6. Court of Appetites
COURT OF APPETITES
Aknock sounded at the main doors of Surian's estate the next morning, firm and unhurried.
One of the Canariae house servants slipped past the threshold to answer, returning moments later with a familiar figure trailing behind her.
Dusty and travel-worn, the Awyan radiated the unmistakable air of someone who'd rather be anywhere else.
Luko set his battered satchel on the gleaming floor and sighed, as though the weight of the past two days had been dropped with it.
Meanwhile, in the kitchen, Malec was already commandeering the household staff with the authority of a man who'd never retired from command.
He stood at the end of a long wooden counter, dressed in a v-neck white tunic that reached his knees, tight light-gray trousers tucked into polished brown boots that rose past his knees, every inch of him immaculate despite the early hour.
His platinum hair was pulled into a severe ponytail that somehow made him look even taller, sharper—the picture of someone who hadn't learned how to be anything but in charge.
Leaning forward, he scanned the steaming pots and platters before pointing at a small bowl of syrup.
"No, not that one," he instructed coolly, voice low but deadly precise.
"Use the lighter honey. She prefers it. And do not overcook the grain, or it will taste like dregs.
" The cook swallowed hard, nodding frantically as he moved to the next item.
"And the fruit," he continued, tapping a finger on the cutting board.
"Smaller slices. She likes them that way. "
It was perhaps absurd, an ex-Commander micromanaging a breakfast menu but none of the staff dared to question it.
A timid throat cleared behind him, and one of the Canariae servants shifted nervously, bowing her head before she spoke. "My lord… Master Luko has arrived. He's waiting in the parlor."
The kitchen and its details vanished from Malec's mind in an instant.
He turned without saying a word and strode down the hallway, boots ringing on the polished floors.
In the parlor, Luko had sunk into the corner of a brocade settee, elbows resting on his knees.
He looked up as Malec entered, gold eyes both tired and faintly accusing.
Warmth softened Malec's expression. He crossed the space in two long strides and pulled Luko to his feet, wrapping him in a rare, bone-cracking hug.
"You're late," he murmured, voice low, almost fond.
Against his shoulder, Luko huffed. "I'm late because your borders are about as organized as a drunk tavern brawl." Leaning back, he frowned. "Do you know how many checkpoints I had to bribe my way through? You really need to fix that."
Studying him critically, Malec took in the slumped shoulders, the dusty curls sticking out at odd angles, the exhaustion carved into every line of his face. "You look like shit," he said calmly.
"I feel like shit," came the snapped reply, though exhaustion softened the words. His gaze flicked over Malec's shoulder. "Where's my patient?"
Nothing passed between them before Malec gestured to the settee. "Sit."
"What?"
"Sit," he repeated, his tone brooking no argument. "You're going to eat, bathe, and rest before you lay a single finger on her."
Slowly, Luko lowered himself back onto the cushions, blinking up in disbelief. "Who are you, and what have you done with The Talandros Son?"
A faint smile curved Malec's mouth. "I've been re-educated."
"Re-educated. By her?"
An inclined nod confirmed it. "She is the only one who could break me—and I would let her do it again."
Luko stared long enough to make it uncomfortable. "Are you drunk?"
"No," came the reply, voice silk and danger all at once. "I don't need alcohol anymore or my pipe. Her body does the job just fine."
A beat of horrified silence passed before Luko made a strangled noise in the back of his throat. "I think… I think I've lost my appetite. Possibly forever."
Low and genuine, Malec's laughter filled the space between them.
Pressing a hand over his eyes, Luko groaned. "You know, it's actually impressive. The strongest Awyan in the realm felled by a Canariae half his size."
A faintly rueful note softened Malec’s grin. “It was inevitable.”
"You're disgusting."
"Ah, but you endure it with remarkable grace." Another chuckle rumbled from Malec as he gestured toward the hall. "Go on. I've had a room prepared for you. Eat. Wash. Sleep. When you're done… I'll bring you to her."
Groaning as he hauled himself up, Luko shouldered his satchel again. "I don't even want to know what she's done to you."
Eyes glinting, Malec replied, "One day, I'll tell you."
"Please don't."
As Luko trudged down the corridor, muttering darkly about needing a healer for his own trauma, Malec turned back to the kitchen, still smiling to himself.
