The Copper Karen stepped into the garden like a blade drawn in slow motion—poised, icy, wrapped in a gown of bone white that shimmered like a threat beneath the sun. Her copper-auburn hair was coiled into an intricate crown atop her head, catching the light like burnished fire. Her pale porcelain skin seemed almost luminous, untouched by imperfection. But it was her light brown eyes, cool and calculating, that locked onto Allora with a look that could shatter glass.
The laughter stopped.
Allora turned to face her fully, blue gown gleaming like armor, the silver fox ring catching the light as she raised her hand to her heart in a slow, deliberate gesture of greeting.
"Lady Kirelle," she said, all grace and subtle challenge. "How lovely of you to join us."
"Quite the performance," Kirelle said, her tone clipped, words lined with sugar and venom. "Though I suppose theatrics are to be expected. It's in your kind's nature, isn't it?"
A few gasps. A hush.
Teyel's smile faltered.
Allora didn't blink. "And in yours, I suppose it's tradition to arrive late and throw daggers at your host's honored guest?"
There were definitely gasps now.
Kirelle stepped forward, chin lifting. "If you're going to play at our tables, Canariae, you should know we don't suffer illusions of grandeur for long. Singing may get you applause, but it doesn't earn respect."
Allora's smile sharpened. "Then perhaps you'd like to offer me a proper challenge?"
Kirelle's eyes narrowed, the glint of something cruel flashing across her face. "Gladly."
Allora stepped forward, hips swaying like she owned the ground beneath them. "I accept."
The nobles were frozen in place, watching, holding their breath. Not just because of the challenge—but because of how composed Allora remained. How utterly unafraid.
Surian, standing off to the side, tried not to smile.
Allora's smile was all grace and silk, but beneath it her pulse throbbed with hunger—for movement, for control, for payback.
Not the subtle kind.
She didn't want another dance of words dressed up as diplomacy. She wanted a test of will. A reckoning, not a parley.
Kirelle wouldn't strike her with a blade—not in front of this crowd. Not without reason.
But if Allora gave her just enough reason, if she danced close enough to the line… Kirelle might step right over it.
"You speak of respect," Allora said, voice airy, circling like a lioness in silk, "but you suggest I earn it in ways I was never allowed to learn. That doesn't sound very... sporting."
Kirelle turned slowly, her copper-auburn hair gleaming in the sun, her porcelain skin almost too perfect, too untouchable. "Oh? And what do you suggest then, little firebrand?"
Allora tilted her head, just a hint of mockery in her expression. "A friendly bout of swordplay."
A hush fell.
And then Kirelle laughed.
The sound was lovely. Hollow.
"You wish to fence with me?" she said, savoring the words like wine. "Do your kind even know what a sword is?"
"Why not?" Allora purred. "It's ceremonial here, yes? More performance than pain. I may not have your pedigree, but I can hold a blade."
Behind her, Surian stood straighter, eyes wide with alarm. "Allora…"
Lady Teyel, ever the lover of scandal, leaned forward with a delighted grin. "Oh, please let her. What could be more delightful than two noblewomen settling tension with blades and footwork?"
The murmurs swelled. Nobles shifted closer to the cleared patch of garden, parasols tilting, fans fluttering. This wasn't just spectacle anymore.
This was the moment.
Kirelle's lips curled. "Canariae are not known for their martial skill."
Allora shrugged, her voice low and baited with poison. "Then you have nothing to fear."
The insult landed like a gauntlet.
Kirelle didn't need to be convinced further.
Within moments, servants were fetching polished ceremonial fencing blades from a nearby display case. Gold-inlaid grips, gleaming curved hilts—not designed for war, but for elegance, for tradition.
Allora accepted hers with quiet reverence, but inside she was calculating. Every movement would be a play. Every weakness, every misstep, a trap.
Her grip was awkward. Her posture off. She made sure of it.
Lady Maren stepped forward in her sky-blue gown, cheeks flushed with excitement. "As hostess-appointed referee," she said, bowing deeply to both, "I declare this an informal bout, winner determined by crowd consensus—or surrender."
