Malec was not having a good time.
His new hobby? Alcohol. Not in moderation—he was far past that. It was the only thing that even temporarily smothered the inferno raging inside him, a storm of emotions he hadn't asked for and had no idea how to extinguish.
The most logical course of action was space—to give his Allora time to process her feelings, her hatred, her grief. And he had done just that. Let her go—for now.
Contrary to what most of his kind believed, Malec was not a psychopath. He felt—deeply, though he had forgotten what that meant. For most of his life, his days had been a clockwork of precision, of structure and calculated efficiency. His mind had been a weapon, his life a chessboard.
But now? Now it was chaos. Unpredictable. Wild. Alive.
And it was all because of her.
Malec sighed, swirling the glass in his hand, seated at a long polished table surrounded by politicians, wealthy merchants, high-ranking soldiers, and a few posturing nobles who thought their bloodlines made them important.
In Awyan society, nobility wasn't the cornerstone of power. It was intellect, influence, and force. A noble with no mind or strength to support their lineage was as useless as a rusted sword. Malec wasn't considered a true noble—his family's ties to the crown were ancient, yes, but they were known for something else:
Military brilliance.
His bloodline bore the burden of being the geniuses of the continent. If they had ever wanted the throne, they could have taken it with little resistance. But they never did. They didn't need the crown to rule. They were the power behind it—the unseen hand.
The real rulers.
Of course, genius came with quirks. Malec's had always been erratic tendencies, cold calculation, an intensity few could stomach. His "lack of chill," as some dared to joke behind closed doors.
But no one challenged his results. No one dared.
Because Malec always succeeded. Always.
His gaze snapped up from his glass at the mention of a word that sent lightning through his spine.
"Canariae."
He straightened slightly, attempting to appear composed, but his mind was already sharpened.
Does this affect her?
The speaker—Captain Gideon le'Ori of the West Army—was no fool. A seasoned soldier, one of the few Malec actually respected, Gideon had stood beside him in countless battles.
"I've heard rumors," Gideon said, his voice deep, steady. "About the portal. I want the truth, from the one who was there. So we can dispense with misinformation."
Malec's grip tightened around his glass. His voice came out measured, clipped.
"The portal is destroyed."
A ripple of murmurs.
Gideon leaned forward. "Are there any others?"
Malec's blood ran cold.
The question unlocked a new fear, raw and immediate.
Could there be another portal? Another way for her to escape me?
His mind spun, calculating, recalling ancient texts, battlefield reports, old myths… nothing certain. Nothing solid. But the possibility.
If there is another, I must find it. Before she does.
He stared at his drink, the liquid trembling slightly from the force of his grip. She's smart, his little vixen. Too smart. Could she already suspect this?
No. She was still too… devastated. Broken. Grieving. She couldn't be scheming yet.
Or could she?
Malec's heart thundered in his chest, a familiar dread twisting inside him.
Malec's face lit up, unbidden, unrestrained, the mere thought of his Allora igniting something in him that was both dangerous and intoxicating. Even when she wasn't near, she could stir this in him—this fever, this ache that no strategy, no conquest, no amount of power had ever touched before.
It terrified him.
But he didn't care.
If he could just prolong that feeling, keep it burning for the rest of his life, it would be enough. She would be enough.
Across the table, Gideon le'Ori narrowed his light brown eyes, watching Malec closely, amusement flickering in his gaze. The man had known Malec since childhood, through training, campaigns, victories—and never, never, had he seen this expression on his face.
Gideon's lips curved into a knowing smile as he lifted his goblet. "What's got you smiling like that, Commander?" he asked, voice teasing. "Never seen you look so… elated. Or is it drunk?"
Malec glanced at him, half a smirk tugging at his lips, trying to mask the truth boiling beneath his skin. He wasn't about to confess to this table of predators that he burned night and day for a dark-eyed Canariae, that her absence was torment, her touch salvation.
But… he could send a message.
Let every Awyan male in the room know—she's mine. Off limits.
His lips parted to speak—
And then, Surion happened.
The King, ever the opportunist, leaned back in his chair with a smug grin and answered for him, voice cutting across the hall like a blade dipped in honey.
"Our Malec," Surion announced, loud enough for all to hear, "has tasted the forbidden Canariae fruit—and he's been addicted ever since."
Laughter erupted across the table, deep and hearty from some, nervous and cautious from others who knew better. Goblets were raised, toasts murmured.
Malec sat frozen, jaw tight, fingers gripping the arm of his chair like a vice. His eyes locked on Surion, and in that moment, he wanted to punch his royal highness's perfect teeth down his throat.
The only reason he didn't?
