The room was quiet now.
Only the crackle of the small fire in the hearth filled the space, casting a soft orange glow across the cluttered shelves and wooden walls. The words still hung between them like ash in the air.
You're pregnant.
By him.
Allora sat on the edge of the exam table, her arms wrapped around her bare waist, her shirt still off, though now it felt like the least exposed part of her. Her breathing had gone shallow. Fast.
Kalemon watched her, silent.
Her eyes had seen wars, riots, diseases that turned the living to ghosts.
But this… this was something else entirely.
Allora's hands trembled. Her knees bounced.
"I can't…" she whispered, barely audible. "I can't have his child."
Kalemon leaned forward slowly, her voice quieter now, gentler. "Allora—"
"I can't," she repeated, louder, her throat tightening. "You don't understand. If they find out… if he finds out—"
She stopped, the words catching in her throat like glass.
Kalemon stood slowly and walked over, pulling a thick wool blanket from a nearby chair and draping it over Allora's shoulders. The younger woman didn't resist.
"Take a breath," Kalemon murmured. "You're safe here."
But Allora shook her head.
"No I'm not," she said. Her voice cracked. "I'm never safe."
Kalemon crouched in front of her, resting her elbows on her knees.
"If this gets out," she said, voice low, "they'll take you. Lock you up. You'll be a resource. A living experiment. You'll disappear into some quiet little palace where no one ever hears your name again."
Allora's body went still.
"And the child?" she asked, barely a whisper.
Kalemon looked down at her hands.
"Royal. Rare. Desired. The first of its kind. The Awyan wouldn't just raise it… they'd breed it. You'd be nothing more than a vessel to them."
Silence.
Then—shakily—
"…Is there a way to stop it?" Allora asked.
Her eyes were hollow.
Dark.
"Can you get rid of it?"
Kalemon's breath hitched.
She looked at her—truly looked at her—and for a moment, her skeptical face softened.
Not in pity.
But in understanding.
"I could try," she said softly. "But I'd be gambling with your life. Your body's already in uncharted territory. If this pregnancy is tied to your evolving biology… I don't know how it would react."
Allora stared at the floor, shaking.
She hated this.
She hated how cold it was.
How quiet.
Kalemon stood slowly. She crossed her arms and let out a long sigh.
"You can stay here," she said. "As long as you need. No one comes this far south. I'll monitor you. Keep you hidden. If anyone asks, you're my niece from the western valley. Stubborn, pretty, and very pregnant."
A weak laugh escaped Allora's lips—but it died almost instantly.
Kalemon continued. "Once the baby's born, I'll smuggle you out of the continent. Get you to the isles. Or across the channel. Somewhere far. Hell, we might even sell the child back to the father—use him as a bargaining chip."
Allora's eyes lifted.
And there it was again.
That name. That ghost.
Malec.
She shook her head slowly.
"No," she whispered. "He'll never stop hunting me."
Kalemon didn't argue.
Because she knew it was true.
The Silver Fox was a lot of things. A monster. A genius. A warlord.
But above all…
He was obsessed.
____________________________________________________________________________
Green eyes flashed like wildfire as Erolyn galloped through the Capitol streets, his cloak whipping behind him like smoke from a battlefield. Behind him, an entourage of armored guards rode hard, their hooves pounding against the stone like war drums. The city blurred past—blurred and burning in his mind.
How could Malec let her escape?
How could the warlord who could tame nations lose control of one woman?
But of course he had. Because it was Allora.
And if anyone could make a god bleed, it was her.
The black iron gates of Surian's estate loomed, and Erolyn didn't wait for permission. The butler opened the door as if anticipating the fire behind it.
"The master is expecting you," he said.
The parlor was thick with tension. Inside were Surin, his posture regal and unreadable; Luko, sitting like he wanted to vanish; Lady Kirelle and her father, poised like diplomats at a war table.
And then there was Malec, standing near the hearth in his blue and white officer's uniform, platinum hair pulled back into a tight low ponytail, the bloodless expression of a man barely holding the seams of himself together.
And Surian, seated near her father, her pale hair a halo of cold fire, her eyes flicking up as Erolyn stormed in.
