3. The Flame and the Chain #5
"You need to eat." The words came soft, without scolding. An offering rather than a command. Surian didn't push further. Instead, she gave a small, knowing smile, mischief glinting in her eyes. "Dinner's ready. And I invited Erolyn to stay."
The effect was immediate.
Allora's expression transformed, her eyes brightening, lips curved in surprise that melted into soft delight.
It was like watching dawn break after endless winter, light blooming across her face with an intensity Surian hadn't seen in weeks.
Maybe longer. Allora said nothing, didn't ask why or how.
She didn't need to. Her entire body came alive as she turned swiftly, silk swirling, already half-running toward the stairs.
But before she could escape, Surian caught her gently by the arm.
"Allora, wait."
The word hung suspended between them. Allora paused, glancing back, one brow raised, breath caught halfway in her chest, joy and urgency balanced on a knife's edge. Surian's eyes searched hers, and though her tone remained calm, almost playful, worry threaded through every syllable.
"Don't do anything foolish while you're under my roof."
There was no cruelty in it. No threat. Only concern tangled with desperation, the kind that softened her voice despite herself.
Surian was trying to protect her name, her house, but more than that, some small hidden part of her wanted to protect Allora too.
From heartbreak. From a world that would devour her piece by piece until nothing remained.
Allora’s smile softened into a gentler, grateful warmth. She nodded once, the moment hanging between them like a held breath, then slipped from Surian’s grasp and disappeared down the stairs. Her footsteps echoed through the corridor, light and quick, filled with fragile hope.
Her heart carried her toward the one place she could forget, toward the one being who stirred anything within her besides rage and sorrow.
Even if only for tonight, it was enough.
Malec was not having a good time.
His new pastime was drinking, and he had long since passed moderation.
Alcohol was no longer a vice but a shield, the only thing capable of muting, however briefly, the inferno churning inside him.
The storm of longing, rage, and guilt that had taken up permanent residence in his chest refused to quiet, and beneath it pulsed a dangerous shimmer of hope.
The most logical course of action had been distance. Space. Give her time to grieve, to rage, to hate him freely. He had let her go for now, told himself it was for her sake, the rational choice.
Contrary to what many whispered in private, Malec was not a psychopath.
He felt deeply. He simply hadn't remembered what that meant until her.
His life had been defined by precision: a clockwork world of command and strategy where sentiment was sand in the gears.
His mind was a weapon, his choices scalpel-sharp. Control was everything.
But now it was chaos. Wild and unpredictable and alive. And it was all because of her.
He sighed quietly and tilted his glass, the golden liquid inside catching the light of the council chamber's high chandeliers.
He was seated at a long polished table carved from obsidian-root wood, surrounded by the most powerful figures in the region.
Politicians, wealthy merchants, decorated commanders, and the usual parade of posturing aristocrats who thought their birth made them important.
In Awyan society, bloodlines meant little without proof of worth. Nobility without strength or intellect was a sword left to rust. Malec's family, while technically noble, were never known for social graces or courtly charm. Their legacy was far more terrifying.
Military brilliance.
The Talandros line bore the unspoken reputation of being the mind behind the crown, their influence spanning centuries, their hands shaping every major campaign and unseen victory. If they had ever wanted the throne, they could have taken it, and no one doubted that.
But they never did. They didn't need a crown to rule.
Genius, of course, came with its quirks. Malec's particular brand manifested in a mercurial temper, ruthless logic, and an intensity few could stomach for long. Some called it brilliance. Others called it madness. Either way, no one challenged his results. No one dared.
Because Malec Talandros always won.
His mind had drifted, but the sudden mention of a word snapped him back to attention.
"Canariae."
He straightened without thinking, the alcohol in his system suddenly piercing rather than dulling his senses.
The speaker was General Gideon le'Ori of the West Army, one of the few elves Malec respected.
A seasoned commander. Loyal, astute but dangerous.
Gideon leaned forward slightly, his voice deep and unwavering.
"There've been whispers. Rumors about the portal. I want the truth from the one who stood on its ashes, so we can dispense with misinformation."
