6. Court of Appetites #5
Malec and Erolyn had been out in the training halls since dawn.
The wide stone yard rang with the clash of blades and the barked orders of junior commanders, but for once Malec paid it little mind.
Erolyn was preparing to ride for the southern borders to cover the duties Malec would soon abandon, and Malec himself was here to tie up the last fraying threads of a life he no longer intended to return to.
A faint smile crossed his face at the thought. His life was shifting into unfamiliar ground now, centered entirely around her. Their life now, though he would build it piece by piece until she stopped fighting him.
His wife.
He would never dare say the word to her face.
She would scoff, perhaps throw something heavy at his head.
Even so, the private thrill it stirred in him refused to fade.
That was what she was to him, whether she accepted the title or spat it out like poison.
Soul-bound, tethered to the deepest part of him where no one else could ever reach.
He knew she felt it too. Even if she fought it tooth and nail, she felt that pull. And he would wait her out. He had all the patience in the world when it came to Allora.
A low chuckle rumbled in his chest, and the corner of his mouth curled as he recalled it.
The way she had come to the bathhouse that night, silent as a stalking cat.
She hadn't been angry, not exactly. Determined and calculating in a way that made his pulse thunder even before she spoke a word.
She had stood in the doorway in nothing but a thin cream nightgown that clung to her hips, barefoot and utterly without shame.
When he looked up from the steaming water, she had met his gaze with a cool, assessing calm, as though measuring how much pride she could strip from him.
With deliberate calm, she stepped into the tub, nightgown and all, and sank gracefully into his lap.
The hot water soaked the fabric until it turned transparent, clinging to every curve and hollow of her body.
She pressed her palms to his bare chest and looked him in the eye, her voice low and deliberate when she finally spoke.
"Malec, we need to talk."
No pleading or tremor. Only fierce certainty he could never refuse.
As if he were a street whore she had decided to buy for the evening.
And he had loved it. Every brazen, shattering moment.
Because she had come to him. In his mind she had chosen him over every other male in the kingdom.
And that, more than any crown or command, was a memory he would never surrender.
"Stop smiling like that," Erolyn muttered, breaking the spell of the memory. "You're frightening the young ones. They think you've lost your wits."
Sighing, slow and untroubled, Malec was unmoved by the jab. "Let them think what they like." He tilted his head back, studying the vaulted ceiling of the barracks as though it might hold answers to questions he hadn't yet formed. "What do I care? I am retiring."
He was already turning over the possibilities.
Where would he take her? A house in the city hub, close to every convenience, the humming energy of the capital?
Or somewhere farther out, tucked into the quiet arms of the countryside?
Would she want a garden? Space to plant things she could coax from the earth with those clever hands?
Would she prefer a grand dwelling to match her temper, or a humble home where no one would look twice at them?
He pictured her curled in a chair by the hearth, fast asleep in his lap as he read. The hush of winter beyond the walls, the simple contentment of braiding her hair with no one to witness but the flames.
It was a fantasy. But it was his fantasy, and he would claw the world apart to make it real.
Lowering his gaze, Malec abruptly signed the last of the paperwork with a precise flourish. He passed the sheaf to a waiting aide and turned back to Erolyn, his voice clipped and businesslike again.
"Keep the young ones separated from the old," he ordered, referring to the feral Canariae penned in the northern barracks. "The pregnant females are to be kept warm. The children—sort them. If they are fit, they can be sent to the choyte farms."
Inclining his head, Erolyn's expression remained carefully neutral. He made a note on his ledger, then lifted his eyes with a calm that was almost too deliberate.
"How does she feel about this?" he asked.
Malec stilled, his hand still outstretched.
Steady and unflinching, Erolyn's gaze held. "Allora. How does she feel about seeing her kind treated like livestock?"
Unease pooled between them.
For a heartbeat, it felt as if the cold draft sweeping through the hall had come from within.
Though his face remained inscrutable, Malec's jaw set.
In that single moment, all the bright imagining of hearth and home flickered, replaced by the knowledge he had never spoken aloud: that whatever future he dreamed of with her, she would never truly forgive the past he wore like a second skin.