No one had time to speak.
Erolyn crossed the room in three strides and punched Malec across the face.
Gasps erupted.
Malec's head snapped to the side, a trickle of blood blooming on his lip. He stood there—stunned. Not from pain.
From the fact that it had happened at all.
The Silver Fox hadn't been struck like that in decades.
Not by someone who lived.
Erolyn's voice exploded like fire in the silence:
"I told you this would happen."
"You were warned, Malec. By everyone. By Surian. But you don't listen. You've never listened. You think obsession is love, and now the world will burn for it."
Malec's eyes lifted—dark, bottomless.
He stepped forward.
But Surian was faster, placing herself bodily between them. "No," she snapped. "Not in my home."
Malec didn't look at her. His gaze stayed locked on Erolyn's.
"If you want to kill each other," she continued coolly, "do it in the snow like dogs. But not here."
Surin stood, voice level but steeled. "That's enough."
And finally, Malec turned his head, slowly wiping the blood from his lip. His posture was rigid. His breathing steady.
But something in his eyes had broken.
This was no longer about failure.
This was about punishment.
As Surian pulled Erolyn aside, shoving him gently toward the foyer to cool his temper, Malec turned—casually—back toward Lady Kirelle and her father.
"Where were we?" he asked, voice like cold iron.
Kirelle arched a brow. Her father straightened.
"If you bring her back," Malec said, still touching his lip, "you'll get what your house has always wanted."
Kirelle's eyes flicked with understanding. "A child?"
Malec nodded. "Mine. But you'll raise it alone. I will not be its father. I will not be your lover. And I will not pretend to care."
A heartbeat passed.
Then Kirelle smiled like someone handed the blade to her enemy, and still won the duel.
"Then we have an agreement."
Malec's gaze drifted to the fire.
The flames licked hungrily at the wood, devouring everything they touched.
There would be no softness left.
No more leniency.
He had tried. Gods help him, he had tried.
He had given her freedom. He had given her space, silence, safety—even after she spat at his mercy, even after she ran.
He had let himself believe—foolishly—that love might be enough.
That if he gave her time, she would see the truth of him.
That if he let her go, she would come back.
But she didn't want his love. She didn't want his care. She didn't want him.
She wanted freedom.
She wanted escape.
She wanted to defy him.
So be it.
Then let her see what it means to be the prize of a warlord, not the affection of a man.
No more begging.
No more pleading.
No more pretending she was his equal.
She wasn't.
She never had been.
She was his. Full stop.
And next time—there would be no questions asked.
No whispered apologies. No attempts to make her understand.
There would be no freedom this time.
No kindness. No softness.
If Allora ever crossed into his reach again—she would not leave it.
Not without a collar.
Not without chains.
Not without a war.
____________________________________________________________________________
The foyer of Surian's home felt too small with Erolyn pacing in it, his boots echoing across the marble floor, fists clenched at his sides, his green eyes still glowing with residual rage. Surin stood nearby, trying to calm him—though even his words felt like dust in a whirlwind.
Surian leaned against the archway, arms crossed, eyes heavy. The cold from outside bled in through the cracks beneath the door, but it was the name about to be spoken that chilled the room to its bones.
Surin exhaled slowly. "How did you find out? About the… Canariae conundrum."
There was a beat of silence.
Then—
"No pun intended," Surin added weakly, with a sideways glance.
Both Surian and Erolyn turned to glare at him.
Erolyn finally stopped.
His breath came fast through his nose, hands fisted at his sides.
And then he said it.
"Leira."
The name landed like a knife in the center of the room.
Surian flinched.
She turned her face slightly, hiding the twitch in her jaw—but her spine straightened, her fingers digging into her gloves until the seams threatened to split.
Surin's mouth went dry.
"…Gods," he whispered.
Erolyn nodded slowly. "She's not dead. She never was."
He looked at Surian now—not with accusation, but with the haunted gravity of someone who'd seen too much.
"And she's watching everything."
"You spoke with her?" Surin asked carefully, already suspecting the answer.
Erolyn didn't reply. Not directly.