The nobles chuckled. The garden filled with the scent of blooming starblossoms and anticipation.
Allora turned her blade once, slowly. Felt the balance. Let it be wrong.
Kirelle smirked as she stepped forward, twirling her blade like a ribbon. "Try not to bleed on the flowers."
"You'll have to get past my bad footwork first," Allora replied sweetly.
The crowd laughed.
Lady Maren raised her hand.
"Begin."
They circled—two predators, one gilded, one wild.
Kirelle moved with elegance and poise, her every step deliberate, her strikes graceful and measured. Her blade danced through the air with the ease of someone who had trained since birth. Her posture was textbook. Her performance, flawless.
Allora gave ground, stumbling here and there, her blade dragging slightly too low. She blocked, but late. Parried, but sloppy. Let Kirelle land touch after touch against her shoulder, her side, her hip.
The crowd tittered.
Lady Teyel bit her lip to keep from laughing.
Surian winced.
And Kirelle glowed. Thrived on it. She smirked after each strike, circling like a peacock, her voice carrying just enough.
"Perhaps you should sing instead," she whispered near Allora's ear as they passed.
But Allora's eyes never left her.
She was watching for the crack in the rhythm.
The moment she could turn this performance into a real fight.
Then it came.
Kirelle lunged—graceful, arrogant, overextended.
Now.
Allora's blade clattered to the ground.
Gasps erupted. Murmurs.
A few laughed.
But in the split second that followed, Allora stepped in—lightning fast. She grabbed Kirelle's wrist, twisted, and spun her around like a leaf on wind. Before anyone could blink, she slammed the noblewoman into the grass with a clean, fluid motion. Kirelle's sword flew from her grip, landing in a bed of ornamental flowers.
Kirelle gasped as she hit the ground, stunned, wind knocked from her lungs.
Silence.
Then—
The garden erupted.
Laughter, shouts, applause, and wild gasps echoed through the estate. Fans snapped closed in astonishment. Men dropped their wine cups. One woman actually swooned.
And Allora?
She stood over Kirelle, foot on her sword, hair tousled, cheeks flushed with glory. She extended her hand with devastating grace.
"Oops," she said sweetly. "I thought there were no real rules in dueling."
Kirelle stared up at her, stunned. Humiliated. Her perfect auburn curls now slightly askew, porcelain skin flushed with rage.
Allora leaned in, lips barely moving. Her voice was velvet.
"Never play a performance game with someone who's already lived through real war."
Then she pulled her up—elegantly, theatrically—and bowed.
The crowd roared.
Cheers erupted, nobles clapping, shouting praise. "She flipped her like a page!" one voice called. "That's the Canariae they fear!" shouted another.
Lady Teyel clapped like a delighted child, nearly in tears. Lady Maren wiped her eyes. Surian finally breathed again, watching her sister-in-law rise like a queen from a battlefield of flowers.
And Kirelle?
She curtsied—shallow, bitter, and bloodless.
She knew she'd been beaten.
Not just by strength.
But by storytelling.
By drama.
By a woman who knew exactly what Awyan society wanted.
And weaponized it.
____________________________________________________________________________
The party had begun to thin.
The sun dipped lower, casting golden light across the sparkling wine glasses and empty dessert trays. Nobles slowly trickled from the estate, still buzzing about the duel—about the Canariae. Everywhere Allora turned, she heard her name like a whispered enchantment:
"Did you see her flip Kirelle?"
"And that voice—gods, what was that machine?"
"I heard she's Malec's personal ward… do you think she's more than that?"
And through it all, Lady Teyel practically floated.
She glided toward Allora and Surian, her dress catching the wind like sails on a triumphant ship, her copper-pink hair unbound from its earlier style and shimmering in the late light.
"That was the best luncheon I've ever hosted," Teyel breathed, positively radiant. "No—the best event anyone has hosted in the Capitol this season."
She grabbed both their hands, squeezing them tightly. "Everyone's talking. About me, yes, but through you. I owe you both."
Allora smiled softly. "You threw the party. I just… gave them something to talk about."
Teyel leaned in, voice quieter now. "I hope this isn't just politics. I hope we can be actual friends. You're… not what I expected."
