6. Court of Appetites #2
Clutching the tiny parcel against her breast, she slipped from the bedroom and stepped into the corridor.
Silent footfalls carried her down the black marble staircase, pale blue beams of light cutting across her bronze skin from the high windows.
The thin robe tied loosely at her waist, sash trailing behind her.
Her cream nightgown brushed her ankles. Curls pulled into a loose bun, messy from sleep but still wild and regal.
Below, the foyer was immaculate. The scent of polish and citrus soap hung crisp in the air. Servants moved briskly across the gleaming floor, heads bowed, arms burdened with linens, scrolls, silver dishes. They moved around her, acknowledged but never touched.
Pausing on the last step, she felt the small weight of the dragonfly in her hands. Her pulse ticked faster as she looked across the vast hall.
Then she yawned, unconcerned by how unrefined she must look. Stretching her arms overhead, her joints cracked with a faint, satisfying pop. It had been a good night, all things considered.
She'd woken to a cold bed. Empty. Malec was gone—his possessive arms, those heavy breaths fogging the back of her neck, that ever silent watchful presence pretending to be asleep while waiting for her to roll against his chest. All of it, absent.
Blissful.
Her grin softened as she drifted toward the breakfast room, expecting the familiar low murmur of voices, the polite clink of cutlery, perhaps Surian complaining about politics before noon.
Instead, what followed was its own kind of answer.
The long table stood fully set. Baskets of bread draped in linen, bowls of sliced fruit arranged in jeweled rows, slabs of soft cheese glistening beside platters of glazed meats.
Steam curled from pitchers of water and nectar, carrying the faint sweetness of clove and citrus. Yet the high-backed chairs sat empty.
She frowned, rubbing the sleep from one eye. "Huh."
A tall Awyan woman swept past her, a tray balanced deftly on one hand, her skin the pale ivory of moonstone. Allora stepped slightly into her path.
"Excuse me," she said, voice rough with sleep. "Where is everyone?"
The woman slowed, just barely. She didn't meet Allora's gaze. Her posture remained stiff, chin tilted upward.
"I am not sure, Lady Talandros," she replied in a clipped, formal tone. "Perhaps the Lady Surian or the Commander is out."
With a shallow nod, she shifted her tray and continued on her way without another word.
Allora blinked. Lady Talandros?
The title sat wrong in her chest, sharp-edged and unwelcome. So the servants were calling her that now. Acting like she'd already signed the papers, said the vows, sealed herself to him in some binding ceremony she'd never agreed to. Great. Fantastic. Just what she needed this morning.
Her jaw locked, irritation flaring hot and fast. But then she exhaled slowly, forcing her shoulders to drop.
No. She wasn't doing this today. She was tired of being perpetually angry and letting every small slight wind her up until she felt ready to snap.
The maid's deference wasn't worth the energy.
Whatever. Let them call her what they wanted. It didn't make it true.
She stood there, alone in a room laid out for a feast she hadn't asked for.
"Perfect," she muttered under her breath. "The royal circus has left the tent without telling the main attraction."
Still, she couldn't bring herself to be annoyed. Only curious. Where was Surian? And more importantly, where the hell was Commander Stick in Ass?
Allora decidedly sat down snagging a piece of bread, she bit into it with theatrical indignation, already plotting her next move like a queen determined not to be forgotten.
Twenty minutes later, she was slouched in a chair, idly picking over a tray of fruit, the last slice of pear clutched between her fingers.
She had tried to make herself eat, hoping it might settle the faint queasiness in her belly.
The soup usually helped. Rich and savory, fragrant with bone broth and herbs.
But when she lifted the silver lid this morning, the smell hit her square in the face.
Rancid and metallic. Thick with the stench of spoiled meat.
Gagging, she pressed the back of her hand to her mouth, eyes watering as she shoved the bowl away.
The fruit still tasted normal, and the cheese sat untouched, but her stomach churned.
Her senses felt unnaturally keen, her nerves left raw, as though a deeper shift had begun within her.
She considered calling for fresh meat or eggs, anything rich in protein.
Before she could open her mouth, Surian breezed in, cloak slung carelessly over one shoulder, her hair half-twisted up in an elegant coil.
Brightening at the sight of her, Surian smiled. "Oh, good. You're awake."
Lifting her eyes, Allora's voice trailed into nothing. "Morning."