Malec's posture shifted. His fingers tightened around the glass as he answered coolly, his tone clipped. "The portal is destroyed."
A wave of murmurs broke around the table like wind through dead leaves.
Gideon's eyes narrowed. "Are there any others?"
The question sent ice down Malec's spine. His mind immediately spiraled, calculating and searching, recalling every ancient text, war log and myth half-buried in propaganda. No certainties. Only possibilities.
Could there be another? Could she find it?
His grip turned white-knuckled. She was clever, too clever and unpredictable.
Could she already suspect something? Was she scheming, planning her next escape?
No. She was still grieving. He'd seen it in her eyes.
But he knew better than to underestimate her.
That lesson had been carved into his core.
And beneath the surface of his thoughts, the Vash'telor writhed.
It coiled through his veins like molten wire, pressing against his ribs, clawing at the base of his skull.
The bond ached with her absence, a physical hunger that gnawed at him constantly.
Even now, surrounded by these fools and their petty concerns, all he could feel was the empty space where she should be.
A dull throb pulsed behind his sternum, the kind that made it hard to draw a full breath.
The alcohol helped, dulling the worst of it, but it was still there.
Always there. A reminder that she was alive and well and utterly beyond his reach.
If there was even a chance another portal existed, he would find it first. He had to. Not for control or power, but because the thought of losing her again, truly and permanently, was a loss he could not endure.
He lowered his gaze to the trembling liquid in his glass, remembering how she used to scowl at him, how her voice flared when she stood her ground, how her lips had felt when she?—
The ache struck swiftly, as it always did, stealing the breath from his chest in a brisk, ragged pull.
She haunted him. Even in her absence, she ruled the room. His thoughts circled her relentlessly. The mere whisper of her name ignited a volatile fire inside him, fierce and almost sacred.
If this burning, searing, maddening obsession could live inside him forever, he would take it gladly.
If that was the price to have her, even if only in memory, he would pay it a thousand times.
Because she wasn't just his downfall. She was the only thing in this world that had ever made him feel alive.
Across the long lacquered table, lit by the golden shimmer of floating orbs, Gideon narrowed his light brown eyes. He wasn't watching the room or the other nobles vying for attention. He was watching Malec Talandros.
It wasn't suspicion that gleamed behind the General's gaze, but amusement.
A rare flicker of it, breaking through the veteran soldier's usual stoicism.
He had known Malec since boyhood, had trained him in blood-slicked sand pits and survived winter campaigns in the Dead Expanse alongside him.
He had seen Malec enraged, triumphant, near death, and bored out of his mind.
But this expression?
He'd never seen anything like it.
Gideon lifted his goblet, a lazy grin pulling at his mouth. "What's got you smiling like that, Commander?" he asked, the question slurred just enough to signal levity but not ignorance. "Never seen you look so elated. Or is it just the wine talking tonight?"
The table stilled for half a breath, curiosity piqued.
Malec didn't answer immediately. He glanced sideways, lips pulling into a shape that lived between a smirk and a threat.
The burn in his chest, the one that had settled ever since she'd left his reach, was no less searing.
It just came with an edge of euphoria now.
Allora had looked at him before she left.
Seen him and chose not to run in that final moment.
He wasn't about to confess to this room of leeches and warhawks that he was addicted to a Canariae maiden, that his days were haunted by the sound of her voice, his nights tortured by phantom memories of her skin.
But he could choose his words differently. He could make a point. A claim. Malec opened his mouth, gaze cold and calculating.
And then, of course, Surion happened.
The King lounged with that smug air of entitlement, leaning back in his chair as if holding court at a tavern rather than a high council meeting.
His lip was still split, his jaw bruised a dusky violet from their last encounter, but he wore his wounds like ornaments.
Drunk arrogance lived in his face, his voice honeyed and dangerous.
"Our Malec," Surion declared, loudly enough to draw attention from across the hall, "has tasted the forbidden fruit of a feral canariae, and the poor bastard's been chasing the high ever since."
Laughter exploded.