The estate was quiet.
Too quiet.
Malec stood at the arched window of Surian's townhouse, one hand braced against the cold stone of the frame, the other clenched so tightly at his side that his knuckles had gone pale. The gardens below shimmered in the fading afternoon light, but he saw none of it.
His pale tan eyes were fixed on the gates.
Waiting.
The entire day had passed in silence.
He had heard whispers already. Through the servants. Through the streets.
Allora had sung. Allora had fought. Allora had won.
The luncheon had turned into a spectacle—her spectacle. And of course it had. She was made of fire and rebellion and brilliance. She couldn't help but ignite everything she touched.
And she had done it without him.
His chest burned with a strange, hollow ache.
It wasn't anger. Not quite.
It was helplessness.
He had spent his life being the one others orbited. His name moved courts. His word stilled wars. But now—now—he was pacing behind a curtain like a forgotten relic, waiting for the woman who had refused his love.
No—who had survived his love.
That's what gutted him.
She'd taken his confession, let it hang like smoke between them, and walked away. Not cruelly. Not mockingly.
But with sadness.
And understanding.
And still… she left.
He didn't know if he wanted to scream or drop to his knees.
A soft knock came at the door behind him.
He didn't move.
Luko's voice followed, gentle. "She'll be back soon."
Malec didn't answer.
"You could sit," Luko added. "Eat. Breathe."
Still, silence.
Luko lingered a moment longer, then sighed and left.
Malec's eyes flicked to the long table across the room—set for dinner, untouched. The plate meant for Allora sat cold. The goblet meant for her was still full.
He had everything prepared. He thought, maybe… just maybe, she'd want to come back to him. Talk. Sit. See him again.
But the longer the sun dragged across the sky, the more that hope shriveled into something uglier.
He rested his forehead against the glass, breath fogging the window.
She doesn't need me.
She never did.
He thought of her voice—singing, wild and untamed. He thought of the moment she'd kissed his cheek before leaving, not out of love, but out of mercy.
He thought of her blade clattering to the ground, and the reports he'd just received from three different lords: how she'd flipped Lady Kirelle like a soldier and left the court in stunned awe.
Allora was becoming something untouchable.
And she was slipping through his fingers.
He closed his eyes.
Just come back.
He would forgive her. He would wait. He would be patient. He would change if she asked him to.
He'd burn the world for her.
But he couldn't seem to hold her.
Not in a way that mattered.
Not in a way that made her stay.
And that—
That was killing him.
____________________________________________________________________________
The door opened with a burst of warm, spring air.
Laughter slipped inside before they did—light, easy, alive.
Allora stepped through the threshold wrapped in blue and twilight, her robe fluttering around her legs, her cheeks still flushed from adrenaline and praise. Surian followed close behind, her pale green dress glowing in the soft lantern light, her gloved hand gesturing animatedly as she recounted something with disbelief.
"—and then Teyel nearly spilled her wine! I swear, if the flute player hadn't caught the glass mid-air, we would've had a full scandal on our hands."
Allora laughed, low and warm. "I still can't believe the poor woman swooned. Over me flipping Kirelle."
"You flipped Kirelle, Allora." Surian paused in the foyer, one hand pressed to her chest in theatrical awe. "Like a sack of potatoes in front of half the Capitol. It was… divine. You should've seen their faces. You've done in one afternoon what most noblewomen can't manage in a lifetime."
Allora rolled her eyes, though a smug smile curled her lips. "I'm not trying to be divine. I'm trying to survive."
Surian looked at her—really looked at her. "You do both."
They were still chuckling when they stepped further into the house.
And that's when they saw him.
Malec.
He stood near the dining room entrance, half-shrouded in shadow, a storm held in place only by the fragile threads of dignity. His shoulders were tense. His eyes—those pale tan eyes—burned into Allora the moment she stepped into view.
The laughter died.
