3. The Flame and the Chain #7
Surian watched them fondly, resting her chin on her palm.
This is what I wanted for her. The sound of Allora's laughter was a balm, lighter and younger than it had been when she'd first arrived at the estate.
Surian had spent years imagining what it would be like to have a sister. Today, it felt real.
The plates were nearly empty, the wine decanter down to its last swallow, and the sun had shifted enough to cast slanted gold across the floor. Erolyn was halfway through telling a ridiculous story about a drunken bard who'd mistaken a basilisk for a lover, and Allora's head tipped back in a laugh.
But she didn't finish it.
Everything suddenly felt wrong. The sunlight turned harsh, a white-hot smear across her vision.
Her pulse thrummed in her ears with an unnatural drumming.
A cold sweat broke over her back as her fingertips began to tingle.
She blinked hard, but her thoughts wouldn't settle, and her body felt disconnected, as though she were watching her limbs respond from somewhere far above.
She forced a smile.
"I'm fine," she murmured, voice thinner than before. "Just the wine. Too sweet."
Her hand trembled as she reached for her goblet. A violent flash tore behind her eyes, heat, nausea, and vertigo colliding at once. She blinked once, then again. The light burned too bright. Her tongue felt thick.
"I think," she said with a slurred grin, "I'm very drunk and must visit the lady's room before I disgrace your rugs."
She giggled, pushing up from her seat, trying to will her legs to obey.
Erolyn half-rose from his chair. "Allow me to?—"
"No, no," she laughed, holding up a hand as she made her way toward the arched doorway. "I've got it. I walk straight lines all the time."
But her steps wobbled. One foot crossed too far in front of the other. She paused, blinked hard, and tried to right herself.
She felt a tug deep inside her, like a thread being yanked from her spine.
A strange blue light shimmered at the edge of her vision, glowing and pulsing, drawing her eyes toward it.
But before she could focus, it blurred. Everything blurred.
Her vision swam. The world tilted. Then the floor rushed upward.
Her knees buckled and she dropped, the back of her head thudding hard against the stone.
Erolyn's chair scraped back violently as he leapt up. Her limbs gave a soft twitch, then another, sharper.
"Allora!" Surian's voice broke. She dropped to her knees beside her, hands fluttering uselessly over the convulsing form. "Healer! Now!"
A maid bolted from the terrace, skirts flying as she dashed down the hall screaming for help.
Erolyn gathered Allora into his arms, cradling her head. "Come on, little bird, look at me!"
Blood smeared against his fingers where her head had struck. A slow, dark streak matted the curls behind her ear. Surian hissed in alarm and grabbed a cloth, pressing it firmly to the wound.
"She's burning up," Erolyn whispered, glancing at her glazed eyes.
"We have to move her." Surian's voice was tight, frantic. "Get her upstairs. Now."
Allora's eyes fluttered, unfocused. A breath, shallow. Then none.
Surian pressed two fingers to her neck. The pulse was there, but faint, like a bird trapped under ice.
"Get her to bed!" she ordered hoarsely.
Erolyn didn't wait. He scooped Allora into his arms, holding her close as her head lolled against his chest. He carried her through the villa, up the marble stairwell, past tapestries and velvet drapes to the third floor.
Her chamber door flew open under Surian's hand.
The room smelled of lavender and books, a half-buttoned gown still draped across the bedpost.
Erolyn laid her down gently, brushing sweat-damp hair from her forehead.
As he withdrew his hand, he noticed a thin streak of blood smeared across his fingers.
Surian's eyes widened at the sight, and she rushed to the washbasin, snatching up a clean cloth.
She returned quickly, pressing it to the bleeding spot with trembling hands, trying to stanch the flow.
Allora moaned weakly, her fingers curling against the sheets in a feeble grasp.
“The bleeding isn’t much, but there’s a small cut,” Surian muttered, inspecting the cloth. “And this heat… this isn’t drink, Erolyn. It’s fever. This isn’t right.” Surian’s thoughts darkened. If they waited and he discovered it afterward, he would never forgive them. “We need him.”
Erolyn tensed. "You don't mean?—"
"I do."
"Surian, if Malec finds out I've been here, he'll gut me and string me up with my own bowstring."
“Erolyn,” she snapped, grabbing his wrist. Her voice cracked with a strain deeper than fear. “He won’t care when he sees her like this. You know what they are to each other. Go. Ride hard. Get him here.”
He stared at her for a long second, panic in his eyes warring with an older instinct: loyalty.
Then he cursed softly, running a hand through his dark curls. "If I die for this, I want it written on my tomb that I was handsome."
He bolted out the door without waiting for a response.
Surian returned to Allora's side, brushing back her soaked hair, reapplying the cloth, murmuring comfort in a voice close to breaking. Moments later, the healer arrived, breathless, dropping to one knee beside the bed. He laid a cool hand to Allora's brow, then to her wrist.
"She's burning up," he murmured, alarm in his voice. "Whatever this is, it's no ordinary fever."
Surian said nothing. She just squeezed Allora's hand tighter and whispered, "He's coming."
It was early evening when the council chamber had transformed since the conclusion of official matters.
The weight of political debate had lifted, leaving behind only the lingering scent of strong wine, roasted meat, and the low hum of conversation.
What remained were a handful of nobles, Malec's chosen few, those whose loyalty had withstood war, scandal, and exile.
They reclined around the long obsidian table, its polished surface now cluttered with gilded goblets, cut fruit, and plates of flame-seared venison drizzled with spiced fig sauce.
Servants had been dismissed. Candles stirred low against the black stone walls.
Surion sat to the left of Malec, silent, his focus fixed on the wine in his hand as though it held the answers to every slight he'd endured.
His white knuckles gripped the base of his goblet, eyes hooded and distant.
He hadn't spoken since returning to the room, save for a grunt of irritation when someone asked if he was still sulking. No one had dared twice.
Malec, meanwhile, leaned comfortably in his seat at the head of the table, one arm slung over the back of his chair, fingers idly circling the rim of his cup.
His long silver-blonde hair was tied back with a dark leather band, and his light ochre irises, usually guarded, were loose tonight, warmed by wine and familiar company.
Gideon, seated across from him, lifted a brow as he carved into a slice of cured pheasant.
He was older than most at the table, with the incisive, sun-worn face of a military tactician and the dry wit of someone who'd survived far too many emperors.
"Forgive me for the curiosity, Malec," he said, not unkindly, "but what's it like, truly, to have a canariae as a lover? "
The question earned a few sideways glances. Malec rarely allowed personal matters to slip into public discussion, especially where she was concerned. But this was Gideon, not a court parasite or gossip-monger, just a comrade with genuine curiosity etched into his voice.
Malec took a sip of wine, resting the glass back with a soft clink. "It's like courting a wildfire," he said at last, voice low and unguarded. "She's a terror. Stubborn, vicious, defiant. There is no bending her, only bracing yourself when the wind turns."
Gideon chuckled, the sound echoing off the arched walls. "And you enjoy that?"
"She doesn't give me a choice," Malec replied with a crooked smirk. "There is never a dull moment. She fights me in her sleep. She wakes with fire on her tongue. But when she smiles..." The words lingered unspoken. “When she smiles, I'd burn down everything for it.”
He exhaled slowly, his fingers tracing the rim of his goblet.
"The Vash'telor is..." He paused, searching for words that wouldn't sound like madness.
"It lights me up and burns me in the same breath.
Every moment without her is agony. Each second with her is worse because I know it could end.
The bond doesn't let me forget she exists. It reminds me with every heartbeat."