The soup was creamy—too creamy for Allora's taste, but Kalemon had insisted. A thick potato base laced with buttery quail eggs and earthy herbs from the royal garden, it was the first real food she'd had since arriving at the Capitol. Her body didn't know what to do with it. Each swallow made her chest clench.
She coughed once, then again, harder this time, as if something were stuck in her throat.
Kalemon's hand darted forward, steadying her arm. "Careful, kid. That might be a reaction to the sedative they've been using on you."
Allora forced down a mouthful and leaned back into the pillows, her face pale and her voice hoarse. "Why does he drug me?"
Kalemon didn't answer right away.
She sat on the edge of her own chair, stirring the soup with unnecessary aggression. Her dark gray eyes flicked to the door. The guards posted outside had been rotated recently, but they were always there. Silent. Breathing.
After a moment, Kalemon leaned in, voice low and gravel-thick with contempt.
"Because he's trying to keep you slow. To keep you from doing what you do best—running."
Allora chuckled. It was dry and bitter. A sound that carried no joy.
"Doesn't matter," she muttered, pushing the bowl away. "Even if I ran, he'd find me. Or someone else would. Someone worse. I'm the only known hybrid breeder in this shit world now. I'm not a person anymore. I'm a resource. A rare one."
Kalemon sighed heavily and stood, dragging her chair across the rug until it sat beside Allora's bed. She flopped down onto it with a groan.
"Sorry, kiddo. I can't help. It's not like I've got an army anymore."
Allora's eyes widened.
Her army. How could she have been so stupid?
She jolted upright, nearly sloshing the remaining soup off the tray. Her hands grabbed Kalemon's tunic, startling her. The guards outside twitched but didn't enter.
Allora yanked Kalemon close and whispered hotly into her ear.
"I have a bad feeling, Kal. I think Surion's going to sell me off. Trade me like a broodmare to some foreign bastard with a crown and a peace treaty."
Kalemon's jaw clenched. She started to object, but Allora kept going, her voice ragged and breathless.
"Listen to me. It's going to happen. I know it is. I need you. I need you now."
Kalemon nodded slowly, brow furrowing.
Allora's eyes burned with desperation. "There's a device. In my army bag. Hidden in the Chateau—under the loose floorboard in the corner of the chamber where I slept. You know the one."
Kalemon nodded again, more alert now.
"It's a communicator to my unit. It'll track portal signals. Use it. Find one. Go through it."
Kalemon blinked, confused. "You want me to leave?"
"Yes!" Allora hissed. "Not forever. Just long enough to get back to Earth. Get to my father—General Henry Jaxxon. My brother Eron. Tell them I'm alive. Tell them I need them, ALL of them."
Kalemon's breath caught.
"You want me to bring the army?"
"I want you to bring the war."
For a moment, Kalemon stared at her like she was looking into the sun.
Then she grinned.
Wide.
Predatory.
She stood suddenly, as though lightning had crawled up her spine, and paced toward the window, staring out at the opulent Capitol grounds as if measuring blast radius.
"Hell yea," she whispered, "hovercrafts... thermal rifles... cluster grenades... oh, it would be divine to watch this pretty palace get reduced to powdered stone."
Allora narrowed her eyes. "Let's not go full colonizer here, Kal."
Kalemon turned, caught herself, and laughed. "Right. Of course. Not a conquest. More like… immigrant justice. Rebalancing the scales."
"We start," Allora said firmly, "by rescuing me."
Kalemon nodded, fire burning in her gaze now. "And then we end with these pointy-eared freaks kissing our boots."
Allora smirked. "One revolution at a time, Doc."
Kalemon straightened her shoulders, her jaw tight, her purpose reignited. For the first time in months, she wasn't just reacting.
She was planning.
Scheming.
Ready.
Because Allora had given her a mission—no, a future.
And Kalemon had every intention of seeing it through, even if it meant leveling kingdoms to do it.
The chamber door opened without a knock.
Allora didn't flinch—though her shoulders did tighten ever so slightly beneath the sheer navy fabric of her new tunic. She was dressed. Hair braided, lips bare, and her posture upright as she sat on the floor beside the low marble table, a fan of foreign-looking Awyan playing cards scattered before her.