Surion was too far away…
And Malec was too lost in thought, replaying the memory of Allora's last glance, the feel of her body against his, the scent of her hair.
He took a slow breath, exhaling through clenched teeth.
Watching Malec seethe across the table, lips tight, knuckles white, was pure delight for Surion.
A small payback for the endless offenses—most recently, being evicted from his own bed.
He still remembered waking up on the cold floor, no pillow, no dignity, while Malec lay sprawled out like royalty across a bed large enough to host a military summit. Why? Why did Malec have to colonize the King's bed when the palace had forty-two other bedrooms where he could cry over his angry little Canariae?
The memory made Surion smirk into his goblet.
But… something had shifted.
He remembered sitting up that night, rubbing the kink in his neck, ready to curse Malec to the gods. But when he looked at him—really looked—he saw something strange, something vulnerable.
Malec, asleep, tangled in the sheets like a man haunted, no armor, no walls, just… raw. His features, usually carved in stone, were soft, almost childlike, as if the weight of his own mind had finally become too much, even for him.
Surion had stood there for a long moment, anger fading, replaced by something he hadn't expected.
Pity.
No—empathy.
Surion didn't have the heart to wake him. Not this hopeless creature, not this brilliant, cursed cousin of his. So he'd gone to the parlor and curled up on the settee, wrapped in a fur blanket, cold but at peace.
He and Malec had a strange relationship, born of shared blood and power but tempered by chaos and unspoken rules. Surion didn't know exactly how Malec felt about him—but he knew he looked up to Malec. Despite everything. Despite the berating, the beatings, the mockery. There was a pride there. A bond.
Even if he knew Malec would kill him without hesitation if he so much as breathed wrong in Allora's direction, that bond remained.
Because Surion knew the truth—Malec had always been lonely.
For the first time, he wasn't.
Surion lifted his goblet again, watching his cousin across the room, consumed by his obsession, his fire, his love. It didn't matter if it was a woman, a man, or a donkey—as long as Malec felt something other than emptiness, Surion was glad.
But he couldn't help but feel a shiver of sympathy for the creature who'd caught Malec's eye.
Because once caught, that creature would never be free again.
____________________________________________________________________________
The meeting dragged on, the weight of politics, trade disputes, and military logistics grinding away in the black marble room with its soaring twenty-foot ceilings. The walls were lined with ancient books, maps worn at the edges, and weapons—some ceremonial, others very real. Deep purple curtains rustled softly in the afternoon breeze that filtered through the cathedral-like windows, a rare breath of air in an otherwise stifling chamber.
Malec sat, one hand cradling his glass, half-listening, lost in thought of her—his Allora—and how empty this room felt without her fire.
Surion stood to shift the meeting to another matter when a messenger slipped in and whispered urgently in his ear. Surion's brows lifted slightly, then furrowed with mild irritation.
Apparently, a distraught family member required his attention.
Perfect excuse.
Surion didn't hesitate. "We'll break here. Early supper will be served, and we'll adjourn for the day after."
Before he'd finished the sentence, Malec was on his feet, drawn to the sudden commotion as Lady Yara Mae entered, her face red and blotchy, distress rolling off her in waves as she clutched a silken handkerchief.
She was rambling, her voice rising with agitation as she gripped Surion's sleeve, spilling her woes. "He's gone! My Canariae companion left without a word! Please, you have to help me find him, Surion!"
Surion shifted uncomfortably, darting a nervous glance at Malec, who was already closing in.
"Aunt," Surion said in a hushed tone, trying to calm her, "they run off all the time to the colonies. It's common. I'll buy you another. A better one, even—"
"I don't want another one!" she cried. "I want him! I want mine!"
Malec had heard enough. He stepped closer, voice calm but firm. "He wasn't native. He was one of the Canariae from the portal."
Lady Yara's breath caught.
Malec continued, unflinching. "I saw him return to his world before the portal was destroyed."
Her eyes widened in shock, trembling for a moment before she collapsed forward, tears pouring as she leaned against Malec's chest. Normally, Malec would've pushed her off, but he allowed her this brief mercy, resting one arm around her lightly, impassively.
Surion, ever the politician, tried to console her. "There are plenty more Canariae, aunt. You just need to adjust."
But then Lady Yara's head lifted, eyes narrowing as she looked accusingly up at Malec.
"It's your Canariae's fault!" she spat. "He was obsessed with her. Always speaking about her. I thought it was curiosity but… it's her fault!"
Malec's eyes darkened, the last flicker of tolerance snapping. Without a word, he gently but firmly shoved her toward Surion, his face a mask of cold steel.