Surian, sensing the shift instantly, stepped aside, smoothing her skirt. "I'll, ah, go see if dinner needs warming."
She vanished like smoke.
Allora remained.
Still glowing, but now quieter. Still strong, but not loud.
Malec said nothing.
He just looked at her.
Took her in.
The blue dress made for her, hugging every curve like silk to flame. The ring with the silver fox still on her finger. Her hair wild from the wind, her eyes sharp from victory.
She looked like a queen he didn't deserve.
"I heard about the duel," he said, finally. His voice was soft, hoarse, as though it had worn itself out saying her name silently all day.
Allora raised an eyebrow. "Only the duel?"
He hesitated. "I heard everything."
A pause.
Then, "You were magnificent."
Allora tilted her head, the barest flicker of emotion in her gaze. "Are you angry I made a scene?"
Malec stepped forward, slow. Controlled. Like if he moved too quickly, he might shatter.
"I'm angry I wasn't there to see it."
That surprised her.
He stopped a few feet from her, his voice quieter now.
"I thought you might not come back."
Allora met his gaze. "I considered it."
He inhaled sharply.
"But," she added, "you said I could go."
"I did."
"And you meant it."
"I did."
She studied him. "Then you're learning."
He gave a small, bitter smile. "Too slowly, I think."
Allora didn't answer. Not yet.
They stood in that heavy silence—the space between them charged with a hundred unsaid things.
Finally, she stepped past him.
Not coldly.
Not cruelly.
Just… purposefully.
"I'm going to wash the day off," she said over her shoulder. "And then I'll decide if I'm hungry."
Malec watched her disappear down the hall.
And though part of him longed to follow—he didn't.
____________________________________________________________________________
Surian returned from the kitchen with a fresh glass of wine in hand, only to find Malec still rooted where she'd left him. His eyes were fixed on the dark hallway Allora had disappeared into, as if staring long enough might summon her back.
She let out a quiet sigh and approached him.
"Brother," she said gently, holding out the wine. "Sit. Breathe. Be calm."
He didn't take the glass.
"I've already lost her, haven't I?" he murmured.
Surian sat on the edge of a nearby chaise, crossing one elegant leg over the other. "If she was truly gone, she wouldn't have come back at all."
"She only came back because I let her go."
Surian nodded. "Yes. That's how trust works. It's earned. Not seized."
Malec finally turned to her, his face carved with something raw. "I don't know how to love like that."
"I know," she said, softly. "You were raised to command, not care. You learned to own, not offer. You built an empire with a sword and a stare, not a heart."
She sipped her wine. "But love isn't a kingdom to rule. It's a storm. And you can't control it."
"I don't want to lose her," he said.
"Then stop trying to possess her," Surian said. "She's not something you can keep. She's someone you have to earn, every single day."
Malec sank into a chair, finally, dragging a hand down his face. He looked hollowed out.
"She makes me feel like I'm drowning."
Surian's expression softened. "That means she matters."
She leaned forward, her tone still sisterly, but laced with warning. "But if you keep trying to trap the sea in your hands, you'll end up with nothing but salt and emptiness."
Steam curled in soft plumes above the copper tub. Allora leaned back into the hot water, her muscles sighing from exhaustion, her body finally still.
But something was… off.
She winced slightly, adjusting her position. Her breasts ached—tender, more than usual. Not sore from combat, but… sensitive.
She frowned.
Reaching down, she stilled.
A faint cramp tugged low in her belly.
Then she saw it.
A thin trail of red in the water.
Her heart jumped.
Spotting.
She stood quickly, water rushing over the edge of the tub, her breath sharp in her chest. Wrapping herself in a thick robe, she pressed a towel between her thighs, her hands trembling slightly.
What the hell?
She wasn't supposed to be bleeding—not now. Not like this.
Allora had memorized her body's patterns. It wasn't time. This didn't feel normal.
Panic whispered down her spine like cold fingers.