Kalemon was seated across from her, grumbling about the rules under her breath, while the young maid girl giggled softly, organizing her own hand of cards.
But when Malec entered, everything stilled.
His presence had that effect.
His pale tan eyes swept the room like a blade, first checking the corners, the guards, and then locking on Allora like a magnetic pull. He didn't care about the game. The room. The audience.
He only cared that she was here.
That she was still breathing.
The maid immediately stood, bowed low, and hurried out of the room without a word.
Kalemon didn't stand.
She rolled her eyes, leaned back, and said in English with a pointed tone, "Here comes the ol' ball and chain."
Allora coughed to hide her snort.
Malec didn't react to the foreign tongue. He knew enough by the tone that it wasn't friendly, but he didn't take the bait. His gaze remained fixed on Allora as he crossed the room with quiet, purposeful steps.
She stood slowly as he approached, keeping her expression neutral, unreadable. But he noticed the small way she squared her shoulders, how she didn't step back.
That was something.
When he reached her, he placed his hands on her shoulders—steady, warm, firm.
His touch had no urgency. No possessiveness. Just reassurance.
His voice, when it came, was low and soft, meant only for her.
"Do not worry," he said, a faint smile curving at the edges of his mouth. "I am taking care of everything."
Before she could speak, he leaned in and pressed his lips gently to her forehead. A kiss meant more for grounding her than claiming her.
Then he turned to Kalemon.
"You may go now."
Kalemon stood slowly, brushing off her knees. "Goodbye, kiddo," she said, not bothering to hide her reluctance. She crossed the room and embraced Allora with one strong arm.
But Allora didn't let her go easily. She held tight for a second longer, then whispered, "It's not goodbye. It's see you later."
Kalemon smiled crookedly. "Damn right."
She stepped back and raised her hand in a sharp, practiced salute.
Allora returned it without hesitation.
Two fingers to her temple, two hearts synced in purpose.
Then Kalemon turned and walked out, her boots hard on the stone.
Malec tilted his head, watching the gesture.
"What was that?" he asked.
"A salute," Allora replied simply. "A human custom. From our army. It means loyalty. Respect."
Malec nodded slowly, eyes still fixed on the door Kalemon had exited through.
"Ahh," he murmured. "Yes. I know that one."
His lips twitched at the memory—of ranks, of formations, of blood and banners.
"I was a commander once," he said. "We used something similar. Though ours was more… brutal."
She raised an eyebrow.
He didn't explain.
But his hand, still resting on her shoulder, squeezed gently.
"You look well," he said softly, lowering his voice again. "Stronger."
"I had soup," she replied.
"I'll give the cook a medal."
He smiled at her dry tone.
But beneath it, his mind still turned—restless.
Because despite her calm, despite her warmth, despite the salute…
He'd felt the air shift the moment he entered the room.
Something had passed between her and Kalemon.
And Malec wasn't going to rest until he knew exactly what it was.
____________________________________________________________________________
The dining hall smelled of roasted root vegetables and braised fowl, but neither Surion nor Surin had much of an appetite. The food had gone cold. A heavy silence lay between them as they chewed through what might have been their last moment of peace.
Then—
The doors slammed open.
A young, sweating messenger ran in, his sash crooked, his voice high with urgency.
"The eastern procession has been sighted at the gate! His Majesty is on his way—arrival imminent!"
A beat of silence.
Then—
"FUCK."
Surion shot to his feet, his chair scraping violently against the polished floor. He flung his napkin across the table like it had personally offended him and stormed toward the exit, robes fluttering behind him.
He spun around mid-stride to glare at Surin. "You'd better be ready when that wretch starts to explode."
Surin rose calmly, dusting nonexistent crumbs from his sleeves. He didn't need to be told. But the truth of what they were about to do—to Malec, his son—hung heavy in his chest like an anvil chained to his ribs.
He gave a single nod and followed.
"Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck," Surion muttered the whole way down the corridor, each step faster than the last. His rage crescendoed with each curse until they reached the massive palace gates.
And there they were.
The procession had arrived in full force—an opulent sea of polished steel, billowing royal flags, and armored horses gliding with ceremonial precision. Eastern banners shimmered in blue and silver, the sigil of a twisting serpent clutching a flame dancing along the wind.