Surion's hand caught her, his eyes on Malec's exasperated expression—and then he saw it. The moment empathy drained from Malec entirely.
She had spoken ill of Allora. And for that, she had lost any leniency.
Malec turned, ready to leave—
But then—
Lady Yara's voice trembled behind him. "He left behind a bag. Full of… strange contraptions. And a note. Drawings, symbols—weird things. None of it made sense."
Malec froze, every muscle locking.
Slowly, he turned back, stalking toward her as her servant lifted the bag—heavy, bulging, its contents wrapped in materials Malec didn't recognize. Foreign. Alien. Hers.
He grabbed it, rifling through it until he found the note, sealed in wax, adorned with a black canary etched into it.
It was for her.
Malec's heart slammed in his chest. His fingers trembled.
He wanted to open it—read it, devour it. But he forced himself to stop.
He couldn't read their language. And this—this was hers.
Shocking. Canariae weren't supposed to read. And yet… this? A written alphabet. Something hidden from them for who knows how long.
But more than that—this was a piece of her world.
His blood felt like it was boiling, surging through him in a rush of heat and fire.
He could see her again.
And he had a reason.
He looked at Lady Yara, nodding curtly. "I'll take it to her. Perhaps she knows something."
He didn't wait for more protests. She hugged him, babbling thanks. He didn't hear it.
Malec was already moving, heart pounding. He all but ran down the corridor, bag in hand, eyes blazing.
"Malec!" Surion called after him. "Are you even coming back for the meeting—?"
Malec was gone.
There was only her.
And he was about to run straight into her fire again.
____________________________________________________________________________
It was early evening, yet the sun still bathed the world in gold, casting long, warm rays over the sprawling Capitol townhouse that looked like it had been crafted by an ancient, alien civilization.
The metallic pillars, smooth and reflective, were wrapped in deep blue and purple vines, blooming with flowers that shimmered in hues not found in nature. In front of the structure, a vast pond glistened, filled with strange fish—their scales iridescent—and tiny birds that skimmed the water's surface like whispers.
The off-white façade of the townhouse gleamed in the sunlight, trimmed in obsidian black, windows dark but etched with floral carvings that seemed to tell forgotten stories—of love, loss, war, and peace.
And from inside… laughter.
Laughter.
Malec froze.
Still clutching the military duffle, heavy with objects from another world, he stood there, heart pounding in his chest, a wild, desperate rhythm.
Everything about this place was bright, happy—the birds chirping, the sky clear, the air sweet. It was beautiful. And it filled him with dread.
He felt the rush of being close to her, of standing on the precipice of seeing her again, of hearing her voice, feeling her heat.
And with it came fear—her rejection, her eyes, cold and furious, cutting into him like ice. He had known nothing but fire and torment since he destroyed her portal. He welcomed it. He deserved it.
But gods, he wanted her to understand.
That this was the way things had always been done. That Canariae were treated this way, not out of malice, but order. Structure.
But she wasn't from this world.
And he still hadn't grasped what that truly meant.
Another peal of laughter, clear and light.
His breath caught. He closed his eyes, just to listen. Even if it wasn't because of him—to hear her laugh was enough.
And then—
A man's voice.
Laughter. Male. Familiar. Confident.
And with her.
Malec's eyes snapped open, body locking into stone, breath leaving his lungs.
Cold. So cold.
He didn't knock.
Not yet.
He stood there, the weight of the bag in his hand nothing compared to the weight in his chest.
His Allora.
Another man.
Laughter.
And the storm within him began to boil.
The table was warm with life, soft laughter echoing beneath the golden light of the chandeliers. Allora, Surian, and Erolyn shared a simple yet decadent early meal—rich soups, crusty breads, aged cheeses, and thick, fragrant alcoholic nectar that tasted of plums and honey, warm enough to soothe the soul and rich enough to blur the edges of pain.
Allora had finally indulged in alcohol, her first real drink in weeks, and it felt glorious—a slow burn, easing her tension, dulling the ache in her chest that had never quite left since she lost everything. She felt light, her head buzzing with a pleasant warmth, her cheeks flushed with a warmth she hadn't felt in too long.
Erolyn sat beside her, his green eyes teasing, dancing with mischief, always pulling a smile from her lips. He had a way of making her forget—if only for moments—that she was in a gilded cage.
She looked at him, and in her intoxicated clarity, thought if he had found me first…
She wouldn't have resisted.
She could have seen herself with him. Willingly.
Surian laughed across the table, her usual tension gone, her own goblet empty of worries. For a rare, fleeting moment, they were three people, not prisoners of politics or chains.
And then it all came crashing down.
A voice, cold and cutting, dripped with sarcasm and malice, slicing through the laughter like a blade.
