't hide his delight. His hand came to rest around her waist, and he leaned in to brush a kiss to her temple.
Everyone in the room saw it.
Surian's jaw clenched.
Luko looked down, unable to meet her eyes.
Lady Maren cleared her throat awkwardly, while Lady Teyel sipped her wine with too much interest.
Only Kirelle remained still.
As Malec gently led Allora from the sunroom toward the bathing chamber, the others remained behind—in silence. A silence full of guilt, quiet horror, and for a select few—rebellion.
Kirelle returned to her seat and lifted her glass.
"Shall we resume our conversation?" she said calmly, as if she hadn't just given her enemy a weapon.
________________________________________
The bathing chamber was dimly lit, the candles enchanted to glow like warm dusk. Steam hung in the air like a whispered promise, clinging to the high walls of carved stone. The deep, obsidian tub was already filling—rosewater and crushed roots perfuming the space with something sweet and heavy.
Malec stood at her side, still too close.
His fingers brushed hers as he helped her step onto the warm tiles, and for a moment, he looked like the man he once pretended to be—gentle, calm, longing only to be near her.
"You don't have to do this," Allora said quietly, eyes fixed ahead.
"Yes, I do," he replied.
He wasn't asking for permission.
He was already pulling the ties of her nightgown loose.
Her breath caught, not from embarrassment—but from the reminder.
She had no say.
But this was the role she had chosen—for now.
So she didn't stop him.
The gown slipped from her shoulders and fell to the floor like mist. Malec swallowed hard, his gaze roaming over her as though seeing a relic he'd lost and finally recovered.
"My dove…" he murmured, reaching out, brushing his hand along the curve of her back. "You're so thin. So tired. I should've been more careful."
She said nothing.
He helped her into the tub. The water was warm—almost too warm. It coiled around her limbs like silk, washing away the visible wreckage of her isolation. But it did nothing for the bruise on her soul.
Malec knelt beside the tub, sleeves rolled up, dipping a cloth into the water.
"I dreamt about this," he said, as he began gently washing her shoulders. "Having you close. Caring for you. You've always been fire, and I thought… maybe if I stopped fighting the flames, I could live in them."
She closed her eyes, not out of affection.
But because she couldn't bear to look at him.
He was speaking to a fantasy. Not to her.
"I've made mistakes," he continued, his voice lower now. The cloth moved to her arms, her collarbone. "But everything I've done… everything… was to keep you here. To keep you alive."
Allora tilted her head slightly, just enough to open her eyes and look at him through damp lashes.
"You call this living?"
That made him pause.
The cloth stilled.
His gaze rose to hers. "Would you rather be dead?"
"I'd rather be free."
Her voice was calm, quiet, but the steel in it was unmistakable.
Malec looked away.
He dipped the cloth again. Rinsed it. Tried to act as if it didn't shake him to hear that.
"You were never a prisoner to me," he said.
She didn't respond.
Because they both knew it was a lie.
He washed her hair last.
His fingers combed through the dark strands, slow and reverent, like a penitent man cleaning an altar he'd defiled.
Allora sat still, letting him play the role of lover.
Letting him pretend.
She memorized every movement. Every word. Every whisper of water against her skin.
Because this was the last time.
The last time he would be allowed this close.
When he wrapped her in a warm towel and carried her back to bed—dressed her gently in soft robes—he smiled.
"Rest," he said, brushing her temple with his lips. "I'll watch over you."
She nodded, curling into the covers.
Letting him believe.
And when he left the room, she lay still in the dark—
Heart racing.
Hands trembling.
The black paper packet Kirelle had given her was hidden beneath the edge of the mattress.
Tomorrow night, she whispered to herself.
One more day, and I run.
——————————————————————
The moonlight filtered through the high window in soft silver beams, painting the room in ghostlight.
Malec stood at the edge of Allora's bedside, arms crossed loosely, though his fingers clenched the inside of his sleeves until the fabric bit into his skin. The fire had been lowered to embers. Only the occasional crackle filled the stillness.
She was asleep.
Or pretending to be.
She was always so good at that—at hiding her fire behind stillness, her rage behind silence. He had mistaken it for peace once.
Not anymore.
She looked small beneath the blankets, tucked into the corner like she was making herself vanish. Her brow was smooth, her breathing even—but her body curled tightly on itself. Not trusting the world around her.
Not trusting him.
Malec swallowed hard.
Something was wrong.
He had done everything right.
He had fed her, washed her, cared for her like she was porcelain. He'd kissed her gently. Held her without pressing too far. Hadn't even tried to make her say she loved him again.
But the stillness in her...
It wasn't rest.
It was retreat.
He stepped closer. Slowly. Sat on the edge of the bed, barely shifting the mattress.
His hand hovered over her hair, then lowered to her shoulder, resting there. Warm. Possessive.
She didn't stir.
But his heart kicked harder.
Because suddenly, it felt like he was touching ashes.
Not fire.
Ashes.
Something already burned away.
What if she's already gone?
The thought struck like a blade. He clenched his jaw, shutting it down.
No.
She was still here.
Still his.
Still—
The hand beneath the blanket curled tighter into a fist, the skin of her knuckles paling beneath the tension.
She wasn't asleep.
She was waiting.
Malec's chest tightened.
He removed his hand.
Stood. Slowly.
He didn't speak. Didn't kiss her again.
He just turned, walked to the door, and stood there for a moment, fingers lingering on the handle.
She's mine, he told himself.
She'll see that. She'll come back to me. Truly. She has to.
He left the room.
Behind him, Allora opened her eyes.
