The snow fell in slow, lazy spirals outside the high arching windows of House Asellare, its glass panels rimmed with frost, its white marble towers catching the dim afternoon light like a sleeping dragon's scales.
A blue-gray messenger bird streaked through the winter air, circling the highest wing of the estate before gliding neatly to land on a blackwood perch beside the third-story balcony.
Inside, the air was warm and scented with cloves.
Lady Kirelle reclined in a carved lounge chair, copper-auburn curls falling over one shoulder, a gleaming obsidian board game laid out between her and one of her maids.
She tapped her lip with an onyx game piece, eyes narrowing as she calculated her next move.
Across from her, the maid hesitated, then placed a piece. Kirelle smirked.
"Wrong move, Elira," she purred. "You've just ceded the entire west gate. Again."
Before the maid could respond, a servant entered—holding the blue-feathered bird gently in both hands. The bird clicked its beak once before hopping to its golden perch.
The servant offered the tiny scroll tied to its foot.
Kirelle took it without standing, her movements elegant and disinterested.
She unrolled the parchment.
Her eyes scanned the message.
Then—
A scoff.
She rolled her eyes.
"Oh, for the love of blood and boredom... Leira again."
Her fingers crushed the scroll in her lap.
"Why is it that the most brilliant among us are also the most insufferably theatrical?"
She tossed the crumpled message onto the game board, scattering the pieces, and stood slowly—her silhouette framed by the firelight behind her.
"First her son, now her. Always playing games. Always needing a new thrill."
She moved to the window, arms folded as she watched the snowfall thicken.
"Apparently taking over the world, manipulating kingdoms, and controlling half the noble Houses isn't enough. No, she has to toy with the mouse before she brings it to the doorstep."
A small pang tugged in her chest. A flicker of a memory—Allora laughing. That wild, unfiltered fire.
Kirelle's jaw clenched.
"I still don't like this," she murmured to no one in particular. "But I can't afford not to play. Not when I'm this close."
Behind her, the maid quietly began resetting the board.
"If Leira wants to play with her target," Kirelle continued coldly, "she can. As long as she doesn't break it before I deliver it."
She turned from the window and picked up her wine glass from the side table.
"Empathy," she whispered to herself. "Useless in court. Useless in war."
She drank.
"She's a Canariae. And I am Awyan. We don't get to rewrite bloodlines for a friendship."
But even as she said it, she felt the lie slip bitterly down her throat with the wine.
____________________________________________________________________________
The road south was narrow, pressed between dense pine forests and low stone ridges, the sky still damp from the passing storm. Rain had churned the dirt to mud, leaving deep hoofprints behind the two mules winding their way deeper into the misty countryside.
Several miles back—not close, but not far enough to be forgotten—a lone Awyan rider crested the hill, mounted on a tall black horse with eyes like amber glass.
The rider's cloak shimmered faintly under the gray light, a deep navy color embroidered with gold constellations barely visible beneath the veil of mist and movement.
Leira did not rush.
She never did.
Her posture in the saddle was regal, relaxed, her gloved hands holding the reins like she held the world—lightly, with enough force to remind it who was in charge.
Behind the soft scarf covering her mouth, her expression was unreadable. But her eyes—those calm, chilling eyes—never left the winding trail that her quarry had followed.
She'd watched them leave the inn that morning. Had sipped spiced tea while Kalemon bartered with the stablehand, while Allora lingered just a moment too long outside the tavern door, her eyes darting to every shadow like she knew something was hunting her.
She was right.
Leira had taken a different exit—left her room through the upper level, circled the stables unseen, and waited an hour before following on her steed.
Now, she rode with methodical silence, boots splattered with mud, cloak heavy with mist, her every movement calculated.
Tied to her saddlebag was a small scroll—the one Kirelle had sent her days ago. She hadn't thrown it away. She rarely discarded anything. Especially messages that reeked of anxiety disguised as loyalty.
Kirelle was smart. Manipulative. But young. Too concerned with power and marriage and bloodlines.
Still trying to build an empire when one already exists, Leira thought with a slight smile.
And it exists because of me.
Her gaze followed the worn trail where the mules had passed—hoof indentations softening in the rain.
She murmured under her breath, the incantation subtle, ancient. A shimmer passed over her eyes, and for a second, the tracks before her glowed faintly with heat, showing how recent they were.
Still close.
Still within reach.
She slowed her horse to a gentle trot. There was no need to overtake them yet.
