23. The Day the Fox Forgot, the Dove Was Stolen #4
By the time Kalemon finally staggered into the outpost, two and a half brutal days had passed.
The place was a grim, filthy encampment where wild Canariae were dragged in from the surrounding territories, scrubbed down, and processed for whatever use the system required.
Some were sterilized and forced into labor.
Others were groomed and conditioned to serve as companions or breeders.
Their children were sometimes raised as choyte, small informants trained to lure unsuspecting Canariae into captivity, rewarded only with scraps for their obedience.
The place filled Kalemon with a deep, simmering disgust, the kind that settled in her bones and refused to fade. It fed the quiet fury she carried for the pointy-eared Awyans, sharpening it until it felt less like anger and more like a permanent scar.
But Kalemon was a soldier before anything else. Soldiers didn't vanish, they endured. And this one carried a mission that wouldn't let her rest.
Three Awyan guards restrained her at the base of the fortress stairs, their grips tight enough to leave bruises along her arms. Kalemon spat onto the stone floor without the slightest concern for their hold on her.
Her gray eyes fixed on the courtyard beyond, where more of her people were being driven forward like livestock, bodies gaunt with hunger, their clothes caked with filth, iron shackles clamped around their wrists and ankles as if they were beasts instead of living, breathing souls.
Her jaw clenched as the sight burned into her chest, but she forced her face to remain as smug as ever. She had no intention of letting them see her bleed.
A shift in the air drew her attention upward.
A figure descended the stairs with the kind of careless grace that belonged to someone born into power but tired of wearing it.
Handsome in an annoying way, with brilliant green eyes that glistened like polished glass and thick dark curls bound in a tight ponytail.
His expression carried the weariness of an Awyan held captive by his own boredom rather than chains.
When he reached the bottom step, he crossed his arms lazily and regarded her with a smirk that didn't quite reach his eyes.
"My guards tell me you've brought something from a Talandros." His voice carried easy arrogance, but an edge waited underneath. "I am not a Talandros. That side of the family does not pertain to me, canariae."
A smile cut across Kalemon's face, deliberate and pleased with itself. "It's not from one of you ear-tipped assholes. It's from a Canariae." Commander Malec Talandros’ wife. You may know her by the name, Allora."
Erolyn's expression went flat. "You're lying."
"Am I?"
"Allora would never send a random Canariae to fetch me. You're trying to use her name to get favors." His eyes narrowed with suspicion. "You're wasting my time. Guards, throw her in with the others."
"Wait!" Kalemon's voice cracked like a whip. "I have proof. She gave me a Talandros ring to show you."
Erolyn froze mid-turn. His hand lifted, gesturing for the guards to hold. "A ring means nothing, you could have stolen it." Although his body posture and eyes darting over her told her he was at least curious.
Kalemon's grin turned wicked. "She also told me to give you a message.
" She paused for dramatic effect, watching his face carefully.
"She said, and I quote: 'Tell that dick not to be rude to my messenger, or I'll tell Surian it was him who spilled orange wine on her favorite rug and blamed it on the cat pissing on the carpet. '"
The color drained from Erolyn's face.
He stood there, utterly still, his mouth slightly parted as though the air had been punched from his lungs.
That memory. That stupid, ridiculous, specific memory. No one else knew about it. Not a soul—except her. That flame wrapped in silk, the only Canariae he had looked at and thought of as an equal.
"Her words," Kalemon added with a smirk. "Not mine."
Erolyn looked up at the older Canariae. "Release her."
The guards stepped back, their hands falling away from her arms. Kalemon reached into her satchel and pulled out the silver ring, the coiled black hair braided tightly around the band.
Erolyn's breath caught.
He took it from her palm, turning it slowly in the firelight.
A thousand thoughts raced through his mind.
He brought the ring to his nose, inhaling the faint scent still clinging to the strands.
Sweet butter and oils. Surian's blend. She used to complain about how heavy it made her hair feel, but Surian had insisted.
The texture confirmed it. Springy, tightly coiled, unlike any other Canariae he'd ever known.
This was hers.
His eyes snapped back to Kalemon, suspicion tightening into a hard edge. “Is she hurt? Did you steal this from her body? Where is she?”
The questions came faster, quieter, edged with barely controlled panic. "Malec had her. What happened? Is she in trouble? Is she?—"
"I have all, or most of the information you need," Kalemon interrupted, her tone flat. "But I'd rather give it to you personally and out of earshot."
Erolyn knew far too well the danger of speaking sensitive matters in front of guards who had nothing better to do than trade such information for coin or use it as leverage later. With that in mind, he gave a quick gesture toward a nearby doorway. “This way.”
He led her through the stone corridor to a large office cluttered with the evidence of a functioning outpost. Weapons lined one wall. Maps covered the desk. Ledgers stacked haphazardly on shelves. And in the corner, a huge armoire stood with its doors slightly ajar.
Bingo, Kalemon thought.
Erolyn closed the door behind them, the ring still clutched in his hand. He looked down at it, his voice softer now. "How is she doing?"
Kalemon didn't sugarcoat it. "She drugged Surian's household including the High Lord himself, escaped Malec for about eight months, then he chased after her across the continent.
Meanwhile Leira, his mother, hid her while she was pregnant.
Malec came back, almost killed the baby during birth no surprise there, he dragged her back to Caelistra and forced the council to make her his legal wife by law. Now everybody wants her."
Erolyn blinked. Once. Twice. Processing.
“She did all that, huh?” His tone carried disbelief tempered by reluctant respect. “Well, if we were talking about any other being, I would never believe you.”
He lifted the ring again, studying the springy strands of hair wound around the silver. "But this is Allora we're talking about. She accomplishes whatever she wants and doesn't look back."
A pause. Then his brain caught up.
"Wait. Did you say she had a baby?"
His whole demeanor shifted. Adoration vanished, replaced by complete shock laced with insult, as though Kalemon had delivered a statement so ridiculous that believing anything she'd just told him would be an affront to his intelligence.
Kalemon crossed her arms. "Oh, that's not the half of it. The daddy is Malec himself."
Erolyn scoffed hard. His hands went to his waist, then one lifted, finger shaking at her like he'd caught her in a joke. "Nice. Real funny, Canariae. Now I'm definitely putting you in with the others."
Kalemon's eyes narrowed. "Listen, boy?—"
"Boy? I'm older than you."
"I don't have time for your fucking bullshit.
" Kalemon stepped forward, her voice dropping into a growl.
"Allora, who goes by Melodie now, was at the palace, summoned by his majesty.
I was the Canariae who delivered her baby.
The sister and Malec's father were there at the birth.
Send a messenger to them, I don't give a horse’s brown ass.
All I know is that the king is mad at her for some reason, and she's afraid he's going to sell her off. "