At the head of it all, riding atop a powerful dapple-gray destrier, was a vision sculpted from arrogance and silk.
King Kael of the Eastern Lands.
The stallion moved like it knew its rider was royalty. Poised. Effortless.
Kael's long blond hair was drawn into a perfect high ponytail, the ends curling just-so as if kissed by magic itself. Thick, dark lashes framed electric blue eyes, his cheekbones high and sharp, his lips shaped like a prince carved from old fae tales. He was tall—taller than Malec—and built like a statue of war-god perfection. His armor was ceremonial: polished, gleaming, and only half fastened, allowing his sculpted chest to glint beneath. He practically glowed.
Where Malec's beauty was iron-forged—harsh, disciplined, earned—Kael's was effortless, ethereal, the kind that turned heads and silenced rooms without trying.
As the procession came to a halt, Kael dismounted with a graceful leap that seemed more dance than dismount. He approached, hands clasped behind his back in a carefully measured posture of non-aggression.
His smile was warm. His accent thick and rich, curling around each syllable like honey over steel.
"Vael'kyn, my dear friend," he said to Surion, eyes glittering. "I've arrived in time, yes?"
Surion opened his mouth, stammered—then promptly closed it again.
Surin, as always, stepped in with the calm of a man already accepting the consequences.
"I am Surin. Surion's uncle," he said smoothly. "I'm here to ensure the transaction proceeds without… complication."
Kael raised a single perfectly sculpted brow.
He stood to his full height—taller even than Surin—and tilted his head, the smile never leaving his face.
"And by complication," he asked slowly, "you mean… Malec."
Surin didn't blink. "Yes."
Kael's smile widened, a soft laugh curling from his throat—musical, amused.
"Ahh... This, it is not mine to worry, no?" he said with a tilt of his head. "I do not come for this Malec."
He shrugged, casual but deliberate, voice dropping into something low and silken.
"I come for what was promised. The Canariae. She is mine by bond. The contract—it is sealed. The exchange, already done."
His tone turned colder beneath the elegance. A warning, velvet-wrapped.
"I am here… to collect."
And neither Surion nor Surin had the strength to admit just how much blood that would cost them.
___________________________________________________________________________
Kael's boots clicked rhythmically against the gleaming stone floor as he followed Surin down the long corridor, his arms still clasped behind his back in that relaxed, regal posture that managed to appear both non-threatening and impossibly self-assured. He moved with the ease of a predator that knew no one dared challenge it.
His eyes wandered, taking in the polished walls of the Capitol's inner sanctum, the golden sconces shaped like phoenix wings, the etched murals of ancient Awyan victories—images that felt like a different age compared to the one they were about to usher in.
"Your palace," Kael murmured, voice light with admiration, "she has kept her shine. Very rare... in lands where war sleeps in stone."
"It has retained much," Surin replied, hands folded calmly behind his back as they walked. "But shine rarely survives without shadow."
Kael chuckled, soft and low—the sound like silk dragging over steel.
"Mm. Always the shadow, eh? But it is not always enemy. Sometimes... it is the thing that reminds light who it is."
Surin didn't reply.
Instead, he pushed open the doors to the war room, letting Kael step in first before following. The room was circular, lit from above by a stained glass dome of swirling sapphire and amber, with a great wooden table carved with the geography of their continent stretched across its center. Strategists and advisors had once gathered here in times of crisis.
Now, it was the staging ground for something far more volatile than war.
As they circled the table, Kael glanced sideways at Surin, his voice dipping into something more personal.
"So…" he murmured, voice slow as a drawl, "you tell me of her, this… Canariae."
Surin exhaled lightly. "Her name is Allora. She came here by… unusual means. Human—yes. From a world far removed from ours. She is… unlike any I've ever seen."
"Fiery?" Kael asked, curiosity glinting like glass behind his lashes.
"Defiant," Surin answered. "Resourceful. Sharp. Not easily bent to another's will."
Kael's grin widened, showing just a hint of wolfish approval. "Perfect."
Surin pressed on, voice steady, without inflection. "She is intelligent. Trained in both military and science from her world. No noble blood. No softness bred into her."
