8. The Unwelcome Guests
THE UNWELCOME GUESTS
The night air pressed cool against Allora's skin, brisk and somehow grounding, but it wasn't enough.
She still felt the heat of Malec's grip clinging to her, his breath in her hair, voice in her ear promising to drag her back north where the cold gnawed bone-deep.
Her chest tightened again just thinking of it: those endless frozen walls, that castle like a prison made of stone and snow.
The hatred welled up, bitterly. For the situation, for herself, for snapping back at Surion and falling for his bait.
And worst of all for letting her pride slip free.
But god, how could she not? He had cornered her with his games, trying to twist her into a weapon against Malec.
She would not be anyone's weapon. She had been raised to fight back when someone tried to use her as a tool, and she would bite until her mouth bled before she let them succeed.
Her breathing slowed as she and Surian sank onto a stone bench beneath the wide-spread branches of a tree draped in pale blue blossoms. They hung like bells, trembling in the evening breeze, catching fragments of the moonlight.
Wisteria, maybe, or a reasonable imitation.
What mattered was that she could finally breathe.
Surian slipped her hands over Allora’s, grounding her. Her palms were warm and steady, a calm that stood in stark contrast to the chaos clawing through Allora’s chest. “Can I get you anything to ease you?”
Allora dragged in a deep breath, chest still hitching, and exhaled slowly. "Orange wine," she said at last, her voice hoarse but edged with a crooked smile. "The one I like. That'll calm me down."
A short, humorless laugh escaped. "Trust me. I can't even walk without you right now." She sagged back against the cold stone, letting her curls spill over her shoulders. "Where would I go?"
With a quick nod, Surian rose. The silk of her gown whispered as she turned and hurried back toward the banquet hall, her quick steps fading into the chatter and music of the party.
And for the first time all night, Allora was alone.
Leaning forward, elbows braced on her knees, curls spilling into her face, she whispered to herself. How am I supposed to get out of this one? If Malec drags me north, I'll die. If I stay here, Surion will chew me up and spit me out. There's no winning, not really. How the hell do I get out?
A voice cut through the night, thin and sour — the kind of sour that takes years to ferment.
"Strange how everyone bends over backwards for a Canariae with no name, no riches, and no use."
Allora jolted upright, twisting around. The courtyard was empty, or so it looked. Her eyes darted across the dark hedges, the flickering torchlight, the massive tree overhead. Nothing.
"Best come out," she snapped, pushing to her feet, "before I find you myself. And fair warning, I've got a mean right hook, and I'm not afraid to use it."
From behind a carved stone pillar stepped Lady Kirelle, her gown shimmering, her hair jeweled and perfect as ever, except her eyes. They were red, wet, furious, as though she'd been crying before Allora ever arrived.
Letting out a long, put-upon sigh, Allora dragged her palms over her face. "Why are you stalking me?"
"I was here first!" Kirelle snapped, voice cracking. Her hand trembled as she smoothed her skirts, as though trying to hold on to the performance of poise. "Do not flatter yourself, Canariae."
Storming out from behind the pillar, she continued. "You humiliated me at the tailor's, made me a laughing stock across the Capitol. You mock me in front of the King, in front of my friends. You flaunt yourself at his side like some prize, as if you actually belong here."
Her hands trembled as she pointed at Allora.
"And now you take what I have fought for, waited for, bled for. What was supposed to be mine!"
Raw and breaking, her voice rose into a near-scream. "And he looks at you. Always you. Like I'm invisible and never even existed." Her chest heaved. Every word sounded like it had been scraped raw from her throat.
Allora froze, the realization striking hard. This wasn't about the tailor's shop or the banquet or the gossip.
It was Malec. Always Malec.
Venom twisted around grief in Kirelle's shaking voice. "You've ruined everything. Everything."
Leaning back against the cold stone wall, Allora's head thunked against it as laughter burst out of her. Wild, raw, hysterical.
Kirelle flinched, rage flashing in her wet eyes. "You think my pain is funny?" she snapped.
Shaking her head between fits of laughter, Allora wiped at her eyes.
"No. God, no. I just think this whole situation is garbage.
" She gestured vaguely at the ballroom behind them, at the nobles who were still drinking and dancing like puppets on strings.