No. Not now. Please—
She grabbed her robe tighter and stormed barefoot down the hall, urgency making her stumble once against the wall.
"Luko," she called hoarsely. "Where's Luko?"
She descended the staircase like a force of nature, ignoring the startled servants, moving straight into the parlor—where Malec and Surian froze at the sound of her voice.
"Allora?" Malec rose instantly, his heart stalling at the sight of her—dripping wet, wide-eyed, fushed beneath her cheeks.
"I need Luko," she said, breathless. "Now."
Surian shot up. "What's wrong?"
"I don't—" Allora clutched the robe tighter around her waist, the tremor in her voice giving her away. "Please just get him."
Surian didn't ask twice. She was already calling for a servant.
And Malec?
He stepped forward once—but stopped.
He'd never seen her afraid before.
Not like this.
And suddenly, the air in the room felt cold.
Surian led Allora quickly through the arched hallway to a quiet guest room they had repurposed for Luko's temporary medical work. A single chandelier glowed overhead, casting soft golden light over a table filled with Awyan instruments—crystalline syringes, humming analyzers, small vials glowing with alchemical liquid.
Luko was already waiting, sleeves rolled up, eyes sharp behind his calm demeanor.
He looked at Allora as she entered—wet, flushed, clutching her robe like armor—and his usual smile vanished instantly.
"Sit," he said softly, nodding toward the cushioned table.
Allora obeyed, climbing up and pulling the robe tighter around her waist. Her hands trembled slightly, which said more than any words.
Surian hovered near the doorway, worry etched across her brow, but she didn't speak.
"I'll be gentle," Luko said, kneeling in front of her. He reached for a towel and began drying her feet slowly, trying to ground her. "Tell me what's wrong."
"I noticed spotting in the bath," she said quietly. "It's not my cycle. My breasts are sore too. It doesn't feel right."
Luko's expression didn't change, but his gaze sharpened.
"Any pain?"
"Not sharp. More… pressure. Deep. Like my body's confused."
He nodded. "Alright. I'm going to examine you and take a sample. I promise to explain everything as we go."
Allora gave a tense nod.
With practiced hands, he unwrapped a set of tools—Awyan-crafted, sleek and silver. He placed two fingers lightly on her wrist, feeling her pulse. His other hand hovered above her lower abdomen, his bracelet glowing faintly as he activated a bio-aura reader.
The instruments lit in response—soft pulses of violet and green rising off Allora's body.
His brows knit.
"What is it?" she asked, voice stiller now, sharper.
Luko didn't answer right away. He gently parted the robe just enough to apply a soft salve to her skin—something for relaxation, for balance.
Then he looked her in the eyes.
"Your hormone levels are changing," he said softly. "Rapidly. And there's something unusual about the shifts happening in your blood."
Her throat tightened. "Unusual how?"
"I… I don't know yet. You said your blood was changing. This might be connected. The evolution you detected last week? It's accelerating."
Allora stared at the ceiling, breathing shallow.
"Am I sick?"
"I don't think so," he said, sitting back slightly. "There's no infection. No sign of disease. But your body is doing something I haven't seen before."
"I'm not pregnant, am I?" she said suddenly, almost too sharp.
Luko looked startled. "No. No signs of Awyan or Canariae gestation markers. Nothing like that."
She exhaled hard.
"Still… it's not normal," he added.
She met his gaze again, this time with steel behind the fear.
"Can you keep this between us?"
"I won't tell Malec," Luko said immediately. "Not unless it becomes dangerous. But Allora—if this gets worse, you have to let me help."
"I don't want him knowing until I do," she said. "Promise me."
"I promise."
They stared at each other a moment longer—two exiles in the same strange house, tethered by more than science now.
Luko stood over Allora with his notes in one hand, his other hovering as if unsure whether to comfort or retreat. Allora sat stiffly on the edge of the examination table, her skin pallid, the shadows beneath her eyes darker than they had been the day before.