"You'll stop soon," she murmured to herself. "Kalemon's joints are already aching, and the girl can't hide that belly forever."
Her lips curled.
"Poor Allora. You think the worst of it was Malec. But you haven't met me yet."
She turned her head, listening to the wind like it might speak.
It didn't. But she didn't need it to.
She already knew how this story would end.
____________________________________________________________________________
The sunset bled copper across the sky, tinting the edges of the world in rust and dimming gold as Kalemon and Allora approached a quiet waystation town near the riverbed. Not much more than clustered stone houses, a few inns, and merchant stalls lining a crooked main street, but it was shelter. And more importantly, it was the last stop before the southern border of the continent.
The borderlands meant different laws. Fewer eyes. And if they were lucky—less of Malec's influence.
Kalemon led the mules toward the stables, their legs muddy and bellies empty. She didn't need to tell Allora to keep her hood up—the girl already had her cloak drawn tightly and her scarf high around her chin.
They both knew.
They were being followed.
Not just by Malec's hounds.
But something older. Quieter. Smarter.
Kalemon had whispered it that morning: "It's not the hunters that worry me. It's the ones who don't need to hunt."
And yet… Allora was starting to feel like this wasn't a chase anymore.
It was a pull.
A slow spiral toward something deliberate.
They split briefly.
Kalemon went to the apothecary to get balm for her joints and more herbs to stave off the nausea.
Allora walked to the market stalls, her eyes scanning the selection of fruits, bread, and dried meats, settling on a crate of soft-skinned yellow orbs that reminded her of peaches.
But as her fingers brushed the fruit—
That feeling returned.
A tingle at the base of her spine. Like the air behind her had weight.
She didn't turn.
Instead, she picked up a few pieces, handed over some coin, and wandered off casually toward a nearby alley.
The crowd thinned the deeper she went—twisting alleys between old shops and stacked tenements.
The perfect place to shake a tail.
Or catch one.
She moved with practiced ease, ducking down a narrow stone corridor flanked by hanging laundry and the smell of cooking fish. She found a spot behind a pile of crates and waited.
Nothing.
No footsteps. No shadows.
Her heartbeat slowed.
"Maybe I'm losing it," she muttered.
Then a voice—sharp and smooth as silk—cut through the silence like a blade to the spine.
The narrow alley lay still, framed in rain-soaked stone and rustling laundry lines, the distant sounds of the market barely bleeding into its shadows.
Allora stood frozen, her cloak heavy with mist, a half-eaten fruit still in her hand.
Above her, on the second-story balcony, stood the same cloaked figure—blue velvet shimmered under the dying light, gold constellations glinting like forgotten prophecies.
"Never keep your backside open," the figure said smoothly.
Allora spun around, pulse thudding against her throat.
"You again," she hissed, her fingers tightening.
The figure leaned slightly on the railing. Calm. Relaxed. Watching her like a patient scholar watching a puzzle rearrange itself.
Allora's voice sharpened. "Are you working for Malec?"
A beat of silence.
Then, softly:
"No."
It wasn't a protest. It wasn't a lie. It was a statement.
Calm. Final.
Allora blinked. Her fury faltered.
The figure continued, voice low but pointed:
"If I was, you wouldn't be standing here asking questions."
A pause.
"I have my own motives."
Allora's breath caught in her chest. The confusion churned with the fear. And beneath it… something else.
Curiosity.
Still, she bit back her trembling voice.
"Then what do you want from me?"
The figure tilted their head, golden thread catching the last of the sun's light like stars.
"When the wind guides you, don't blame the storm for your destination."
Allora took a step forward. "What does that even mean?"
But the figure didn't answer.
Allora stood stunned in the alley, heart thudding against her ribs, the figure's refusal to vanish rattling her.
But then—
The cloaked stranger didn't go inside.
Instead, they vaulted effortlessly over the balcony railing, cloak snapping behind them like a dark wing as they landed in the alley with the quiet grace of a shadow.
No stumble. No hesitation.
Just control.
They straightened slowly, and for a breathless second, Allora could feel their height, the weight of presence. Not power through intimidation—but the kind that never needed to raise its voice to be heard.
She stepped back, hands half-raised, wary.
"What do you want from me?" she asked, voice hard, steady. "And don't talk in riddles this time. I want straight answers."
The figure regarded her. Then nodded, almost respectfully.
"Fair."