He looked to Surian again. "Of course she's involved. She always is. Quiet little strings behind every curtain. Always listening. Always meddling. I should've known."
Surian pushed off the archway, her voice sharp as ice, brittle with something far deeper than irritation. "You don't say that name in my home."
"She's your blood," Erolyn snapped back.
"She's nothing to me."
The words snapped through the room like a whip.
Silence followed—cold and thick, as if the house itself recoiled from the name.
Erolyn looked from Surian to Surin, his voice lower now, full of quiet fire.
"She's involved. Somehow. You know it. I know it. And if she is…"
He let the sentence die—unfinished. Let it speak for itself.
Because Leira's name didn't need a reason to terrify.
She was reason enough.
_______________________________________________________________________
It had been a few quiet weeks in the hollow town far south of the Capitol, and Allora had started to fall into something resembling a rhythm—if not peace, then at least survival.
She rose early with the cold light, helped Kalemon arrange jars, separate herbs, grind powders. Her background in physics and biology had proven more than useful. Kalemon—gruff and guarded—rarely offered praise, but the fact that Allora was trusted to measure compounds and stir salves spoke louder than words ever could.
Their cover story had taken hold quickly: Allora, a burn victim from the western ranges, wore special coverings for her "sensitive, scarred skin." And people believed it.
Why wouldn't they?
They had no reason to suspect a goddess-kissed fugitive was living just down the lane, growing heavier by the week with a child that should never have existed.
Allora had even stopped flinching every time boots passed by the shop door.
Until today.
She had gone to the local market like she always did, hidden beneath her worn hood and scarf. She hummed quietly under her breath, cradling a cloth bag heavy with vegetables and dried meats, when the stallkeeper offered her a peach-like fruit—sweet, warm, imported from the southern coast. The juice dripped down her fingers as she bit into it.
For a moment, she allowed herself to enjoy it.
To be human.
To be free.
And then—
She heard it.
Two soldiers speaking just behind her. Loud enough that anyone near the tomato barrels could hear them:
"The Silver Fox is sweeping through the province next. Another town, another sweep. He won't stop until he finds that Canariae."
"The dark one?"
"Yeah. They say he doesn't even sleep anymore. He's gone full predator now."
Allora's hand clenched around the fruit.
She felt sick.
Her stomach turned—not from the pregnancy, but from the sudden spiral of fear.
The calm she'd built shattered like glass underfoot.
She turned, her heart hammering, and began backing away—fumbling to collect her bag, her scarf, anything to run—
And slammed directly into someone.
A tall figure, cloaked in deep blue velvet, face wrapped in a dark scarf. Her breath caught.
She stumbled back.
"I—I'm sorry," she muttered, eyes wide.
The stranger said nothing for a long beat.
Then bent down, picked up her half-eaten fruit, and handed it back to her.
The voice that followed was soft—but unnerving:
"You should watch where you bump into people, little dove…"
"…Not all of them are as kind as I am."
Allora froze.
The cloak.
Gold-stitched constellations ran along the hem—ancient stars and planetary symbols.
Her blood ran cold.
The stranger turned and began to walk away, vanishing slowly into the crowd like a ghost into mist.
Allora didn't wait.
She grabbed her bag, dropped the fruit, and ran.
The door to Kalemon's clinic slammed open, nearly off its hinges.
"Allora?" Kalemon called from the back room, voice sharp. "What in the name of the seven hells—?"
Allora was panting, her hood half-fallen, scarf loosened, eyes wide and wild with panic.
"They're here," she gasped. "They're here. He's coming. The soldiers are talking. And there was someone—watching me. A cloaked figure. Dark blue. Gold markings."
Kalemon stilled.
The calm in her face fractured—just slightly.
She set down the pestle, crossed the room quickly, and gripped Allora's shoulders.
"You need to breathe, girl."
But Allora shook her head violently.
"No, you don't understand. That cloak—it was the same cloak I saw in the last town. Astronomy patterns. Gold thread. They're tracking me."
Kalemon's jaw tightened.
Her voice dropped.
"We don't have time, then."
She turned to the back window.
"We need to disappear before the Silver Fox arrives."