4. Yield
YIELD
The room was cloaked in a quiet, golden hush, the kind that belonged to the thin veil of evening, where the sun had just sunk beneath the horizon but true night had not yet taken hold.
Amber light from the outdoor lamp posts flitted gently through the slats of the shutters, casting slow-moving shadows across the polished floorboards as servants lit the lanterns one by one.
Beyond the window, their voices murmured softly, their footsteps light against the stone path as they prepared the estate for nightfall.
Allora stirred.
Her lids lifted slowly, heavy and disoriented, as though she were surfacing from some deep, drugged ocean. The soft sheets twisted at her hips, tangled with sweat. Her body was warm but no longer feverish. Her breath came easy now. She blinked again, adjusting to the shifting light in the room.
A soft rustle caught her attention.
In the corner, near the far wall, a young maid sat on a cushioned stool, dozing lightly with her head bowed, a half-knitted square still dangling from her fingers.
Her presence startled Allora for a moment, until memory trickled back in flashes.
The terrace laughter, the wine, and then the collapse that had brought her here.
She turned her head toward the window, drawn to the only movement in the room.
The pane was cracked just slightly, open enough to allow a trickle of fresh air but not wide enough for her to climb through.
Malec had seen to that personally after she'd tried to leap from a palace ledge during one of their earlier battles of will.
The latch had been welded into place. He never said it aloud, but she knew it was meant to protect her from herself.
Through that narrow slit of freedom, it came.
A shimmer, a pulse of color so delicate and radiant it didn't seem to belong to this world.
The iridescent dragonfly hovered silently at the window, wings beating with a sound softer than breath.
Its entire body pulsed with hues of sapphire, violet, and aquamarine, the glow seeming to come from within rather than any reflected light.
It was back. That strange dragonfly that seemed to follow her around but only showed up when she was in trouble.
With the grace of a falling petal, it floated inward, slipping through the crack with no resistance and circling the room once, slow and watchful, before coming to rest gently on the center of her chest, just above her heart.
Warmth.
A gentle heat began to radiate from where it perched, spreading outward like the sun rising from inside her ribs. Her fingers twitched, drawn instinctively toward it, but she didn't touch. She didn't want to break whatever this was.
"Friend," she whispered, her voice cracked and raw, "or foe?"
The dragonfly's glow brightened. Then came the surge.
Lightning threaded through her veins, pure and exhilarating. An electric rush filled her limbs with life and blew away the fog that had been clinging to her brain. Her vision honed, her pulse steadied. The warmth became clarity. Energy. Power.
She gasped softly as the dragonfly dimmed just slightly, its brilliant glow now softened, its wings fluttering slower. It rose from her chest, hovering just in front of her face for a suspended breath of time. Its body, once radiant and unearthly, now looked almost tired. But still beautiful.
Allora took stock of herself. The bone-deep fatigue that had been weighing her down for weeks was gone. The throbbing in her skull had vanished entirely. She reached up slowly, fingers searching for the tender spot where her head had struck the stone, expecting to find swelling or dried blood.
Nothing.
The skin was smooth, unbroken. Not even a trace of pain remained.
This wasn’t normal. Whatever this creature was, it had altered her in some way. It might have healed her, or bound itself to her in a way she did not yet understand.
"Thank you," Allora said quietly, the words meant for more than just this moment.
The dragonfly bobbed once, as if in acknowledgment, then turned and darted upward, slipping back through the window and vanishing into the falling night.
Allora lay there, breath held. Watching.
She didn’t know what it was or why it had come. But deep down, she felt the shift in herself.
And she felt better. Already. Not perfect, but better.
Carefully, she pushed back the covers and swung her legs over the side of the bed.
The floor was cool beneath her feet, grounding.
She rose slowly, making sure not to startle the maid who still sat slumped in the corner, dozing peacefully.
Her steps were light, nearly silent, as she padded toward the door and cracked it open just enough to slip into the hallway beyond.
The corridor was dim, lit only by sconces and the last fingers of dusk. Allora took a few cautious steps forward, stretching her muscles, testing her balance.
That's when she heard it.
A booming voice, deep and unmistakable, echoed from the front parlor below.
She froze.
