Allora woke slowly.
The softness of the daybed beneath her did little to ease the ache coiled through her body. Every joint felt weighted, every breath shallow. Her skin clung to heat, her belly heavy and taut beneath the thin blankets.
She blinked toward the filtered light coming through the silk curtains. Her limbs resisted movement, sore, tired, like she'd been running in her sleep.
And in a way, she had.
The dream still shimmered at the edges of her mind—the cloud-walk, the light, and the fox that cried in her lap. It had returned again and again, soft and surreal, every time more vivid. She no longer questioned its meaning. She just… felt it.
The light was comfort.
The fox was grief.
And both felt like something deeply hers.
A sharp, sudden kick jolted her from thought.
She winced, her hand flying to her belly.
"Easy," she whispered, pressing gently. "I'm listening."
Her child—always so quiet, so still—had begun to stir more in recent days. As if sensing something coming. Something wrong.
Allora shifted, bracing herself as she sat up. Her back screamed in protest. Her body, swollen with late pregnancy, felt like it was bracing itself for something monumental. Kalemon had told her to rest. Strict orders. But her mind kept spinning.
Kalemon had been gone for over a day now—out scouting the portal she'd finally located. She'd used the last of the scavenged human military tracking gear, the kind designed to pick up unnatural energy signatures. After weeks of cross-referencing patterns, she found one that pulsed consistently.
A portal. Close. Only a few miles northeast. Still stable.
Kalemon had taken coordinates and a cloaking vest, promising to return soon.
It was the last step before everything changed.
Allora's plan was simple in theory, impossible in practice:
Find the humans still stranded in this world.
Get them back.
Seal every portal.
Human technology—if leveraged correctly—could dismantle their forces. Drones, artillery, signal interference. The Awyans were powerful, but not indestructible.
But none of it mattered until she gave birth.
Her body was counting down every second.
And now… so was fate.
She closed her eyes again, willing the tension to slip off her shoulders.
But peace didn't last.
The door creaked open without warning.
Not a knock. Not a pause.
Just a slow, deliberate intrusion—like a silk knife sliding between ribs.
Allora turned her head slowly toward the sound.
"Really?" she muttered. "Do you ever knock?"
Leira swept in like a queen in mourning.
Her fitted black velvet dress clung to her curves, regal and deliberate. Her hair was pinned up in a twisting dark brunette bun, intricate as lacework, and a blood-red scarf draped over her arms like a sash of old blood.
A walking threat. Wrapped in elegance.
"Knocking is a courtesy for guests, not mistresses of the estate," Leira replied with a silken smile. "And I find it useful to arrive before I am expected."
Allora groaned, throwing her head back against the pillows. "Gods, I don't have the energy for you today."
Leira ignored her, stepping further into the room, eyes trailing with that predatory grace only she could wear like perfume.
"You look radiant," she said, mock-sincere. "Like a tired moon about to explode."
"Get. Out."
"I would," Leira said, idly playing with the edge of her scarf, "but you'll want to hear this."
Allora didn't look at her.
Leira moved closer.
"Malec is closing in."
The words cut the air like a blade.
Allora's head snapped toward her, eyes wide. Her hand flew protectively to her stomach before she could stop herself.
And Leira saw it.
She smiled.
"Ah," she whispered. "So I was right."
Allora's throat dried.
"He's not far," Leira said, her tone softer now—dangerous. "And guess who's not far behind him? Lady Kirelle."
Allora didn't respond.
Her mind spun. How? She had kept every step hidden, moved quietly, disappeared off the grid. How did they find her?
The baby shifted again. Not a kick—more like a tremor. As if it, too, had heard.
"How long do I have?" Allora asked quietly.
Leira shrugged. "Depends. Kirelle's petty. Malec's… motivated."
She stepped closer to the bed, just to the edge of where light touched Allora's skin.
"And now that he knows what you're carrying…" Her voice dropped, gleeful and cruel. "I'd say the countdown has begun."