The smile slipped into concern as Surian took in the slump of her shoulders, the listless poke of her fork. "You're not eating." Lowering herself into the chair opposite, she reached for the soup bowl and nudged it closer. "Here, this is your favorite?—"
Flinching, Allora shook her head. "Smell it first."
"What?"
"Just—please," Allora insisted, her hand splayed over her midriff. "Tell me I'm not insane."
Surian bent forward and sniffed the soup. Once. Twice. She looked back, puzzled. "It smells fine, Allora. Like it always does."
A grim line formed where her lips pressed together. "To me, it smells like death in a pot."
They studied each other across the table, Surian's eyes searching, Allora's dull with creeping unease.
Reaching for her water, Allora sighed. "Where's the beast?"
Surian huffed a laugh. "Last I saw, he was rearranging the kitchen. Probably trying to make it suit his Canariae's delicate sensibilities."
"Of course he was," came the muttered reply. "He's a psychopath."
"He might have left to have some new clothes tailored," Surian said lightly. "There's a royal banquet tonight, you know. He was gone before dawn. You were still tangled up in the blankets like a drowned cat."
"For once, I was happy to wake up without being bear-hugged."
"That makes two of us," Surian teased, but her gaze kept drifting back to Allora's face.
Pushing her plate away, Allora slumped deeper into the chair. "Let's go out today. Just us. I can't stay in this mausoleum another hour."
The smile faltered. "I wish we could. But the banquet tonight is required, and you're expected to attend. The entire city is in chaos preparing for it."
"Why do I have to go?"
"Surion put your name on the guest list." Surian's voice went dry. "Malec thinks he's plotting."
Gesturing at the lavish table, at the perfectly polished floor, Allora shook her head. "All you rich Awyans ever do is scheme. Doesn't anyone have an honest hobby? Or, I don't know—joy?"
Soft laughter escaped Surian. "We're very busy being important, Allora. You wouldn't understand."
Allora’s expression shifted, her gaze drifting somewhere far away. “I was someone important once,” she said quietly, almost to herself. But behind the sarcasm, a dull throb pulsed in her temples. The unease remained.
Rising, Surian smoothed the folds of her gown. "Go make yourself useful. I've mountains of tasks, and you'd only slow me down."
Allora was about to offer a final sarcastic retort when she heard the creak of the side door. A tall, broad-shouldered figure stepped inside, pausing just long enough to sweep the room with a familiar assessing gaze.
Luko.
Her heart leapt before she could stop it, warmth flooding her chest at the sight of him. "Luko!" Already half-rising, she crossed the floor in a blink and threw her arms around his neck.
Warm and startled, his chuckle rumbled against her as he caught her with both arms. "Careful, Allora?—"
But the moment she pressed against him, the dizziness sharpened. The room swayed, light from the windows turning too bright. Her arms slackened. "Oh?—"
Bracing her carefully, one hand spanned her back while the other steadied her shoulder. "Easy," he murmured. "Here, let's sit you down before you topple us both."
She let him guide her back to the chair, her fingers trembling faintly.
"It's been a minute," he said, voice gentle as he crouched beside her. "How have you been feeling?"
Catching her breath, she searched his face, relief washing through her. "Better… mostly. I don't know. I keep getting these dizzy spells. Everything smells wrong."
His brows knit. "That's why I'm here."
"What do you mean?"
Exhaling, his thumb brushed her wrist to check her pulse. "Malec sent for me after he learned you were having fainting spells and seizures. He asked me to stay awhile and monitor you."
Her throat went dry. "So he's… worried."
Quiet and steady, his smile softened the words. "Worried is putting it lightly."
Closing her eyes, she let out a breath and tried to gather her scattered thoughts. At least she wouldn't be alone. Not with Luko here.
She hadn't realized how much she needed the comfort of a familiar face until his large hand cupped her wrist, checking her pulse. His presence always made the world feel a little steadier, as though nothing too terrible could happen so long as he was there to keep watch.
Straightening, he studied her more closely, his brow furrowing. "You look a little gaunt, Allora." Voice pitched low so the servants wouldn't overhear, he continued, "When was the last time you had a proper meal?"
Wrinkling her nose, she gestured helplessly at the spread of untouched platters. "I can't eat," she admitted, her tone as close to a whine as she would allow in public. "Everything smells… icky. Rotten. Like old meat and vinegar. And my head feels weird."