7. The Song and the Snare
THE SONG AND THE SNARE
The carriage rattled over cobblestone, its lacquered black frame gleaming under the lanterns that lined the avenue.
Velvet-lined seats cradled them in comfort almost obscene, though Allora sat stiffly, arms crossed beneath her chest, lips pressed into a pout that made her look more rebellious than regal.
She didn't want to go to the palace, to face the nobles, to attend this cursed banquet where she would be paraded for auction.
Beside her, Malec kept one arm wrapped firmly around her shoulders, drawing her into the warmth of his body as if the winter chill itself might try to steal her away.
His dark blue tunic was cut close and severe, trimmed in black to match his boots and gloves.
Pale hair slicked back into a low braid sharpened his ruthless features, leaving him elegant and dangerous in equal measure.
He looked every inch the predator in court’s clothing.
At her throat, a gleaming silver collar pressed cool against bronze skin, the fox sigil stamped at its center. His mark.
The collar sat above the swell of her breasts, daring every noble in the Capitol to look and remember she was his.
Allora tugged at the edge of her gown irritably, though she could not deny the gown itself was beautiful.
Black silk streaked with midnight blue, its bodice kissed with fine gold embroidery that caught the light.
She fit him perfectly, as he had intended. That fact grated most of all.
Across from them, Surian sat languid in a seafoam gown that shimmered and shifted, a cascade of gossamer fabric draping her shoulders and glittering in the carriage lanterns.
She spoke lightly, her tone all sugar as she reminded Allora for the tenth time that she must behave tonight, that her temper could not scorch the court no matter the insult.
And Luko sat slouched in the corner with his red velvet coat wrinkled at the sleeves, a crisp white shirt peeking from beneath.
Dark trousers stretched over his knees, his new boots polished but already scuffed from his restless foot tapping against the floorboards.
His leg bounced with nerves raw and obvious.
He muttered under his breath about nobles never wanting him there, and Allora thought she caught Malec's mouth twitch with the barest smirk of agreement.
The carriage rolled on, wheels crunching as the gates of the palace loomed ahead, torches casting tall golden flames into the night sky. The air smelled of smoke and winter roses, stark and sweet, heavy with the promise of spectacle.
Tightening his arm around her shoulders, Malec's voice dropped low against her ear. "Do not pout, flame. They are waiting to see you falter. Do not give them the satisfaction."
Exhaling through her nose, Allora's eyes narrowed at the glowing spires of the palace. "I don't want to go," she muttered.
"And yet," Surian cut in smoothly, a smile painted on her lips, "you must. So sit up, Allora. You are not going to the gallows. You are going to a banquet."
Allora's fingers flexed against the velvet seat. To her, there was no difference.
The carriage jolted to a halt at the base of the palace steps, its black lacquer catching the torchlight in gleaming curves. Before the footman could even move, Malec was already unfolding from his seat, one gloved hand reaching for Allora.
Gasps rippled through the gathered Awyan nobles as he lifted her easily by the waist, setting her down before him. And then, before Maker and court alike, he bent and pressed his lips to her forehead.
A hush fell over the crowd.
Public affection was unheard of among Awyans.
They ruled by composure, by distance, and always with a cold mask of power.
No Awyan commander, least of all the Silver Fox, was ever meant to look lovesick.
And yet here was Malec, the most ruthless of them all, smiling down at his Canariae as though she were the only star in the night sky.
The watching nobles and their opinions held no weight with him. One flash of his pale, merciless glare would scatter them. His full attention belonged to her and her alone.
Behind them, Luko climbed down stiffly, then turned to help Surian step from the carriage.
She descended in her shimmering seafoam silk, while her gown scattered light with each movement.
Together, the two of them fell in step behind Malec and Allora, the Capitol's most scandalous couple drawing every eye, leaving the physician and the noblewoman to slip unnoticed in their wake.
Luko felt it almost instantly, a shift in the air. No one looked at him. The usual sneers and whispered jibes never came. For once, the nobles were too enthralled, too horrified, by Malec and Allora to notice him at all.
Invisible.