Allora's lips parted. "What did you do?"
Leira smiled wider.
"Me? Nothing. But I may have left a little trail. A whisper here. A forged note there. Just enough to stir the pot."
"You told him?" Allora's voice cracked. "About the baby?"
Leira's gaze softened with something almost sadistic.
"No, darling. I told Kirelle. And let her do the rest."
Allora's heart thundered.
She could feel it now—the noose tightening.
She looked down at her belly.
"He will kill me."
Leira's steped forward..
But this time, she did not turn to deliver some cryptic exit line.
She stopped halfway to the door, her back still to Allora, her red scarf slipping a little farther down her arm.
A long silence passed.
When she finally spoke, her voice was quiet. But not cold.
"Then speak to him before that part of him awakens."
Allora laughed—sharp and bitter. "He's already gone, Leira. There's nothing left of the man who spared me."
Leira turned around slowly, and this time her expression was not coy or clever. It was tired.
"You think I don't know that? You think I haven't watched it happen with my own eyes?"
She took a step back toward the bed. Allora's grip on the sheets tightened.
"Every day, he becomes something more hollow," Leira said. "Something sharper. There is no softness in him anymore, only the space you left behind. I've tried to reason with him. Threaten him. Trick him. Nothing reached him—until I said your name."
Allora's lip trembled.
"So you're delivering me to him like some peace offering?"
Leira's face hardened, but something trembled beneath the surface.
"I am delivering him the last thing tethering him to reason."
Allora's voice was ice. "You mean me."
Leira held her gaze. "I mean you."
A long breath passed between them. The tension in the room was taut as wire, snapping at the edges of every word.
"You never cared what happened to me," Allora said. "Only that I kept your son from shattering."
There was no rage in Leira's reply. No smile. Only something that felt dangerously close to truth.
"At first, yes."
She walked toward the bed again and stopped just short of touching Allora's hand.
"But something changed."
Allora blinked, confused.
Leira shrugged lightly. "Perhaps it's age. Or shame. Or the way you refused to let this world break you—even when it tried. You became something I didn't expect: a Canariae I respected."
She met Allora's gaze fully then, and there was no triumph in her expression. Only resignation.
"But I'm not here to protect you."
Allora stared at her, the betrayal setting deep.
"No," she whispered. "You're not."
They remained like that for a long moment.
And then, with careful hands, Leira reached down and straightened the blanket over Allora's lap.
"He is on his way."
She stood again, voice calm, final.
"I will bring him here. I will not hide what I've done. But if there is any part of him that still remembers who he once was, it will rise for you."
"And if it doesn't?" Allora asked.
Leira hesitated.
"Then… forgive me."
The sharp sound of a whistle cut through the chamber.
Allora flinched, wincing as another stab of pressure twisted through her back. The child inside her shifted again, unsettled by the tension in the air.
The door opened wide, and in poured a line of Awyan maids and physicians, all dressed in immaculate layers of cream and slate, their hands carrying basins, linens, surgical instruments wrapped in velvet cloth.
Their presence was swift, efficient, unnervingly quiet.
Within moments, her bed was surrounded. Cushions were replaced, the fire stoked. A low birthing chair was unfolded in the corner, lined with silken pads and brass stirrups.
It was happening. Whether she was ready or not.
Allora's throat burned.
"Leira," she said, struggling to sit upright as one of the maids adjusted the pillows behind her.
Leira stood near the hearth, watching with unreadable calm, arms crossed behind her back, her red scarf now tied around her waist like a sash.
Allora's voice cracked.
"What will you do… if Malec kills this child?"
The room went still for the briefest moment. Even the servants slowed in their movements.
Leira's jaw flexed. She looked at Allora—but not with cruelty. With something far colder.
"Then I will do the only thing left to me."
She walked slowly to the edge of the bed, her boots silent on the floor.
"I will watch."
Allora stared at her, the horror settling into her bones.
"You're a monster," she whispered.