——————————————————————
The sun hadn't fully risen yet. The estate was silent, blanketed in the hush of early morning, the kind that felt like it was holding its breath.
Allora moved through the house like a ghost.
The kitchen was empty—just as she hoped. The servants were still in their quarters, the ovens barely beginning to warm. She found the drinks easily: the morning pitcher of wine and the chilled carafe of juice, already prepared ahead of time, as they always were.
She pulled the small black packet from her sleeve. Her hands were steady.
She poured the contents evenly—half into the wine, half into the juice. It dissolved instantly, scentless, invisible.
Then, as if she were simply a hungry guest unable to wait, she gathered a small piece of cheese, some crusty bread, and poured herself a glass of water. She didn't look over her shoulder once.
She turned to leave the kitchen—
And nearly bumped into Surian.
"Up already?" Surian asked, her voice soft, curious.
Allora's heart leapt, but she masked it with a faint smile.
"Couldn't sleep," she said. "Thought I'd get something in my stomach."
Surian's eyes drifted to the bread and cheese in her hands. "Breakfast will be ready within the hour, you know. The servants just started the fire."
"I was too hungry to wait," Allora said lightly.
Surian tilted her head. "Then come wait in the parlor with me. At least sit somewhere comfortable while you snack."
There was no way to say no without raising suspicion.
So Allora nodded. "Of course."
Surian led the way.
The morning light filtered through the high windows, golden and calm. Allora sat curled on one end of the couch, her glass of water untouched, her food picked at like a bird pecking crumbs.
Surian sipped her own tea, flipping lazily through a political journal, pretending not to watch her.
Then footsteps approached.
Soft. Hesitant.
Luko stepped into the room, his shoulders hunched, his face pale and drawn with sleeplessness. His eyes landed on Allora, and he froze mid-step.
Allora looked up. Their gazes locked.
He bowed his head slightly. "Can I… speak to you?"
Surian looked between them, then gave a small nod and rose. "I'll go see if breakfast has begun."
She left.
Luko stepped inside, closing the door gently behind him.
Allora didn't speak.
He walked to the edge of the room, keeping a careful distance, then dropped his eyes to the rug.
"I'm sorry," he said.
The words were barely above a whisper.
"I know I already said it. I know it doesn't matter. But I am. I'm sorry for… for helping him. For holding your arm. For not stopping it."
Allora studied him.
She wanted to be angry.
She wanted to yell. To scream. To ask him how he could smile at her one moment and hold her down the next.
But instead, she said calmly, "I understand."
Luko's eyes lifted, searching hers.
"I forget sometimes," she added. "That you're all on his side."
His face fell. The words hit like a knife.
"I didn't want to be," he said quietly. "I still don't."
She looked down at her hands. "But you are."
"I'm sorry," he whispered again, stepping forward. "I hate the way this feels. I hate that I can't do more. That I couldn't protect you. But… I do care about you, Allora. I want you to be happy."
She didn't answer.
Because the truth was, she didn't know if she believed in happiness anymore.
And part of her wondered if anyone would ever choose her over Malec.
Truly choose her.
The silence stretched between them.
Not angry. Not forgiving.
Just hollow.
The silence between them thickened. Not with hatred—but disappointment. The kind that cut deeper because it came from people who had once tried to care for one another.
Luko stood there awkwardly, his fingers tightening around the rolled cuff of his sleeve, eyes flicking everywhere but her face.
"I never wanted to be a part of this," he said again, almost defensively. "But… I work for him. For the House. It's not that easy to walk away."
Allora let out a soft, dry laugh. "You think I don't know that?"
His shoulders slumped.
"I just mean…" He sighed. "I know you think I chose him. And maybe I did. Maybe by not stopping him, I did. But that doesn't mean I wanted to hurt you."
She finally looked at him, and something in her eyes made him flinch.
"You didn't stop him," she said quietly. "You could've. You saw the look on my face. You heard me cry."
"I froze," he admitted, voice cracking. "I froze, Allora. I was afraid. He's not like anyone else. When he gets like that… it's like the world bends around his will."
She looked away, jaw clenched. "That's not an excuse."
"I know."
They stood in it for a long time. The ugly truth between them.
"I still meant it," Luko said after a while, stepping closer. "When I said I care about you. You're… you're the first person who made me feel like I wasn't just a tool. That I could be more."
Her throat tightened.
He smiled sadly. "You treated me like I mattered. Even when no one else in this world did. And I didn't protect you."
"You didn't," she agreed softly.
He nodded, accepting it.
"But," she said, meeting his gaze again, "thank you for saying that."
He blinked. "For what?"
"For not pretending you did the right thing."
It was the closest thing to forgiveness she could give.
And maybe, deep down, they both knew it wouldn't last beyond this moment.
Because she was leaving.
And he would stay.
Luko sat on the arm of a nearby chair, fiddling with a loose thread on his cuff.
"I keep thinking," he said quietly, "what if we could've all met differently? Before the virus. Before the politics. Just… you and me. You'd be the brilliant biologist. I'd be the quiet lab tech trying not to spill anything."
Allora smirked faintly. "I'd be yelling at you to double-check your microscope settings."
"And I'd be making you tea and sneaking you snacks during long shifts."
A beat.
"That world doesn't exist," she said.
"No," he said, "but sometimes I wish it did."
Her face softened, just slightly. "Me too."
They sat together in silence.
Almost friends.
Almost something.
But not enough.
Never enough.
And in the back of her mind, Allora felt the weight of the black paper packet hidden in her robe.
Time was ticking.