"All of it. Everyone wants something, but none of you seem to know how to get it without trying to cage it, control it or manipulate it.
No wonder you're all miserable. You've built yourselves prisons and locked yourselves inside. "
Kirelle stood stiff, trying to process, but Allora could see the cracks in her composure. With a sigh, Allora patted the empty space on the stone bench beside her. "Sit. I'm not going to bite."
Suspicion darted across Kirelle's face, but curiosity, or maybe exhaustion, won. She sat, posture rigid, like she expected a trick.
"I'm not trying to pull anything," Allora said, softer now. "I'm just giving you the honest truth." Her eyes darkened as she turned to Kirelle. "I don't want Malec."
Kirelle's pointed gasp filled the courtyard, her perfectly painted mouth falling open. For a moment she looked like Allora had slapped her.
"You… don't…" She stammered, struggling to comprehend. To her, Malec was wealth, power, legacy. The prize her entire family had built her life around.
Allora snorted, bitter and tired. "Yeah. I was captured, Kirelle. I am here against my fucking will. Do you not understand that? I was born independent and free but since I got here I’ve been branded, forced and apparently I am his wife?
I tried to go home, my father even came for me, but Malec dragged me back.
I have no choice. That beast isn't my dream, he's my captor. "
Kirelle blinked at her, stunned into silence. It had never even crossed her mind that a Canariae might have a family, a life, anything more important than clinging to Awyan power.
"If you want him so badly," Allora went on, "then take him. Distract him. I'd gladly slip into the shadows if it meant I could go home."
For the first time, Kirelle's proud shoulders slumped.
She sank back against the wall, eyes glassy.
Her voice was small when she confessed, "My family wants his bloodline.
That's all that matters to them. They don't even care if I'm his Vash'telor, only that I bear his child.
I was raised for this, trained to catch his eye, but he's never once looked at me.
And now..." Her voice cracked. "Now they've threatened to cast me out if I fail. "
The air between them went leaden and still.
Turning her head, Allora studied her rival. Her voice dropped. "So we're both in cages, then."
Kirelle didn't look at her, but her lips parted on a whisper: "Yes. Different cages but cages all the same."
Kirelle sat there stiffly for a long moment, her spine rigid as though she might snap in two if she bent even slightly.
But then a shift occurred. Her sharp features softened, just for a breath, and in that tiny fracture of her pride, Allora saw not hatred or rivalry, just bone-deep weariness.
A creeping feeling that was all too familiar.
Acceptance. Maybe even the bitter relief of being seen, for once.
"All this time," Kirelle murmured, her voice trembling but steady enough to carry the venom she thought she still held, "I thought you were nothing more than a power-greedy whore.
That you wanted Malec to raise your status and that you were clawing your way into his bed because it was the only way you could matter. "
Slowly turning her head, Allora's eyes narrowed, lips twitching into a curt, humorless smile. "Isn't that exactly what you were doing?"
Kirelle blinked, stunned, before letting out a laugh that broke halfway through, half bitter, half choked.
"Yes. Exactly. Which is why I never felt bad for the way I treated you.
I thought you were just as awful as me, that we were both vile, desperate creatures scrambling for scraps.
And I hated you for being a mirror I couldn't stand to look at. "
Barking out a laugh that had no joy in it, Allora threw her head back against the stone wall. "People do desperate acts when they're backed into a corner."
Kirelle's mouth twisted, her painted lips pulling tight. Her eyes glassed over as she whispered, "I was born in a corner."
The silence that followed was abrupt, cutting. The kind of silence where two women, raised worlds apart, suddenly recognized the same bruise in one another. Heavy, but not hostile. Not anymore.
Then determination lit behind Kirelle's eyes, wild and unsteady. She straightened, her jeweled fingers curling into fists in her lap until the gems bit into her skin.
"What if," Kirelle said carefully, as if the words themselves were dangerous, "I could help you out of that cage? By giving you a key."
Allora tilted her head, suspicion hardening her features. "What?"
"I mean escape," Kirelle whispered, her voice breaking on the word as though it had haunted her too.
"I can't do it openly. Gods know if I'm caught, I'll be cast out or worse.
But I could arrange a distraction. A wedge, perhaps?
Just enough time to give you a head start.
Long enough to put Malec off balance. Would you take it? "
"Continue," Allora said, her tone low, guarded.