Surian stood in the corner, arms crossed tightly, her silver hair gleaming in the lamplight, her expression unreadable.
Then the door opened.
Malec entered with the quiet thunder of authority. His gaze locked instantly on her, a flicker of emotion in his eyes—but his voice, when he spoke, was flat and polite.
"What's going on?"
Allora said nothing. She looked away.
Luko glanced at her, then at Surian, then swallowed. "I think her… adaption is taking a toll on her. Not necessarily illness. But… something deeper. Draining her. Wearing her down."
He reached for the table and handed his notes to Malec, his hands slightly trembling. Malec took the pages, scanning them quickly—but his eyes kept drifting back to her. Watching her. Studying her.
Luko pointed to several pages. "Her hormone levels are erratic. Her energy reserves are depleted faster than she can regenerate. Her… temperament, too. Mood swings. Emotional peaks and crashes. Everything is off-balance."
Surian stepped forward now, eyes scanning the data with growing concern.
Then it hit.
A sudden, violent wave of nausea slammed into Allora, and she stumbled off the table, hand clamped over her mouth.
"Allora—" Malec moved first, fast and silent, following her into the hall as she ran.
Behind him came Luko, then Surian, the quiet night exploding into chaos.
She barely made it.
The toilet lid clattered as she dropped to her knees, and her body convulsed—violently, painfully—as it expelled everything she'd eaten.
Malec was at her side instantly, one hand gripping her waist to keep her upright, the other holding back her tangled dark hair. Her body shook beneath his grip, gasping, curling in on itself as the nausea passed.
"It's okay," he whispered, breathless. "I've got you."
She didn't fight him.
Didn't curse.
Didn't glare.
That scared him more than anything.
When it was over, she slumped against him, boneless and damp with sweat. He lifted her into his arms like she weighed nothing and carried her through the quiet house.
She didn't say a word.
Didn't even open her eyes.
He laid her down gently on her bed and covered her with blankets. Called the best night nurse in the city. Ordered tea, water, cool cloths. He watched her like a hawk until her breathing evened out.
But the fear stayed lodged in his chest like a splinter of bone.
"She's not just tired," Malec snapped, pacing the sitting room.
"She's evolving," Luko said again, his voice weary. "But not in a linear way. I don't know what this is, Malec. She's the first. This is uncharted territory."
"Then chart it faster."
Surian spoke up from the hearth, her arms crossed. "You can't force an answer. Her body's changing beyond what we've seen—maybe beyond what we understand."
"How did she get my blood?" Luko asked suddenly.
The room stilled.
Malec's jaw tightened. He didn't look up.
"I gave it to her."
Surian turned slowly. "You what?"
Malec finally met their eyes. "She was dying. No one would help her. I did the only thing I could—I cut my hand and hers and made the transfer myself."
Luko stood slowly. "That was reckless."
"She's alive because of it."
"She's also unraveling because of it."
Malec's voice snapped like a whip. "I saved her, Luko. If you'd been there, maybe I wouldn't have had to play healer."
The silence burned between them until Luko exhaled sharply.
"These symptoms… they're not unlike withdrawal."
Malec turned slowly. "What?"
Luko hesitated, choosing his words carefully. "Her system is… craving something. Something it was exposed to. Something it accepted. If your blood—your essence—started something inside her, her body may be searching for it again."
"You're saying she needs more of me?" Malec asked quietly.
Luko didn't answer.
Malec felt the world tilt beneath him.
If that was true—if his blood had bound her body to his—then the cure had become the cage. The thing she hated most was now a part of her.
He thought he'd saved her.
But he'd marked her instead.
Now her body was calling for the same thing she had tried to escape.
And if he gave it to her…
She would never forgive him.
Malec sank into the nearest chair, his face pale, his eyes distant.
"She'll hate me."
Surian watched her brother, her voice calm but cold. "Then maybe you shouldn't have started with control."