19. Blood of Two Worlds #5
And now this. An heir in his arms that bound Malec more tightly to her than ever before.
It was a miracle, yes. A legacy and much wanted continuation of a line thought barren.
But it was also a curse. A child born of fire and storm, bound to a fiery little Canariae who had nearly destroyed his son.
Surin's pale blue eyes lowered to the swaddled bundle.
The boy's tiny chest rose and fell with shallow, innocent breaths.
His silver-tinged hair glimmered in the firelight, proof of his bloodline, and solid evidence that Malec had not been deceived after all.
But Surin's clamped with that knowledge.
This child would inherit more than just blood.
He would inherit the chaos of the mother and that wildness that had already scarred Malec so deeply.
And Surin swore, quietly, fiercely, that he would not allow Malec to be broken again.
He would protect his son, even if it meant protecting him from the very woman he loved, especially if it meant stepping between them and one day cutting the bond itself.
Like he did once before to someone drowning in it.
He looked at Leira's rigid back and felt the familiar weight of that choice settle over him like a shroud.
Luko leaned against the table, arms folded across his chest, watching the exchange with soft eyes. Then, at last, he broke the silence. "What shall we call him?"
Everyone stilled.
Leira blinked. "What?"
"The child," Luko repeated, his voice easy but serious. "He's still unnamed. Do we wait for the parents, or…?"
"I think they'll want to name him," Surian said quickly, perhaps too quickly.
But Surin gave a thoughtful hum, his arms tightening slightly around the swaddled bundle. "I wouldn't mind if they wanted a name drawn from ours. Perhaps a gentle one. Suri. Or Suric, maybe."
Leira's laugh was biting and humorless. "Aye, if they want him to grow up capable of severing the people who love him. Just like his grandsire."
The words landed strange. Surian frowned, glancing between them. Severing?
Surin's pale blue eyes flicked to Leira, holding her gaze for a long moment. The air between them felt heavy, suffocating.
Then he simply turned back to the baby. "You're right."
The agreement was worse somehow. Leira's fingers curled into fists at her sides, her breathing shallow. She said nothing.
"No," Luko said quickly, both hands raised as if to push back the storm. "No insults. This is a sacred morning."
Surin turned toward the sleeping child, and the severity in him softened, broke open like dawn spilling across winter. His pale blue eyes grew luminous, his voice carrying a reverence that stilled even the soldiers near the door, their restless shifting swallowed by the weight of his words.
"The firstborn of our generation," he whispered, each syllable a prayer. "The joining of worlds. We'll be telling this tale for a thousand years."
His gaze shifted to Surian, lingering on her as though willing her to understand the enormity of what they were witnessing, the miracle wrapped in flesh and fragile breath.
"At the heart of it all, a Canariae female who proved stronger than blood, stronger than tradition, stronger than death itself. "
Surian's lashes lowered. A smile flashed across her lips, soft and tender as morning light, yet edged with the shadow of guilt that would not leave her. "She always was."
And in another room, sealed away by thick stone walls and an isolation heavier than grief, Allora slept.
Furs warmed by the hearth's glow blanketed her body, her skin still pale with the ghost of blood loss, her strength stolen by the life she had given.
She lay cradled in healing, fragile and precious, her breathing slow and deep.
Malec lay beside her, the father of the boy now passed between the hands of strangers, admired and blessed in rooms he could not bear to enter.
His arm was draped protectively around her shoulders, his body curved close to hers like a shield against the world.
His breath rose and fell in time with hers, perfectly matched, as though they shared one heart beating between them.
The sun hung low in the sky, bleeding amber light through the lead-glass windows of the chateau, painting the stone walls in shades of honey and dying fire. The hour was late, stretching long shadows across the floor, and still Allora slept.
The thick furs around her remained undisturbed, a cocoon of warmth and safety she had not known in months.
Her breathing was soft and steady, each exhale a whisper against the pillow, delicate as a prayer.
Her hair still lay braided in a thick plait against the pillow, the dark rope of it woven with care by his own hands, each strand tamed and tended in the quiet hours before sleep.