They turned slightly and gestured toward a nearby door across the alley—half-hidden in ivy and shadow, a side entrance to the dark tavern she hadn't noticed before.
"Come with me. Somewhere quiet."
Allora hesitated.
Her instincts screamed no. But something else—maybe exhaustion, maybe curiosity, maybe the feeling that this person knew something about what was happening to her—pulled her forward.
She followed.
The tavern was cold and dim, barely lit by the dying embers of a central hearth. The private booth was tucked behind velvet navy curtains, shielded from view. Allora sat, tense, her eyes never leaving the cloaked figure across from her.
"No riddles," she said, her voice sharp. "I want answers. What do you want from me?"
The figure stilled.
Then, without flourish, lifted both hands to her hood and drew it back.
A curtain of sleek, long dark brown hair spilled down over strong shoulders. The scarf dropped next, revealing a strikingly beautiful Awyan woman—her face smooth and commanding, like carved porcelain kissed by battle.
But it was the eyes that froze Allora mid-breath.
Tan. Nude-sienna.
Not pale like Malec's—but unmistakably the same shape, the same depth. Cold. Calculating. Eyes that didn't just look at you—they looked through you. Around you. Knew things about you you didn't want to admit even to yourself.
"I am Leira," the woman said, her voice low and poised. "Malec's mother."
Allora gasped, her body jolting upright, eyes darting toward the tavern door.
But Leira leaned back into the velvet shadows with smooth confidence.
"Relax," she said dryly. "My children disowned me. I'm not working for Malec."
"But I am working."
Allora stared at her, throat dry.
"For who?"
"Lady Kirelle," Leira said with a bored little smile. "Of House Asellare. You remember her, don't you? The red-haired one with all the political ambition and just enough guilt to make her interesting."
Allora's fingers curled into fists.
"So this is a trap."
"It's a contract," Leira corrected. "Everyone wants you for something different. Power. Leverage. Revenge. I took the job because…" —her eyes flicked over Allora— "I was curious. I wanted to know why my son became so utterly undone by you."
Allora's chair scraped as she began to stand.
"I'm done being part of these games—"
"Sit down," Leira said quietly. "Or do you want to start bleeding again?"
Allora paused mid-rise, heart pounding.
Leira's eyes narrowed, gleaming with amusement. Then she tilted her head and asked—
"Is he hunting you, Allora? Or is he hunting the child you're carrying?"
The words hit like ice water.
Allora's breath stilled.
Her lips parted. "He… he doesn't know."
Leira blinked—then smiled wider. Her head rolled back and she let out a sharp, delighted laugh.
"What?! Oh, that's delicious. Truly."
She laughed again, deeper this time, as though the irony burned sweet on her tongue.
Leira's eyes flickered with amusement as she leaned back, her fingers steepled.
"My son—so blinded by obsession, he didn't even notice you were already marked by another."
She let out a quiet, wicked laugh.
"And here he was, thinking he was your greatest danger. I wonder how he'll react when he learns he's been chasing after someone else's offspring this entire time."
Her smirk deepened, sharp and almost cruel.
"Poor fool. He's always had a weakness for things he can't own."
She shook her head, almost in pity.
"Sometimes I wonder if he's really mine. He has my eyes… but not my sense. Emotions," she added, with distaste. "They're his greatest flaw. He lets them twist him like a vine around a crumbling pillar."
Allora's mouth was dry. Her pulse echoed in her ears.
"So what happens now?" she asked tightly. "You going to turn me in?"
Leira smiled faintly, folding her hands in front of her like she was about to offer tea instead of betrayal.
"Kirelle hired me to find you. To hand you over in her name. She wants to be the one to deliver you back to Malec."
Allora's thoughts raced. Confusion. Rage. Kirelle had helped her—freed her.
"Why would she do that?"
Leira gave her a look that bordered on pity.
"Because she's not your friend. No Awyan can be. Not truly. She's securing her future the only way a woman like her can—through blood. She wants a child. She wants status. She wants my son's legacy."
Allora swallowed her disgust. Her body shook with it.
"She's going to force him to give her a child?"
Leira tilted her head thoughtfully.
"Oh, don't be so naïve. Force isn't the word. He'll agree to it. He'll do anything to get you back. Even if it means losing pieces of himself along the way."
The fire cracked softly in the hearth nearby.
Leira leaned in.
"The question is, Allora... how far are you willing to go to never be caught again?"