Leira did not deny it.
"I'm a mother."
She looked toward the fire, eyes glassy but unshaken.
"And my only true concern is the continuation of my bloodline. My son is the last thread of it worth anything. If that child threatens him... then so be it."
The last physician passed through the doorway, whispering something to a steward outside.
Leira turned, adjusting her gloves.
She walked to the door.
"You lied to me," Allora said hoarsely. "You made me believe you cared."
Leira paused at the threshold.
"I did care," she said. "But never more than I care for him."
She reached for the door handle.
And just as she was about to close it, Allora shouted—voice raw, thick with fury and tears:
"I will never trust another Awyan again!"
Leira's hand stilled on the handle.
For a moment, she said nothing.
Then, almost inaudibly, she whispered:
"It's about time you learned that lesson."
The door shut with a soft click.
A moment later, Allora heard the bolt turn.
Locked.
She was alone again.
Alone with a room full of strangers.
A full birthing station. A dozen hands to hold her down. No Kalemon. No escape.
And somewhere out there—Malec was coming.
Leira descended the manor stairs slowly, wrapping her cloak tight against the morning chill.
A horse awaited her at the gate.
She mounted without delay, her lips pressed into a line as she rode north toward the checkpoint she had prepared days ago—where her son, her daughter, and that rancid little serpent Kirelle would soon converge.
It was time for the final hand to be played.
And Leira, as always, would be the one holding the dagger behind her back.
____________________________________________________________________________
The remains of the old manor stood like a skeleton.
Charred beams jutted out of blackened stone, walls collapsed inward, the grand archway now nothing more than crumbled stone and ivy. A fine layer of ash clung to the earth—undisturbed, still, silent.
It had burned long ago.
And now, it offered nothing but mockery.
Malec stood at the edge of what was once the estate's courtyard, arms folded, his coat drawn tight to keep out the rising wind.
His eyes scanned the wreckage with simmering rage.
"Of course," he muttered. "Of course she wouldn't give us the real location."
He kicked a piece of stone aside, watching it tumble into dust.
"What was I thinking."
His voice was low, venomous. It wasn't just disappointment—it was humiliation.
He had believed her.
He had actually believed Leira would play fair.
He ran a hand through his long silver hair, jaw tight, teeth clenched. His temples throbbed. His breath steamed in the chill. Her presence was faint, a shimmer at the edge of his senses—like perfume lingering after someone had already gone.
Close…
But not close enough.
Behind him, Kirelle leaned lazily out the open window of her velvet-draped carriage, eyes narrowed in boredom.
"Are we done brooding yet?" she called. "Any sign of a living soul? A half-charred servant? Perhaps a helpful ghost?"
Malec didn't answer.
He didn't even look at her.
He was too busy feeling.
If he stood still enough…
If he breathed slowly enough…
He could almost feel Allora's heat. That subtle pressure against the back of his thoughts. But it slipped like water every time he reached for it.
She was near. Or had been.
And he was going mad.
A soft snore to his right broke his focus.
Luko, swaying slightly on his horse, yawned wide and blinked awake just in time to keep from sliding out of the saddle.
"I swear," he mumbled, "if this turns into another week of chasing ghosts, I'm starting a war with every goose on the continent."
Malec's eyes narrowed.
Surian stood a short distance off, her emerald cloak drawn up over her silvery pale hair. The fine gold-threaded patterns shimmered faintly beneath the hood as the wind tugged at her hem.
She looked elegant—untouchable—but her hands were clenched at her sides.
Nervous.
And for good reason.
They had been here two hours.
And Malec was willing to wait weeks, if it came to that.
He'd camp here. Burn the rest of the ruins if he needed to. Tear up every root of the forest until the truth bled out from under it.
"She's nearby," he said, mostly to himself.
Luko sighed, rubbing his face. "How can you know that?"
"I feel her," Malec growled. "Like smoke under the skin."