"Well," the voice drawled, thick with disdain, "it seems the three of you are enjoying yourselves."
The air froze.
Malec.
He stood solidly in the doorway, one hand resting lightly on the military duffle bag at his side, the other clenched into a fist. His face was set in a grimace, but it was his eyes—sharp, gleaming, predatory—that sucked the breath from the room.
His formal military attire made him look like a warlord of myth—a long black tunic falling past his knees, loose black trousers tucked into shiny knee-high boots, and over it all, a pristine white ceremonial robe, embroidered with silver. It billowed slightly with his steps, regal and terrifying.
His platinum hair was slicked back, tied low, not a strand out of place. His chiseled features seemed carved from ice, and his entire form radiated control, power, and discipline—a Commander, a storm on the verge of eruption.
His eyes were locked on Allora, searing her in place. But his words, laced with venom, were meant for everyone.
The room was silent.
Then, too late, a maid burst in, breathless, bowing quickly to Surian. "Forgive me, my lady, Commander Malec has arrived."
No one moved. No one spoke.
Because everyone already knew.
The storm was here.
And it was wearing black and white.
Surian sighed loudly, rubbing her temples as if warding off a migraine, utterly unimpressed by the beast standing in her doorway.
With no fear in her tone, she muttered, "What the hell are you doing here, Malec? You weren't supposed to take Allora for another day. Can't you count?"
Malec didn't respond to her directly. Unaffected, almost absent, his gaze never left Allora—dark eyes locked on hers, his entire world anchored to her in that moment.
"I've come to give her a gift," he said softly, still not looking away, lifting the military duffle in one hand, the bag bulging with objects foreign to their world.
Allora's breath caught. She knew exactly what it was.
Her chair scraped against the floor as she rose swiftly, crossing the room in a few quick strides, ignoring him completely as she reached out, hands trembling, and ran her fingers over the canvas bag.
Malec held it, letting her touch, but not release it.
"It's heavy," he said, his voice low, almost tender, "Let me hold it for you."
There was no command, only an offer, and surprisingly, she let him.
As she began to unzip the bag, her breath hitched with excitement and recognition, and Erolyn, seated nearby, watched in amazement as Malec's entire demeanor seemed to shift. The stormy fury, the predatory edge—gone.
All it took was her.
Even this small interaction, her presence, her touch, could soothe the beast. It was almost beautiful, in a terrifying way.
Allora's eyes lit up as she pulled items from the bag—tools, gadgets, pieces of her world. And in that moment, she was glowing—not the prisoner, not the Canariae. But Melodie Jaxxon, the doctor, the scientist, the woman with purpose.
She'd forgotten this feeling—what she was capable of.
Malec watched her with rapt attention, hands relaxed as he held the bag, as if one wrong move would break the spell. Then, in a soft voice, careful not to remind her of the anger still simmering, he asked, "What are these?"
He knew her mind. Knew that if she was distracted, she would speak to him, her guard lowered.
And she did. Intoxicated, flushed with drink and wonder, she answered without thinking.
"Lab equipment," she murmured, holding up a small sealed container. "Oliver must've packed this. Probably on my father's orders…"
Her voice trailed off, her tone wistful, her memories flickering. She stumbled over words, unsober, and adorable.
Malec couldn't stop smiling—down at her, entranced. She was so cute like this—or maybe he was just desperate, starved for her attention. It didn't matter. He didn't care.
But Surian did. Annoyed, she rose and gestured to a chair, the one directly across from Allora's seat.
"Stay for dinner, Commander," she said dryly.
Malec looked at her, silent, then turned back to Allora, searching her face for approval. His expression was wistful, almost boyish, his usual iron control softened.
Allora was engrossed in the bag—until she saw the letter. Her smile faded, replaced by seriousness as her eyes locked onto the black canary seal.
Malec saw the change, the symbol unfamiliar but clearly significant. He gently told her, "I'll stay… if you allow it. And I want to learn about this Canariae text—how you write your language."
Allora looked up at him, her eyes finding his.
Longing. Pleading.
She didn't speak, but nodded, then took the letter and sat down at her place.
Malec followed like a man chasing his own salvation, lowering into the chair with a silent victory stirring in his chest. He wasn't there yet, but he was closer.
His eyes snapped to Erolyn—too close, too comfortable beside his Canariae. Malec glared, lips pressed in warning, gesturing for him to move.
Erolyn, no fool, read the signs. He wasn't about to poke the caged tiger. With a sigh and a smirk, he shifted seats, now opposite Allora, curious to see Canariae technology for himself.
