3. The Flame and the Chain #3
She had been a military epidemiologist. Dr. Melodie Jaxxon.
She'd held the antibodies that hopefully saved her entire species, fought tooth and nail to get them across that portal before it closed.
She might have saved humanity. Might have given Earth a fighting chance against the plague that had been ravaging them.
And now? Here in Ulvareth, amongst an ancient Awyan species with their soul bonds and their empire and their endless sense of superiority, she was nothing more than a toy.
A flame to be kept in a gilded kennel and admired from a distance.
The weight of it pressed down on her chest.
Still, she walked to the bed and sat down on the edge, letting herself breathe.
One night at a time.
Days passed, and the tension that had hung in the air slowly lifted. Surian and Allora fell into a fragile rhythm, a quiet ceasefire between them.
They walked together in the garden when the heat of the day began to fade, their feet brushing against crushed lavender and wild orange blossoms, their laughter, tentative and rare, mingling with the soft rustle of leaves. In those moments, there was almost peace.
One evening, after the wine had sweetened their tongues and the stories had run dry, Surian rose from her velvet cushion and fetched her instrument from its carved stand.
The polished wood gleamed in the firelight, its strings already tuned with the care of habit.
She settled back onto the divan and began to play, each note humming low and languid through the air.
Allora didn't need to be asked.
With a quiet sigh, she leaned back against the cushions and let her voice rise, the sound wrapping around the room with a dark, smoky richness. She didn't look at Surian as she sang, didn't have to. This had become their unspoken ritual, rare and wordless, a secret indulgence neither of them named.
Surian's fingers moved easily, her expression distant with focus, but her eyes gleamed.
She already knew what Allora could do with her voice, had known since that night months ago when Allora had first sung without meaning to.
But now, in this quiet space without the weight of the palace around them, just the two of them, Allora let it echo freer.
She sang simply to feel something, unburdened by performance or the weight of survival.
When the song faded, Surian was quiet for a beat, then smiled softly. "If you do that at court," she said, plucking a final note, "you'll make half the noble housewives weep and the other half rethink their marriages."
Allora snorted. "Not planning on performing for your little fox brother, if that's what you're hoping."
Surian only shrugged, smug. "You say that now."
But at night, when the house was quiet and the silver moon crawled over the horizon, Allora stood at her window, watching the mountain range loom in the distance.
Her fingers, stained with ink from a day's failed lessons, clenched the crude writing stylus meant for practice.
Instead, she used it to draw, jagged and angry lines across coarse paper.
She etched the cliffs, the rocks, the place where her escape had crumbled. The place where the portal had died.
She couldn't forget. She refused to.
Surian didn't know about the drawings, about the way Allora scraped her guilt and rage into paper night after night. She couldn't know. Surian was Awyan, and for all her kindness and wit, she would always choose her people over Allora's freedom. That was the way of this world.
Then late the next afternoon, as the hedgerow shadows stretched long and gold across the path, movement caught the edge of Allora’s vision. A figure approached on foot from the far end of the path that curled toward Surian’s villa.
She leaned closer to the window, squinting.
A tall frame. Loose posture. Green eyes, jagged and wicked. That grin.
Her heart stuttered.
Erolyn.
The first Awyan who hadn't looked at her like she was prey. The one who'd dared to help her flee the palace, who told her the truth even when it stung. He'd vanished after that night, disappearing like a ghost. She hadn't known if he was alive, if Malec had found out and killed him for it.
But there he was, walking like he owned the road, a satchel slung over one shoulder and a bottle of dark liquid glinting in one hand.
She was already halfway down the stairs before her mind caught up with her feet.
They met in the villa's front hall, and for a second, the world fell away. Just her and him.
Allora flung herself into his arms, and Erolyn caught her with a warm, surprised laugh, spinning her once with a mock stumble before steadying them both.
"Shit, dove," he breathed against her hair. "I thought I'd never see you again."
She pressed her face into his shoulder, blinking too fast. "I thought you were dead."
She drew a breath, pushed gently against his chest, just enough to gain space between them. Her eyes locked onto his, pointed and suddenly serious.