Kael nodded slowly. "Even better. Docile mates… they bore me."
They walked for a moment in silence, until Kael's head turned, just slightly, his pale blue eyes watching Surin over his shoulder.
"There are rumors," he said, voice lowered, "that she did what should not be possible. That she carried child. An Awyan child. You tell me—this is truth?"
Surin halted.
So did Kael.
Surin faced him fully, shadows stretching behind his cloak.
"I was there," he said.
The weight in his voice bent the air between them.
"I saw it with my own eyes. The child is strong. Healthy. Born with ears like ours… and his father's eyes."
Kael's gaze sparked. Something too layered to name flickered—calculation, hunger, something just a breath away from awe.
"And where is this child?"
"He is being cared for," Surin said, tone clipped. "Hidden in the countryside. My daughter sees to him. His grandmother too. The boy is safe."
Kael dipped his chin, slow, solemn. "Then… you have kept your word. This I respect."
A silence bloomed.
Then Surin, cautious now, softened his tone.
"Are you certain, Kael?" he asked. "You truly wish a Canariae for partner?"
Kael did not blink. Did not breathe.
Instead, his head tilted like a blade about to strike.
"I want peace," he said. "I want power. I will end this bloodshed along my border… and give my court something they can believe in."
He stepped forward, into a wash of color from the stained glass. Violet and crimson danced across the silver of his armor.
"And she is all of it. Symbol. Womb. Bridge."
A beat.
His lips curved, slow and dangerous.
"And maybe," he added softly, "even a challenge."
Surin studied him for a long moment.
Surin narrowed his eyes slightly as they resumed their slow walk around the war table, the distant echo of palace footsteps muffled by the heavy walls around them. The filtered afternoon light streamed through the stained glass dome, splashing golden reds and ocean blues over Kael's pristine armor and Surin's somber tunic.
He studied the Eastern King with a calculating gaze. Though Kael's face was calm, pleasant—even charming—Surin had lived long enough to know that charm often masked intent.
"I hope you don't mind," Surin said, keeping his tone even, "but I have a few questions of my own before I let you walk away with my daughter-in-law."
Kael paused mid-step, then turned slightly, tilting his head in open curiosity. "Please."
Surin raised a brow. "Why her? The rumors of the child only just began to spread. You were the first to respond. And rather… decisively."
Kael's lips curved, and that infuriating dimple appeared in the center of his cheek.
"I… have, small confession," Kael murmured, voice like warm metal, low and fluid. "I have seen your Canariae before."
Surin's posture stiffened. "When?"
"Summit. Two winters past," Kael said, eyes distant, remembering. "She was… glorious. Not only beauty, no. She spoke with… fire. Not loud—but sharp. Her voice cut like blade dressed in silk."
Surin gave him a measured look. "You saw her once at a party… and now you want her?"
Kael's smile curved slowly, arms folding across his chest. "Nai. Not once. Many times."
He leaned slightly forward, eyes narrowing, tone low. "She ran into me. In corridor. I think she escaped her guards. Just… ran. She passed three of them—they did nothing. As if she cast a spell. I watched her vanish. She was not afraid. She was… alive."
A small breath of a laugh escaped him. "And when she looked back at me… tch—those eyes. They did not plead. They dared."
Surin remained silent, but his attention sharpened.
Kael moved to the war table, his hand drifting over the carved terrain. "After, I ask quiet questions. One of my soldiers, he saw her at feast. Said she sang."
His gaze lifted. "Said she made whole room still. Made grown elves weep. That… is no simple thing."
Surin's expression shifted—just a little. Enough.
Kael watched him. "I have ruled through war. Through teeth and lies. I know the smell of false praise. But her?" He shook his head slowly. "She is not mask. She is not polished coin. She is truth, raw and untamed."
His voice dropped lower, reverent. "She took root in me before I knew her name. Before I knew she… carried the impossible."
Then the steel returned—quiet but firm.
"I do not want as prize. I want as storm. As light."
He looked back at Surin, and the next words were quiet, almost possessive.
"I will give what Malec never could. Not cage. Not leash. I give choice. A crown she does not have to bleed for."
He paused, a breath, then added softly—
"If she kneels… it will be because she wants to."