Surian smiled and nodded. "Neither is she," she added with affection, nudging Allora's arm.
They shared a brief laugh, the tension of the day unraveling.
But Allora's eyes drifted.
Across the terrace. Past the servants cleaning up.
To the side room off the gallery—doors closed, drapes drawn.
She could feel the weight of a presence inside.
Kirelle.
Alone.
Wounded.
And Allora couldn't walk away from it.
She excused herself gently, passing through the quiet halls until she reached the closed room. She knocked once.
No answer.
She opened the door anyway.
Kirelle sat on the edge of a settee, still in her now-creased ivory dress, arms folded tightly over her chest. Her hair had fallen slightly from its perfect coils. Her posture was rigid, but her eyes betrayed her—glass-bright, barely holding it in.
Allora closed the door gently behind her, the murmurs of the waning party fading to silence.
Kirelle didn't look up.
She sat like a statue carved in porcelain—arms folded tightly, back rigid, her copper-auburn hair tumbling in disarray down her back. Her pale gown was rumpled, her knuckles white from how hard she was gripping her own arms.
Allora took a slow breath and stepped forward, her voice low and calm.
"It wasn't personal."
Kirelle's jaw clenched. "Go away."
"I didn't do it to humiliate you."
"You already did."
There was no rage in her tone—just shame. Bitter and small and gutting.
Allora didn't move closer yet. She gave her space.
"You challenged me. You thought I'd play by your rules. That's not my fault."
Kirelle let out a shaky laugh—cold and sharp. "You think you're clever."
Allora stayed still. "No. I think I'm trying to survive."
That was when Kirelle looked up.
Her light brown eyes shimmered—not with anger, but unshed tears.
"You walk into our world like it's yours. You disrupt everything. You steal the attention, the admiration, the power. Like you were meant to have it. You're not one of us. You don't belong here, and yet everyone's acting like—like you're the best thing that's ever happened to the Capitol."
Her voice trembled. Her composure cracked.
"I hate you for that."
Allora frowned—not offended, not hurt. Just listening.
Kirelle's breath hitched. "I hate how he looks at you."
Allora's breath caught in her chest.
Malec.
Of course.
"He looks at you like he's drowning in you," Kirelle said, voice tightening like a wire. "Like he's forgotten everyone else exists. He never looked at me like that."
Allora finally walked forward, quiet, slow, lowering herself to kneel before Kirelle—eye to eye.
"I never asked for that."
"But you didn't push it away," Kirelle whispered. "You breathe in that attention. You're not like us. We were taught to be reserved. Graceful. Controlled. And suddenly you show up—raw, loud, alive—and the world opens its gates to you."
"I show up," Allora said carefully, "because I have to. Because if I don't fight, I don't survive. Because your world doesn't want me, Kirelle. It only tolerates me when I perform."
Kirelle's chin wobbled. "I've done everything right. I've followed every rule. I've carried my family's name like armor. And I still wasn't enough to earn his gaze."
Allora's voice softened. "Did you want his gaze?"
Kirelle looked down at her lap. "Since I was young. Since before I even knew what that kind of love felt like. He was everything—elegant, terrifying, brilliant. My father trained me to catch his eye. I was supposed to be his match. His equal. I thought if I just waited long enough…"
Her voice cracked. "But you—you—you came from a dying world, covered in dirt and blood, and he chose you. Without hesitation."
Allora's own heart stung—not out of guilt, but understanding. A different pain, old and familiar.
"I didn't ask to be chosen," she whispered. "I wanted to go home. He destroyed my way back."
Kirelle blinked at that. Her mask faltered even more.
Allora continued, low and true. "You think this world gave me something. It didn't. It stole from me. I'm fighting every day not to lose what little I have left of myself."
Kirelle didn't speak.
Just breathed.
Broken, tired breaths.
"I'm not your enemy," Allora said again. "I'm just surviving the way I know how."
A long silence.
Then Kirelle whispered, "You scare me."
Allora blinked.
"Because you're free. Because you don't obey the same chains. Because when I look at you, I see what I could've been—if I hadn't been born in a gilded cage."