"You gave me to him," she said, the words low and bitter.
Erolyn's smile cracked like glass. His jaw set, but he didn't flinch nor did he deny it.
"I did," he said quietly. "And I'm sorry. But I'm still alive because I don't cross Malec. No one does. You know that."
And she did. That was the worst part. Every inch of her hated the truth, how in this world survival was bought with settled calm and complicity and betrayal. She looked away, her lips pressing together, but didn't step farther.
"Are you happy to see me?" he asked then, softening the words with a teasing lilt, though his voice cracked slightly on the last syllable.
Allora hesitated. The tension between them remained. Beneath it ran an older bond, stubborn and enduring. Erolyn had been the first Awyan to help her, the first to make her feel she wasn’t entirely alone.
She glanced up, a reluctant smile teasing the corner of her mouth.
"I don't know," she said. "Ask me after a drink."
He pulled back, eyes shining. "You wound me. I'm far too handsome to die young." He grinned, lifting the bottle. "Now come on. I've been holding onto this just for you. Time to initiate you into the noble art of Awyan hangovers."
Allora gave him a confused look. "What the hell are you even doing here at Surian's?"
"I'm family," he said with a lazy shrug. "Surian and I are cousins. I stay here whenever I pass through the Capitol. She's got the best wine cellar in the district, and you know me, I've never been strong enough to resist a bottle. Or good company."
The warmth in his eyes didn't fade, and Allora found herself nodding, arms folded, not ready to trust but no longer fighting the gravity of his presence. Her body had remembered him before her mind could question it. That meant something.
Just then, a shrill voice pierced the air. "Ahem."
Surian stood on the stairs, arms crossed, expression tight.
Erolyn stiffened.
"You can hug her," she said, descending slowly, "but don't make it a habit. My guards report everything, and if Malec finds out she's pressed up against another male like that, especially you, he'll turn my garden into a smoking crater."
Allora stepped back reluctantly, though her eyes still danced with a light, genuine warmth. Erolyn lifted both hands in mock surrender, backing away with exaggerated caution.
"Understood," he said, winking at Allora. "Strictly no touching. Unless supervised."
Surian rolled her eyes. "Behave."
"I always do."
"That's the problem." She turned her gaze to Allora, more serious now. "Enjoy your visit. Just remember, if you bring scandal, drama, or an open flame into my house again, you won't be the one paying for it."
"Sir, yes sir, captain!" Allora muttered, offering a two-fingered salute.
For the first time since her imprisonment in this gilded cage of marble walls and velvet lies, Allora wasn't alone.
The realization came slowly, sinking into her bones like warmth after frostbite. She hadn't known how tightly she'd been wound until now, until she saw someone who remembered her before the name Allora, before the court, before Malec. Someone who had known her simply as herself.
And yet her heart twisted with a feeling messier than relief: guilt and ache and the weight of impossible choices. Erolyn had helped her once, warned and protected her, but he had also handed her over. She knew why, of course she did. His loyalty, however sincere, was not limitless.
Could she truly fault an Awyan she'd known for only a short, fragile season for doing what he had to do to survive? Could she expect him to risk everything to defy someone like Malec?
No. That wasn't fair nor was it logical.
Her gaze dropped to the stone under her feet, the words tumbling from her lips in a soft, hesitant whisper. "I understand your position. I'm sorry I put you in it. That wasn't fair of me."
There was a long pause, so long she nearly regretted speaking at all.
Her breath tightened in her throat as she waited for indifference, for a careless shrug or some smooth deflection.
When she finally gathered the nerve to look up, Erolyn was staring at her with a raw, startled expression, as though she had said the last thing he ever expected to hear.
His face softened. The brightness in his green eyes deepened into quiet warmth.
With quiet hesitation, he lifted his hand, slow and uncertain, and pressed two fingers beneath her chin.
Gently, almost reverently, he raised her face to meet his.
She didn’t resist. Her eyes bright with emotion she had never meant to reveal.
Moisture gathered there, breaking through defenses held too long.
She had carried so much inside for so long that even kindness now cut like a dagger.