That word hit Surin like a weight.
Because he remembered Malec's face the first time Allora was dragged away.
And he now knew, with terrifying certainty—
King Kael was not just another suitor.
He was a rival.
A powerful one.
And he wasn't going to ask for Allora again.
He was going to take her.
Surion entered the corridor like a general preparing for a siege.
Two dozen guards marched behind him—Imperial elites in shining black-and-gold armor, boots thudding in a practiced rhythm that echoed down the marble hall like a death march. They moved with the precision of a trained killing force, but the tension in their shoulders betrayed their nerves.
At the far end of the corridor stood King Kael, relaxed but composed, his hands still folded behind his back like a nobleman admiring architecture rather than preparing for potential bloodshed. Behind him, his own retinue stood like silent shadows—eastern-trained soldiers whose eyes scanned every angle, every doorway, calculating threats before they emerged.
Surion stopped a few feet away from him, chest heaving slightly.
"Are we ready to do this?" he asked, his voice tight, forced through clenched teeth.
Kael turned his head, and that familiar, disarming smile curved on his lips. "Lei," he said smoothly. "Time to collect my bride."
The air turned leaden.
The march resumed—slow, methodical, as the small army made their way down the final hall to the guest chambers. The guards stationed outside Allora's room stood tall at first, confused as the wave of polished strangers advanced on them.
Then came the order.
"Stand down," barked an Imperial captain. "His Majesty's orders. We're relieving you."
One of Malec's guards tried to argue. "With respect, she's under—"
He didn't finish. An Imperial soldier shoved him hard to the side, nearly slamming him into the wall. "Royal business. Move."
He hesitated, panic flickering in his eyes, but knew better than to disobey the crown in public view. So he retreated—barely.
Surion stopped in front of the door, the fine fabric of his robes twitching from the tension vibrating in his spine. He inhaled once. Twice. If this went wrong…
A hand touched his shoulder.
Surion turned to see Surin, standing behind him with a heavy look in his eyes.
"Step back," Surin said softly. "Let me go in first. I don't want my son hurt."
Surion exhaled, sharp and bitter. "Fine," he muttered. "Go ahead. But make it quick."
Surin stepped forward and reached for the handle. He paused only briefly before pushing the door open.
The moment he entered, the world slowed.
Malec was sitting on the settee near the window, Allora nestled against his chest. One hand stroked her wild curls with the gentleness of a man savoring peace. His other rested casually on her thigh, grounding her there with a quiet, unspoken claim.
They were mid-conversation. Their voices were soft.
Then Malec looked up.
His eyes, pale tan and sharp as honed steel, narrowed immediately.
"Surin," he said, voice low and edged. "What is this?"
Surin closed the door behind him gently.
He looked tired. Old. There were lines around his eyes Malec had never noticed before. His mouth opened, closed again.
"I need to speak with you," Surin said, his voice thick. "It's urgent."
Malec's grip on Allora loosened. He leaned in and whispered something in her ear—something soft, private, something intimate.
She nodded.
He pressed a kiss to her cheek, a lingering thing that should have been ordinary, but struck Surin like a dagger through the ribs.
Because he knew.
This was the last time his son would see her.
Malec stood, all long lines of grace and danger, and crossed the room to stand before his father.
"What is it, Surin?" he asked, tone suspicious.
Surin looked at him then, really looked at him.
And he saw the boy he raised. The soldier he trained. The man who had never once cried, but who might now, if he knew what was coming.
Surin's throat tightened.
He reached forward, hands steady, and placed them gently on Malec's shoulders.
Then, softly—brokenly—he whispered in ancient Awyan, "Va'hayel ith ni vorrin."
Forgive me, my son.
Malec's body tensed.
His eyes widened. "What—?"
But he didn't get to finish.
Surin's fingers rose between them and pressed quickly, precisely, to the center of Malec's brow.
And the world went black.
Malec crumpled into his father's arms—like the sky folding in on itself.
Outside, in the corridor, the guards stood still as stone. Kael, serene as ever, tilted his head slightly at the delay, but said nothing.
Inside, Surin caught Malec's weight, tears stinging his vision. His hands trembled.
"I'm sorry," he whispered again.
Then he stepped aside.
And opened the door.