Allora reached out—but stopped just before touching her hand.
"I don't want your cage," she said softly. "And I don't want your crown. But I won't apologize for existing."
Kirelle slowly turned her head, eyes swollen, cheeks flushed.
"I don't know how to be anything else."
Allora nodded. "Then maybe start by not hating someone who never tried to hurt you."
Kirelle let out a slow breath.
Not forgiveness.
Not healing.
But something cracked open.
And that was enough.
Allora rose and turned for the door.
Just before she left, Kirelle spoke—quiet, raw.
"Do you think he'll ever love me?"
Allora stopped.
And answered without cruelty. Only truth.
"No," Allora said simply.
But she didn't walk away. Not yet.
She lingered at the doorway, her hand resting on the frame, eyes soft but unflinching.
"I don't think you actually love him, Kirelle."
Kirelle's head snapped up, fresh heat blooming on her cheeks. "What?"
"You love what he represents. His power. His rank. What your family told you to admire." Allora turned back to face her fully, her voice low and steady. "You were raised to want him. And maybe somewhere along the way, you started believing it yourself."
Kirelle opened her mouth to argue—but nothing came out.
Allora stepped closer again, not threatening, just honest. Her voice almost gentle now.
"Being with Malec isn't what you think it is. It's not gowns and dinner parties and the illusion of influence."
She held Kirelle's gaze.
"It's being a bone tossed to a starving beast. It's losing your autonomy piece by piece. It's having to fight every day to hold your own, to keep your self from being swallowed whole. There's no balance. No partnership. Only the constant weight of his obsession. You will never be free."
Kirelle looked pale. Shaken. Her walls cracking under the weight of truth.
"Is that who you really want to be tied to?" Allora asked softly. "An Awyan who doesn't see you—but sees who he can possess?"
Silence hung between them. Heavy. Charged.
Then Allora's expression softened—just slightly.
"I'll make you a deal."
Kirelle blinked, surprised.
"Lady Maren and Lady Teyel are visiting Surian's house again soon. Come with them. See him. Really see him, not the version you've imagined. Learn the truth about who he is… and who you are when you're around him."
Kirelle stared at her, stunned into stillness.
"I'll be more than happy to have another friend," Allora added, tilting her head. "And if you can sway his gaze from me, I'd be ever so grateful."
The corner of her mouth curled into something sly and self-aware.
"But," she added, eyes glinting, "I doubt you'll want to. Not once you see what it really costs. You'll find it's an impossible task."
She moved to the door again, pausing with her hand on the knob.
"At the very least," she said, glancing back one last time, "you'll gain something worth more than Malec's gaze."
Kirelle frowned. "What's that?"
Allora smiled—not smug, not cruel. Kind.
"A real friend. And it never hurts to be on good terms with the scandalous Canariae the Capitol can't stop talking about."
Kirelle's lips parted, speechless.
But after a moment, she nodded once. Slow. Measured.
"I'll… consider it."
Allora gave her a wink and slipped out of the room.
Not with pride.
Not with triumph.
But with that strange, aching empathy.
Because both of them had lost something they were never given a choice in.
And only one of them knew how to survive it.
She moved swiftly through the estate halls, her mind clearing, her body pulsing with adrenaline and aftermath. The front gardens were now nearly empty, save for servants cleaning, and Lady Teyel still aglow from the chaos.
And then she saw her.
Surian.
At the far end of the path, near the carriage, pacing with growing worry. Her expression was tight with frustration, eyes flicking nervously to the estate doors.
The moment she spotted Allora, she stopped and let out a long, sharp exhale of relief.
"Oh thank the stars," she muttered under her breath.
Allora approached, smiling like nothing had happened. "Miss me?"
Surian crossed her arms. "I thought you fled the estate and left me to face the wrath of my unhinged brother alone."
"Tempting," Allora said as she adjusted the robe over her shoulders. "But I'm not ready to leave the stage just yet."
Surian gave her a look—half exasperated, half proud.
"You caused a sensation today."
"Good."
And together, they walked toward the carriage waiting to take them back to a home filled with fire, secrets… and the man who would no doubt be watching the window for her return.