Allora stared at the black canary seal, confusion flickering in her intoxicated gaze. She'd never seen it before, didn't know what it meant. But slowly, her sharp mind began to piece it together.
It had to be Oliver's symbol, a private code between him and her alone. Considering the way the Awyan saw her kind—less than, voiceless, owned—the idea of a canary made sense. A bird, caged, expected to sing.
But a black canary…? That was her. Different. Defiant. Dangerous.
She rolled her eyes, thinking it was a dumb nickname, but… clever, too. The kind of thing a clever spy would do—hide meaning in symbols, messages only she would understand.
With careful fingers, she broke the seal and opened the letter, her eyes scanning the familiar handwriting, the words pulling her deep into a piece of the world she thought was lost forever.
Malec didn't interrupt. He simply sat, bag still in hand, allowing her silence, space, as she read.
But Erolyn, ever impatient, leaned forward. "Well? What's it say?"
Malec's eyes snapped to him, cold and sharp with warning. Erolyn raised his hands, smirking. "What? I didn't touch her."
Allora finally spoke, her voice soft and cracking. "It's from my dad…"
The room grew still.
"He… knew he'd find me. Oliver. He knew. He packed everything I'd need to… to remember who I am. To survive. To… still be me in a world that makes no sense."
Her voice trembled, her fingers gripping the letter tightly. Tears welled in her eyes, then spilled, falling freely.
Malec moved without thought, instinctively pulling her into his arms, one hand at her back, the other gently cradling her head as she wept against him.
She couldn't hold it in any longer. Weeks of torment, loss, and hopelessness poured out in sobs, her body trembling as she clung to the last fragment of her past.
Erolyn sat back, restrained, wanting to comfort her, but knowing full well the Silver Fox would rip out his throat for daring to touch her now.
"Condolences," Erolyn said softly from across the table.
Surian, touched by her grief, reached over and took Allora's hand, squeezing gently.
In Malec's arms, Allora felt conflicted. He loved her, twisted though it was, and would do anything—except what she wanted most.
Freedom.
What was the point, if he couldn't give her that? He was the reason she lost everything, and part of her knew she would hate him forever.
Malec grabbed a piece of clean cloth from the table and wiped the tears from her face, careful, devoted, as though touching something sacred.
Erolyn, trying to ease the mood, gestured to the items. "So, what are those strange things in your bag?"
Allora blinked, eyes adjusting, and slowly turned to the equipment spread before her.
"That," she said, pointing to a large metal device, "is a microscope. It uses lenses of condensed glass to magnify the smallest details, to see things on the cellular level."
Erolyn blinked. "Cellular?"
Allora nodded, leaning into her professor's voice, even in her haze. "Everything—living or not—is made up of tiny cells. Structures that define what they are, how they work."
Erolyn laughed. "I'll believe it when I see it."
Allora grinned, rummaging through the bag. "I need a power source. It won't work without—"
"Yes!" she cried, startling everyone as she pulled out a solar-powered battery pack. "Got it!"
Erolyn leaned forward, excited. "You can prove it now!"
Allora laughed, slurring, "Give me time, I have to charge it first…"
Erolyn teased, "Stalling, because you know it's not real."
With a giggle, she threw a piece of bread at him. Erolyn caught it in his mouth, raising his hands in victory like he'd just won a war.
The room filled with laughter again—except Malec.
Malec watched, eyes burning, a lion in the midst of laughter, his gaze locked on Erolyn, who was too close, too comfortable. His jaw clenched, his patience fraying.
Erolyn caught the look, unfazed. "Relax, Malec. We're all just having fun. You should try it. Or, you know, leave."
Allora, reaching for more nectar, raised her glass, "Agreed! Let's all have fun!"
Malec reached gently, fingers curling around her cup, prying it from her. "You shouldn't drink too much, Allora. It's strong. Last time, you embarrassed yourself."
Allora leaned back into his chest, laughing, unaware of what that contact did to him.
His breath hitched.
She looked up, grinning. "Stop ruining everyone's fun."
Malec smiled, soft and uncharacteristic. "I'll allow it… as long as you don't make yourself sick."
She made a disappointed mewl, sticking her tongue out at him with a rasping sound.
He laughed—honest, free, a sound so rare, it stunned the others. He couldn't help it. She was wrapped against him, teasing, alive. After days of agony, wondering if she'd ever even look at him again, this was everything.
Alcohol or not, he didn't care.
He helped her sit up, guiding her gently as she searched for more alcohol, and he—eternal guardian—followed with water, trying to keep up, to tame her storm.
Surian and Erolyn exchanged glances.
The Silver Fox, the most terrifying creature in the kingdom, now reduced to a lovesick hound chasing after his Canariae queen.