The quiet stretched so taut it seemed it might snap, before Malec decided to reply.
"It doesn't matter anymore," he said, his voice low but certain. "Whatever she thinks of it…of me."
Wary curiosity lifted Erolyn's brows.
A small, private smile curved Malec's mouth, though it didn't touch his eyes. "She is mine. We are soul-bound. That is a thing no contempt can break. She is my Vash'telor, whether she names it or curses it."
He fell quiet again, studying the scarred floor, as though he could see some future laid out there in the scratches and gouges.
"She will learn to accept it, in time," he went on, softer.
"I am retiring from this. So I can give her the quiet life she pretends not to want.
A life where no one commands us but ourselves.
I have spent too long in blood and iron.
I will have her peace, even if it is only for a little while, until she dies.
" His voice dropped to a hush, almost tender.
"And when that day comes, I will follow her. "
A low, incredulous sound escaped Erolyn as he rubbed a hand over his jaw, as if trying to smooth away the seriousness creeping into the conversation. "Maker's breath, Malec. Most Awyan would just say they're turning over a new leaf. But you have to make it sound like the closing act of a tragedy."
Standing silent, Malec let Erolyn's question hang in the cold air between them until the quiet stretched so taut it seemed it might snap.
Finally, he drew a breath and turned his gaze to the distant training yard, where young recruits were lining up in uneven rows.
Exhaling slowly, Malec remained unbothered by the jibe.
"You know I am not a creature of flowery language. "
"That is putting it mildly." Shaking his head, Erolyn's mouth quirked.
He studied Malec in silence, as if searching for the soldier he'd once known beneath all that iron calm.
"I never realized how far you'd fallen for her," he said finally.
"But I am glad. She needs someone to care for her, whether she wants to admit it or not.
If not protection from the world, then at least protection from herself.
You know how she is—she'd run headlong into a fire just to prove she can. "
A hint of pride glinted in the flat steel of Malec’s eyes as his expression softened. “I know,” he murmured. “And I would not have her any other way.”
Turning then, the long fall of his hair sliding over his shoulder, he began walking toward the great arched doorway at the end of the hall.
Watching him go, Erolyn lifted his voice after him. "What's the hurry? You running from more feelings?"
Without looking back, Malec paused only to rest his hand on the doorframe, his profile carved in pale, composed lines.
"I have loose ends at the palace," he said. His voice was quiet, final. "The banquet tonight. I must prepare." And with that, he stepped out into the corridor, leaving the cold echo of his purpose behind him.
Malec returned to Surian's estate to find it a hive of restless movement.
Servants hurried down every corridor, arms laden with lacquered trays, silk-wrapped parcels, and towering arrangements of winter blooms. The entire household thrummed with anxious preparation, the air perfumed by polished wood and citrus oil.
Without pausing to ask what progress had been made, he strode through the grand foyer, up the staircase, and down the main hall until he reached the door to Allora's chamber.
It stood open, bright lamplight spilling across the threshold. Inside, half a dozen maids were carefully laying out garments across the bed: a cascade of pale gold silk and embroidered scarves she had likely already scorned. But Allora herself was nowhere in sight.
Voice low but carrying unmistakable authority, Malec asked, "Where is she?"
One of the maids turned, bowing her head without quite meeting his eyes. "My lord, she is in Master Luko's chamber. He wished to examine her before tonight's gathering."
Without offering acknowledgment or thanks, he pivoted on his heel and cut back across the hall, his footsteps silent over the patterned rugs.
Luko's guest quarters lay at the far end of the southern wing, the door cracked just enough for lamplight to glow at the seam. He pushed it open without knocking and stepped inside.
For a moment, he simply stood there.
Allora sat perched on the edge of the low chaise, one long leg folded over the other, a wedge of ripe plum balanced between her fingers.
She had refused every delicate gown laid out for her and instead dressed herself in his clothes.
His loose black trousers cinched high at her waist, the ties knotted in a careless bow.
One of his dark tunics hung nearly to her knees, the neckline gaping slightly where the stitching had worn soft with age, exposing the graceful curve of her throat.