3. The Flame and the Chain #6
Some of it was deep and genuine, from the more foolish nobles who enjoyed baiting vipers. Others chuckled awkwardly, eyes jumping between the King and the Commander, unsure whether to follow suit or brace for the backlash. Even Gideon winced, lowering his goblet slightly.
Malec did not laugh.
He sat there, stone-still, fingers locked around the carved armrest of his chair, the only tell that he wanted to destroy something.
Or someone. His pale fawn eyes locked on Surion.
Unblinking. Every nerve in his body screamed.
He imagined, for just a heartbeat, climbing over the table and driving a butter knife straight into the King's smug throat, the room holding its breath, every face finally showing the fear he deserved.
But he would not give them that satisfaction.
They could laugh and believe he was drunk, pathetic, obsessed. They had no idea what obsession meant or what he was willing to do for her, for the power she awakened in him, for the storm she left in her wake.
Instead, Malec exhaled, slow and deliberate.
Watching Malec seethe across the council table, lips tight and knuckles white, was pure, unfiltered pleasure for Surion.
The silent fury bubbling beneath his cousin's polished exterior was the only form of victory Surion was allowed these days, and he clung to it with all the smugness of a spoiled prince denied his favorite toy.
He'd spent a lifetime collecting slights and bruises from Malec Talandros: bruises to his ego, his body and most importantly—his pride.
So now, any chance to poke the wolf just enough to see its teeth flash, without getting bitten, was a temptation far too sweet to resist.
Allora was the perfect weapon. A nail to hammer whenever Malec grew too quiet, too powerful, too superior.
Especially after what he'd done recently.
The most recent offense was nothing short of treasonous in Surion's eyes: being exiled from his own royal bedchamber like a common drunkard.
He'd woken up one morning on the stone floor, his cheek pressed to the icy marble, stripped of pillow and silk and mistress and dignity.
All while Malec sprawled like a conquering emperor across the width of the bed, shirtless, silent, utterly unbothered.
The bastard didn't even use the full bed, just the middle, as though it were his throne.
There were forty-two other chambers in the royal palace. Forty-two.
So why, by the gods, did Malec have to choose that one?
The answer was obvious. It was Surion's chamber, and everything Malec did, intentionally or not, was a reminder that Surion, for all his titles and crown-polished speeches, was not the sharpest blade in the scabbard.
And that maybe, just maybe, the real power in the room didn't wear the crown at all.
That memory still made Surion smirk into his goblet, the wine rich and dark on his tongue.
But it wasn't just spite anymore. A shift had happened that night.
He remembered sitting up on the cold floor, muttering curses and rubbing the crick in his neck, preparing to unleash a tirade that would make the servants flinch. But then he'd paused. Looked at him.
Malec, for all his terrifying genius and brutal discipline, had fallen asleep twisted in the sheets like an Awyan at war with himself.
His hair was a mess. His jaw slack. The lines between his brows remained etched even in sleep, as if his mind never stopped calculating, never ceased its torment.
It wasn't the face of a conqueror, instead Surion saw the face of a boy still running from some invisible wound.
Surion had simply stood there, watching as his fury faded into cold calculation.
Pity? No. Empathy. A dangerous thing.
He hadn't had the heart to wake him, not when Malec looked so utterly undone.
So Surion had grabbed a fur blanket and curled up on the settee in the adjoining parlor.
He'd been cold, annoyed, and very much displaced, but strangely at peace.
Because for all their antagonism, for all the verbal barbs and public embarrassments, there was a current between them neither would name.
A bond born of blood and tempered in chaos, wrapped in silent, begrudging loyalty.
Surion didn't know exactly what Malec felt for him beyond contempt or frustration, but he knew this much: Malec had always been alone. A weapon in a world of soft flesh, forged too astute and cold and intelligent for anyone to touch without bleeding.
And now, for the first time, he wasn't.
Allora had touched him in ways no one ever had, in ways Surion wasn't sure even Malec understood.
He lifted his goblet again, watching his cousin across the room.
Malec was drunk on more than wine, consumed by obsession, haunted by love.
He didn't need to say her name. It was written in his posture, in the storm behind his eyes, in every breath he took as though it might summon her back.