A slow, quiet sigh escaped him, relief flooding through his chest in a way that almost made him laugh. Maybe this would be the first gathering he didn't leave with wine stains down his coat.
Guilt pricked him a moment later. At Allora's expense, yes, but a shield nonetheless.
Surian's perceptive eyes flicked to his, catching the subtle change in his demeanor. "Are you well?" she asked softly.
He gave a half-smile, lowering his voice. "If their attention stays on her, then yes. I feel bad about using her as a shield, but this may be the first night I can enjoy myself."
Her mouth curved, sly and knowing. "Don't fret. Allora thrives on chaos. She was built to be a shield."
Huffing a laugh, Luko nodded, the two of them sharing a small, conspiratorial chuckle as the gilded doors of the palace swung open before them.
The banquet hall was a cavern of light and color, a fusion of styles that made Allora's breath catch.
High arched ceilings soared above them, cream stucco walls curving upward into vaults hung with wrought-iron chandeliers.
Hundreds of thick red candles burned on their hooks, dripping wax down black iron stems, filling the air with the faint tang of smoke and spice.
The floors were a mosaic of hand-painted tiles, each one depicting Awyan gods and ancient heroes: battles, victories, sacrifices immortalized in enamel.
Long banquet tables lined the walls, groaning with platters of fruit, breads, and silver bowls of spiced meats.
Servants moved constantly, refilling goblets, replenishing trays.
The center of the chamber was left open, a polished expanse reserved for dancers.
Music floated down from above, where an ensemble of musicians played from a balcony that overlooked the hall. The mingled sound of string, drum, and flute poured over the crowd in a rich, unending wave.
Allora's calculating eyes drank it all in, unsettled.
It was beautiful, yes, but she couldn't quite place it.
The patterns, the colors, the arches looked like a collision of worlds, echoes of cultures that reminded her of her own but never quite matched.
A mash of eras and styles as if a hundred hands had carved their mark into one place.
A thought sparked: perhaps Canariae from all corners of the world had contributed to this place. Pieces of stolen beauty from every land.
Malec's arm tightened around her shoulders, pulling her back into his heat.
She looked up at him. His expression was severe, his eyes like wind-smoothed dunes, darting ceaselessly through the crowd, cutting over every noble, every servant, as if each one might draw a blade at any moment.
He held her so tightly she almost winced.
The laugh bubbled out of her before she could stop it, soft and amused.
His gaze snapped to her at once, eyes narrowing. "You laugh at me, dove, while I sweat to protect you?" His voice was low, reprimanding, though his mouth curved faintly at the edges.
Arching a brow, Allora leaned just enough away to tease, her tone dry and sarcastic. "You look ridiculous. Everyone else is here to drink and dance, and you're over here calculating body counts."
Faintly confused by her human sarcasm, he frowned, but the warmth in his eyes gave him away. He reveled in this rare moment where she wasn't pulling from him or fighting to slip his hold. Mercy help him, he loved that dependence, even if she would hate him for it later.
But his guard would not drop. Not here and definitely not now.
A shimmer of seafoam caught his eye as Surian approached, a practiced smile painted across her lips. "Brother," she said lightly, tilting her head, "may I take Allora to the fruit-wine table? There are some Awyans I know, and I'd like to introduce her."
Allora immediately looked up at him, her dark eyes glimmering, mouth curving in a smile meant to coax him into yielding.
Sighing through his nose, Malec scanned the hall once more, found no immediate threat, and then gave a reluctant nod. "Go," he said, though his tone carried weight. "But hold your tongue, Allora. I mean it. This is no time to show off your Canariae temper."
Tipping her chin, that little smirk never left her mouth. "I'll behave. Can't promise about everyone else."
His eyes narrowed with suspicion, but he released her arm. She slipped from his side, her gown whispering as she joined Surian. Turning away, cold resolve settled over his features, Luko not far behind. He had another task: he needed to find that weasel of a cousin before the night was over.
Practically glowing, Surian tugged Allora along, her seafoam skirts swishing as she spoke in a rush. "You won't believe who I just saw—my childhood friend, the one who moved south decades ago. Stars above, I haven't laid eyes on her since we were girls, and now she's here! You must meet her?—"