The fire beside her had burned down to embers, though Malec had stoked it before rising, determined to keep the room warm, refusing to let the cold touch what was his to protect.
He had awoken not long before, his body heavy with exhaustion yet his mind clearer than it had been in months all because he had slept, truly slept.
And all it had taken was wrapping himself around the wild female who had driven him to the very edge of madness and pulled him back from the abyss without even knowing it.
Now he leaned over her, bracing one arm against the mattress near her head, his weight held in perfect stillness.
His light beige eyes drank her in with the hunger of an Awyan starved, tracing the elegant line of her nose, the gentle flutter of lashes as she twitched in dream.
Every detail imprinted itself into him like a brand, as though he feared she might vanish into smoke if he dared blink, if he let his vigilance slip for even a heartbeat.
She was still his Allora. Wild, beautiful and impossible. Even if she had run from him.
He had been so angry when he first found her, rage burning through him like wildfire, convinced of her betrayal.
But that fury had died the moment he saw his son's silver hair, his Awyan ears, the impossible truth made flesh.
The anger had turned to ash, and in its place rose guilt.
Crushing, suffocating regret that pressed against his ribs like a vice.
She had been innocent while she had carried his child, suffered alone, fled in terror from the one who should have protected her. And he had nearly killed them both.
That conversation would come and it would not be gentle. Words would be spoken that could not be unspoken, truths laid bare that would cut them both to the bone.
But not now.
Now, he was determined to dote on her, worship her—to beg for her forgiveness in whatever way she would allow.
He would spend the rest of his days atoning for what he had done, for what he had almost done.
For now, he pressed a kiss to her temple, his lips lingering against her warm skin as he spoke in the old tongue, words ancient and sacred.
A vow, blessing, and a warning, all bound into one, threaded together like fate itself.
Then he rose, the movement reluctant, and tugged on his mud-streaked tunic and dusty black trousers, the same clothes he had ridden across half the kingdom in.
He had no others. He never once thought about the menial task of stopping to pack, did not even take the time to stop to plan, or to breathe.
He had only run toward her, toward the pull of the tether that bound them and the inevitable collision of their souls.
His gaze lingered once more on her still form, unwilling to let the fragile peace of this moment shatter.
At last, he called in a maidservant, a pale girl with trembling hands and wide eyes who could barely hold his stare, who looked at him as though he had been built from flame and fury rather than born.
"You," Malec said, his voice low and commanding, each word carved from stone. "Watch her. The moment she stirs, the very instant she so much as blinks, you send for me."
The girl bobbed her head so quickly her hair blurred around her face, fear and reverence tangled in her expression.
Malec did not wait for more. He swept from the chamber, his boots striking against marble with cutting finality, the echo of his steps carrying like a promise, like a threat, down the silent halls.
The Grand Parlor had been transformed, close to a holy site now in feeling if not in name.
Guards stood in rigid lines along the walls, their armor gleaming in the candlelight.
Servants, nobles, housekeepers—everyone had gathered not out of order, but out of desire.
The child had already been passed between them, swaddled and cherished in trembling arms, carried from one careful embrace to the next.
Some had wept openly, others laughed in disbelief, most simply stared, their reverence swallowing all words.
This was not just a child of blood. He was prophecy made flesh.
And when Malec walked in, everything stopped.
A hush swept the chamber, heavy and instant.
All heads turned. The room parted like water as he strode through, his presence commanding silence even from those too awestruck to kneel.
Mud still clung to his boots, sweat dried like salt against the line of his jaw, but his eyes, bright and unreadable, cut through the gathering like the glint of steel.
The Silver Fox had arrived.
A young maid, her cheeks still wet with tears from the honor of holding the infant, stepped forward. With hands that shook, she lifted the child toward him, her voice caught somewhere between awe and fear.
Malec's arms opened slowly, almost reluctantly, as if he feared what it might mean to take him. But then he accepted the small bundle, drawing the child into his chest with the caution of an Awyan lifting a living star.
The baby did not cry, he simply nestled against Malec's chest as though he had always belonged there.