1. The Price of Her #6
They gathered that afternoon in the Great Hall of the Outer Wing, a cavernous chamber that served as the court’s midday reprieve.
Nobles and officers shared long tables with diplomats and councilors, conversation weaving between platters of roasted fowl and torn bread.
It was not a celebration, merely an interlude, yet even these pauses carried performance.
The presence of so many eyes made even lunch feel like a performance.
At the head of the table, Surion lifted his goblet and regarded his cousin over the rim.
Malec sat rigid, arms folded, food untouched. Fatigue shadowed his eyes, though he gave no outward sign of weakness. His stillness pressed outward, palpable.
Surion enjoyed that.
"You’ve gone quiet, cousin," he drawled, swirling his wine. “I almost miss the violence.”
Malec’s gaze lifted. It was enough to silence the small cluster of nobles pretending not to listen.
“Some of us don’t mistake noise for strength,” he said.
A few Awyan nobles chuckled behind their hands. Surion only smiled wider.
“Speaking of noise,” he continued,“Tell me, brotherkin—did you hear her?”
Malec froze.
“She sang today,” Surion said smoothly, savoring the words. “Your Canariae, in the marble hall. It was… transcendent.”
A flicker of threat. Barely there, but Malec’s nostrils flared.
“She sang,” Surion said, letting the word linger. “And for a moment the palace forgot itself.”
Several nobles leaned in.
"Arresting," Surion said. "That's the word for it. Not decorative beauty, the kind that pulls you under. That kind of grief commands a room."
A diplomat cleared his throat. “A presence like that could shift sentiment.”
Another noble chimed in, “She’d be a magnificent asset. Her presence alone could open trade agreements—entertain dignitaries. I daresay I’d welcome her in my household.”
“And mine,” said another. “Exquisite rarity like that should be displayed.”
The table buzzed with agreement, until Malec’s fist slammed against the wood.
Goblets rattled. Conversation died.
“She is not a commodity,” Malec growled, his voice edged with a quiet fury that sent tension rippling across the table.
Surion leaned back in his seat, tipping his goblet toward his lips as if savoring wine, when really, it was Malec’s fury he was drinking in. “But she sings like one,” he said with a knowing smile. “You should have seen her. The whole hall stopped breathing.”
Malec’s jaw ticked. “She sang because she was hurting.”
“Or perhaps,” Surion said, tilting his head as though the thought had only just occurred to him, “she’s beginning to understand that her life might hold more than orbiting your obsession.”
The words landed cleanly, and Malec’s spine locked.
Surion did not look away. He saw the reaction and pressed.
“When she stands before the court,” he continued, voice smooth as polished marble, “draped in silk instead of shadow, her grief carried across chandeliers instead of locked behind your doors, do you imagine she will still look to you for permission?”
The table had gone silent.
“She will not belong to your guilt,” Surion added softly. “Not once the room realizes what she is.”
The atmosphere around him thickened as he went unnaturally still. Anyone who knew him would have recognized it. The calm before a death. His hands flattened against the table as though bracing against a blow.
Surion leaned forward, just enough.
“You keep her small so she remains yours,” he said. “But the moment she discovers what she can command without you, I wonder how long she will tolerate your chains.”
Malec rose halfway from his seat before he fully registered the movement.
Before he could answer—before the room could ignite—a voice cut cleanly through the tension.
“Brother.”
Surian stepped forward with effortless grace, her presence washing over the table like cool water on coals. “Malec,” she said, tone gentle, “come to dinner tonight. With Allora. Just the three of us.”
Surion’s amusement faltered for the briefest second.
“A quiet dinner,” Surian added. “She needs calm. You need her. Just… come.”
Malec held her gaze. The anger in him did not vanish, but it steadied. After a long moment, he inclined his head once.
Surion let out a small, measured laugh. “How touching,” he said. “In that case, I may attend as well. It would be a shame to miss such intimacy.”
Malec turned to him, slow and deliberate. “You’re welcome to watch,” he said coolly, “but I’ll make sure you’re seated at the children’s table.”
The entire table of Awyan nobles erupted in laughter.
A few coughed into their sleeves to hide it, others raised their goblets with smirking approval.
Surion’s expression twitched—amusement slipping into tight-lipped irritation.
Beneath the surface of his polished composure, a darker edge pulsed.
His grip on the goblet tightened, the jeweled rim biting into his palm.
He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes.
Let them laugh. His gaze flicked briefly toward Malec, then away again, calculation already settling over wounded pride.
The next time she stands before them, he thought, it will not be at your side.
He said nothing further. Not because he had finished but only because this round did not belong to him and he had a much bigger war to win the next round.