No.
A slow groan slipped from her lips as she slumped back against the wall, dragging a hand down her face.
"Ughhhh... fuck," she hissed beneath her breath. "He's here."
Of course he was. Speak of the devil and he always came, especially when she was least ready to face him. Especially when her soul still tingled with that strange, wild magic and her heart hadn't decided whether to trust it or herself.
Allora's bare feet made no sound on the carved mahogany steps as she descended the staircase, one hand gliding along the curved rail for balance. The dim hall flickered with lantern light from the parlor, and the low hum of conversation sharpened with each step.
She lingered on the edge of shadow, careful not to draw the maid's attention upstairs. The air smelled of mahogany and fire smoke, and her skin still tingled faintly from whatever the strange creature had given her.
She heard Surian's voice first, measured and direct, never one to entertain panic. "She's grown thinner. I noticed it the day you brought her here. Her clothes don't hang the same."
Malec's voice was lower, more tightly wound. "And you didn't say anything?"
A moment stretched.
"She was eating, laughing, drinking," Surian replied. "She didn't seem ill. None of us expected her to collapse, Malec."
Allora crept to the edge of the archway, heart beginning to pound.
She could see them now: Surian standing near the fireplace with her arms crossed, tall and pale like a blade of winter.
Erolyn was slouched back in the armchair closest to the brandy tray, one leg tossed over the other, but his posture was tense, eyes flicking between the other two.
Malec stood half-turned toward the hallway as if debating whether to storm upstairs.
His face was drawn, colder than usual, but the edges of it were cracking. Guilt, bleeding through.
"She hit her head," Erolyn said at last, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. "There was blood. I carried her myself."
"What in the gods' name are you doing here?" Malec snapped, turning on him. The air in the room changed instantly, thickening with old rivalry.
Erolyn bristled. "I always come to Surian's when I'm in the city. Get off my ass."
"Don't you dare speak to me that way!"
"I dare, Malec, because unlike you, I don't act like I own the damn world when someone I care about is hurting!"
Surian stepped between them swiftly, one hand raised in warning. "Enough," she commanded. "Malec, Erolyn has been nothing but respectful. Ask the staff. The three of us have been together every day, keeping Allora company. Don't turn on him just because you're terrified."
Malec looked away, his throat working. The tension remained in his shoulders, but his anger hardened into brittle control.
"I'm taking her home," he muttered. "As soon as she can walk, she's going back to the High North. She'll be safer there. No more games and no more of these damned distractions."
Allora's breath halted — cold stone walls, frozen halls, the particular loneliness of hearing only her own footsteps for days on end. Before she could stop herself, she stepped into the room.
The air shifted. Malec turned, and the moment his eyes found her, the storm inside him fell to a breathless halt.
There she stood, her deep, dark skin glowing with the faint sheen of fever, cheeks dappled with residual warmth, her wild, thick hair tumbling over her shoulders. The thin ivory sleeping gown clung to her powerful form, sheer and delicate, revealing the outline of her curves in the soft lamplight.
His mouth went dry. So did Erolyn's.
Malec saw his cousin's eyes drift, and in the next heartbeat, he was moving. Without speaking, he crossed the room, grabbed the soft throw draped over the chaise, and wrapped it around her body with possessive, almost desperate tenderness.
She blinked up at him, startled. "Malec?—"
"Don't." His voice was hoarse as his fingers pulled the blanket tighter around her, shielding her from every gaze but his. "You're still weak."
Allora tried to shove the blanket off, her voice rising with frustration. "Are you really taking me back to that frozen glacier? That prison in the snow?"
Her words cracked, and he felt it through the tether. Real fear. He tried to answer calmly, to rationalize. But before he could, she looked up at him. The fire in her eyes dulled. She wasn't defiant now, she was pleading.
"I'll be good," she said softly. "I'll stay here or anywhere you want, I will even wear a leash if that's what you want. I won't leave unless you say I can. Please, Malec. Just... don't take me back."
Her pleas made him feel powerful, in control, like he finally had the upper hand. But his heart tugged in the other direction, aching. Because he knew that seeing her miserable again, even if it was for her own good, would destroy him.
He looked at her again, really looked.