It didn't matter to Surion if she was Canariae, Awyan, or even a well-dressed goat.If Malec had finally found someone to pull him from that barren solitude, he was, grudgingly, grateful.
But he couldn't help the chill that slid down his spine. Because he knew exactly what it meant to be the object of Malec Talandros's fixation.
The one who bore that honor would never be free again.
The meeting dragged on, the weight of politics and trade disputes grinding away in the black marble room with its soaring ceilings.
The walls were lined with ancient books, maps worn at the edges, and weapons both ceremonial and deadly.
Deep purple curtains rustled softly in the afternoon breeze that filtered through the cathedral-like windows, a rare breath of air in an otherwise stifling chamber.
Malec sat with one hand cradling his glass, half-listening, lost in thoughts of her and how empty this room felt without her fire.
Her absence had made the world dull. Duller still were the voices droning on about grain tariffs, border disputes, and a grievance regarding the riverbed dam in the southern provinces.
He swirled the amber liquor lazily, eyes perceptive despite the drink.
Surion stood to shift the meeting to another matter, clearing his throat with exaggerated pomp. "Perhaps our Commander has no more interest in governing than he does in contributing," he quipped with an edge. "Though I imagine his canariae has taken what little fire he had left."
A few nervous titters, swallowed almost immediately. No one laughed because everyone knew that was too far.
Malec stood.
Without a word, he crossed the space between them and reached for Surion's collar. The motion was swift and brutal. Gasps rang out as he lifted the King by the front of his embroidered robes and flung him bodily from the high-backed chair at the head of the table.
Surion stumbled, crashing sideways against the polished floor. His crown clattered. He gaped up, stunned, as Malec took the seat he'd vacated, unbothered, as if he'd simply brushed aside a curtain.
"Continue," Malec said to the nearest advisor, his voice a blade.
No one moved.
Malec leaned forward. "Or shall I start assigning replacements based on competence rather than pedigree?"
That got them moving. Papers shuffled. Voices stammered to life.
Within moments, the meeting took on a different tone, discerning and more focused.
Malec cut through every agenda point with military precision, dissecting trade routes, rebalancing resource allocations, and calling out corruption with effortless authority.
Surion, red-faced, quietly took the empty seat at Malec's right, the lesser position. A few lords glanced at him, but none offered help. None dared.
Malec didn't glance his way. "House Virellen will no longer oversee logistics," he said coolly. "Their record reads more like a list of confessions."
When Surion finally tried to speak, his voice cracked. "I am the King."
Malec turned his head, slow and calm. "And yet you sit. Shall we discuss why that is, your highness?"
Deadly quiet settled over them, the breeze dying as if on cue. Surion had no answer. He lowered his eyes, a tremor in his jaw.
From across the room, Malec raised his glass with a sardonic lift of his brow. "Let me know when your bedpost conquests start contributing to foreign policy, your greatness."
Laughter rang out, sharper this time. Cutting.
Surion did not laugh. The “King” stared at the table, his face flushed with humiliation and rage, seething beneath his fine clothes.
By nightfall, he would know exactly how to hit Malec back.
And it would start with her.
The scent of grilled peaches and honeyed wine wafted through the open-air terrace as laughter drifted lazily through the villa.
Surian lounged beneath a silk canopy, her long straight white hair pinned high and her feet bare, pale blue eyes half-lidded in contentment as she basked in the warmth of the sun on her pale skin.
To her right, Erolyn refilled their goblets with a flourish and winked at Allora, who sat across the low marble table, her deep dark skin glowing in the daylight.
"You do realize I'll keep pouring until you agree to spar me," Erolyn teased, lifting the wine decanter like a weapon.
Allora arched a brow, smirking. "And you do realize I'll win. Again."
Surian rolled her eyes, but the smile playing at her lips betrayed her amusement. "Oh, for the love of the stars, can you two keep your courtship out of my wine hour?"
Erolyn gasped dramatically. "Courtship! Me? I'm but a humble servant to two radiant goddesses!"
He kissed the back of Allora's hand with exaggerated flair. She laughed, genuine and relaxed, the kind of laugh she hadn't felt safe enough to let out in months.