Before Luko could answer, a distant neighing echoed from beyond the ridge of dead trees.
All eyes turned.
From the thick brush, a rider emerged—cloaked in dark gray, the horse heavy with the look of long travel, breath steaming through flared nostrils.
Malec stepped forward, his hand instinctively brushing the hilt of his sword.
Surian straightened, the wind pushing back her hood to reveal her pale, alert face.
Luko sat up, finally awake.
Kirelle leaned farther from the window, her expression suddenly very interested.
"Well, well," she murmured. "There's our queen of snakes."
The rider approached at a measured pace.
And then, beneath the hood, dark brown chestnut hair caught the light—shiny and thick, cascading in perfect waves down the front of a fine gray cloak.
Leira.
Looking not a breath out of place.
Her cloak was unwrinkled. Her posture perfect. She rode like a woman who had nowhere better to be and no guilt weighing her down.
Malec's hands curled into fists.
"She better start talking," he muttered. "Or I swear I'll tear the truth from her bones."
Leira took one long, quiet look at her son—tall, furious, barely tethered. The wind tugged at her red scarf as she stepped closer, just beyond the radius of his blade.
"She is alive," she said softly. "But I won't take you to her."
Malec's expression darkened. "You think this is a game?"
"I think it's a war," she replied calmly. "One you're losing."
Kirelle scoffed from the carriage, her voice like spoiled perfume. "What nonsense is this now? You brought us to a ruin and offer riddles in place of answers?"
Leira finally turned to her, smile cool and deliberate.
"It's quite simple, Lady Kirelle. If Malec finds the girl without my help, the contract between you and him is void. No heir for you. No claim. No obligation."
Kirelle sat upright. "You conniving—"
Malec raised a hand. "Quiet."
He turned to Leira. "Why?"
"Because I will not see her womb wasted on someone like you," Leira snapped, finally letting the anger show. "You want a legacy. I want to see if my son is worthy of one."
Malec's breath hitched—an old, cold sound.
"You want me to find her on instinct."
"I want you to remember who you were," she said. "Before crowns. Before bloodlust. Before obsession. There is still a thread between you two, isn't there? A tether."
Malec said nothing.
Leira stepped close enough to speak only to him. "Enter a woke dream. Like when you were a boy. Let the bond lead you. If you can find her that way… then you deserve her."
He stared at her, breath uneven.
He hadn't slipped into a woke dream since he was a child. Since before he trained it out of himself. But it was there—buried.
Allora.
Her scent.
Her voice.
Her mouth.
Her fire.
He exhaled slowly, closing his eyes.
The world muted.
The wind. The birds. The rustling of Kirelle's silk sleeves.
He went inward—past the rage, past the hunger, to that place where silence thrummed with her name. The space where her presence lived beneath his skin like a secret.
Then—
"Malec…"
The voice cracked through the dark like a splintered cry.
His eyes snapped open.
It wasn't memory. It was now.
And it was full of pain.
Her voice was hoarse, gasping—like she was fighting something, or someone.
He didn't think—he reacted.
A jolt surged through his chest, cold and white-hot.
He kicked his horse—hard.
The beast reared and thundered westward, hooves splitting earth, but—
The thread weakened.
Thin. Wrong.
He yanked the reins, veering east—no better.
Still fading.
Then—
Another whisper, closer. Raw. Breathless.
"Malec… please…"
It wasn't a call.
It was a plea.
He froze mid-turn, heart slamming against his ribs. His head jerked northward as the pressure spiked, pulsing behind his eyes.
She was hurting.
Without a second thought, he whipped his horse around, spurred it north, and charged.
"Hold on, little dove," he growled. "I'm coming."
Behind him, Leira watched him disappear into the trees like a shadow set free.
Surian stared, stunned.
Kirelle shrieked from the carriage. "You manipulative witch—!"
Leira didn't so much as blink. She turned, mounted her horse with cold precision, and whispered under her breath:
"He was always going to choose her. You were just too proud to see it."