Halfway to the corridor, Luko stopped short, expression souring with the weight of a forgotten unpleasantness. With a sigh, he shifted the satchel higher on his shoulder and turned back, rummaging in the side pocket.
"Oh," he muttered darkly, "before I forget—this was handed to me on the street outside. Some preening little royal messenger acting like he'd been entrusted with the fate of the realm."
From the bag, he withdrew a thick envelope the color of midnight, edged in silver embossing.
Even from across the parlor, Malec recognized the heavy wax seal pressed into the flap: a serpent encircling a crown.
Surion's personal mark. Holding it gingerly between two fingers, Luko regarded it with distaste.
"He insisted it was urgent. Refused to hand it to the house staff.
Said it had to be delivered into your hands or those of your… property."
The smile died on Malec's face. Without comment, he took the envelope and cracked the wax under his thumb in a single precise motion, jaw flexing once. Unimpressed, Luko watched. "I swear, that little parasite never sends anything that doesn't reek of his own vanity."
Scanning the elegant script, each line more galling than the last, Malec’s gaze caught on a name scrawled near the bottom. His expression stilled, hardening into cold focus.
Allora's name. Her name, printed there in Surion's immaculate, curling hand.
"What is it?" Voice low, Luko pressed.
Angling the letter to catch the light, Malec stared at the words, willing them to change.
But there it was: an invitation to a private royal gathering.
A closed event for foreign dignitaries and trade envoys.
A stage for political maneuvering, thinly disguised as an evening of civility.
And Allora was named as an honored guest.
Exhaling slowly, he spoke at last, voice deceptively mild. "It's a royal invitation."
A brow lifted. "And?"
"It's addressed to her."
Blinking, Luko snorted. “That cockroach is cooking up trouble.”
"Obviously." Folding the letter with deliberate care, Malec refused to let visible anger hand Surion a victory. "But he's boxed me in. If I decline without cause, it will be a diplomatic insult. He'll parade it as proof I'm unstable."
"You could claim she's unwell," came the suggestion, though there was no conviction in it.
Distant and lethal, Malec's gaze hardened. "He'll demand a physician's testimony. If she sets foot beyond this estate afterward, he'll call me a liar. Use it to erode what little standing I still have."
Rubbing his temple, Luko sighed. "I smell a rat."
"As do I."
For a moment, the only sound was the quiet hush of morning light slanting through the tall windows. Then, grimly, Malec tucked the letter into the pocket of his tunic, his mind already calculating contingencies. "Very well. If it's a trap, I'll prepare the snare. Let Surion think he's clever."
Studying him a beat longer, Luko finally sighed. "Just try not to start a war over it."
Thin and humorless, the smile that curved Malec's mouth held no warmth. "I make no promises."
With that, Luko trudged down the hall toward the baths, muttering about the need to disinfect himself of royal politics. Left alone in the hush, Malec stood motionless, the taste of old rivalries curling on his tongue like smoke.
Allora woke in a tangle of linen sheets, her limbs deliciously warm and strangely weightless. For the first time in weeks, her mind felt clear, her body unburdened by the usual heaviness pressing behind her eyes. She lay still, savoring the soft hush of the room wrapping around her.
Stretching one leg across the bed, she propped herself on an elbow. Pale dawn light filtered through the curtains, catching a faint glimmer on her chest. Still drowsy, she blinked at it.
A shape clung to the fabric over her sternum, no bigger than her palm.
Her breath stuttered. Tentative fingers brushed it lightly, and the creature slid free of her nightgown, dropping into her lap with a brittle sound.
A dragonfly.
The same enormous, iridescent one that had been haunting her since she'd arrived.
Perched on the balustrade outside her chamber.
Hovering near her plate at supper. Watching her with dark, faceted eyes from the edge of the hearth.
Only now it was still. Its delicate wings were crumpled against its thorax, the jeweled body dull and limp in death.
Unease prickled along her spine.
Gathering the creature into her hands, careful not to snap the fine legs, she swung the covers aside and set her bare feet on the cold floor.
The chill raced upward through her calves.
Her robe hung over the footboard, and she pulled it around herself, the sash sliding free.
Moving with quiet deliberation, she crossed to the dressing table and retrieved a square of cream linen.
The dragonfly settled in the center, and she folded the edges over it, making a small bundle.
A dozen questions pressed behind her temples. Its vigil had been too deliberate, too constant. And now, death on her chest while she slept.
This mattered.