6. Court of Appetites #4
Setting her cup down with a little clink, Surian's eyes danced.
"Oh, ancestors, you would have loved it.
Lady Kirelle and her little flock of snobs were in the shop when we arrived.
They started whispering, making all their usual comments about Malec's 'exotic pet.
'" She gave Allora a sly look. "And this one decided she was going to defend my honor. "
Lifting her brows, Allora feigned innocence. "She was insulting you. I simply clarified that her face looked like a prolapsed butthole."
Blinking, Luko burst into laughter, an unguarded, hearty sound that filled the quiet room. "You didn't."
"She did," Surian confirmed, her grin wide. "And then she told Lady Kirelle that if she didn't shut her mouth, she would... how did you phrase it, Allora? Ah yes—'feed her those lace samples through the back door until she produced a tablecloth.'"
Picking at her melon, Allora sniffed. "That was me being nice. I had three other holes in mind and none of them were her mouth."
Dabbing delicately at her lips with her napkin, Surian still shook her head. "The poor dressmaker nearly fainted. But Lady Kirelle hasn't so much as looked at me since."
"Good," Luko said with feeling. "She's a snake."
Trying not to smile, Allora failed. For a moment, the tight band in her chest eased, and she almost felt normal. Then she remembered.
Her head snapped up so fast her curls bounced. "LUKO!"
So violently did he startle that his fork clattered onto his plate. "Huh?—?"
Clutching her heart, Surian gasped. "For heaven's sake, canariae—inside voice!"
Ignoring them, Allora fumbled for the folded linen she'd tucked in her robe pocket. She set it carefully on the table and unwrapped it, revealing the iridescent, lifeless body inside.
"I woke up with this on my chest," she said, voice tight. "It's the same dragonfly that's been following me since I got here."
Leaning forward, Luko's humor vanished as his focus tapered. He lifted the creature delicately between two fingers, turning it so the dull wings caught the morning light.
"This is… unusual," he murmured. "Dragonflies don't come in these colors. And not this size. You're certain it was alive before?"
"Yes, of course I’m sure," Allora said. "How else did it fly and die on my chest if it wasn’t alive?"
Peering over her shoulder, Surian made a dubious sound. "That is unnaturally large."
Setting it back on the cloth, Luko’s mouth formed a grim line. “I’ll have to examine it in my chambers. It could be nothing. Or it could be a threat you need protection from.”
Swallowing, Allora's fingers curled tight in her lap. As much as she despised the feeling, she was suddenly glad, achingly so, that she wouldn't have to face whatever it was alone.
Back at the palace, King Surion reclined in his usual effortless grace, draped across a carved cedar chair as though the entire court were his private theatre.
A slender elfess with dark hair threaded in sapphires perched sideways across his lap, idly tracing the curve of his collarbone as he sipped from a goblet of spiced wine.
Around him, the chamber buzzed with polite conversation and the low strains of a string ensemble.
Foreign politicians lounged on tasseled cushions, plates of sugared fruits and delicate pastries laid out within easy reach.
The atmosphere was cordial, convivial even, but Surion was too experienced a player not to feel the undercurrent of scrutiny in every glance.
And, as he'd intended, the conversation drifted inevitably to the dark Canariae.
"I've heard the stories," rumbled a short, broad-shouldered elf with a face weathered by old battles and a single clouded eye.
A jagged scar carved a pale line down his cheek, but his mouth was quick to smile.
Leaning forward, one thick forearm braced on his knee, he continued.
"Is it true the Silver Fox keeps her? Worth seeing, is she? "
He sounded more curious than covetous. His reputation preceded him: he'd taken Canariae lovers in every province, male and female both. But tonight, he was here to confirm that the new shipments of iron and steel would arrive as promised, and that any alliances were built on more than rumor.
Surion smiled slowly, his eyes glinting with relish. "Worth seeing?" he repeated, setting his goblet aside with delicate care. "Gentlemen, you cannot imagine. I have heard her sing myself. Clear as silver, raw as heartbreak. There is nothing like it in this world."
A thinner elf, older by decades, with long brown hair streaked in dignified gray, lifted a brow. "Truly? I was always told Canariae were mute, more or less. Or too cowed to make a proper melody."
"Then you have never met one with spirit," Surion said, his voice softening just enough to sound sincere. "She sang as though her throat were carved from crystal. I tell you, it brought tears to my eyes."
A female politician dressed in the crisp regalia of a general let out a snort, her jeweled epaulettes flashing in the firelight. Lifting her cup with a smirk, she said, "Surion, you have no tears. Only schemes."
Laughter rippled around the table. Even the elfess on his lap stifled a giggle behind her slim hand.
Accepting the jibe with an elegant shrug, Surion replied, "Mock me if you wish, but know this: she has tamed the Silver Fox himself. She is no ordinary Canariae."
At that, a tall figure by the arched window turned.
Kael Farishka, Western King of Zaharein, stepped out of the shadows, lamplight glinting over the waves of his golden hair swept back in a high ponytail with a worn black ribbon made from a strip of clothing.
The ribbon held obvious sentimental value, a stark contrast to everything else on him that spoke of elegance, wealth, and aristocracy.
His piercing electric blue eyes swept the room, steady and unhurried.
"On zis," he said, voice low, the words thick with his accent, syllables uneven, "I stand with Surion." He paused, searching for the next phrase. "I have not... hear her song with my ears... but I have seen her."
Interest sharpened around the room, surprised by the certainty in his halting words.
"She is... how you say..." Kael went on, each consonant softened by his dialect. "Firebrand. A creature who... burns before she will bend. You... will not find... her equal."
The female general tilted her head, her smile razor-edged. "Would you buy her, Kael? For an alliance? Or you only say this to flatter our silver-tongued prince?"
Kael's mouth curved into a slow smile that deepened the dimples at his cheeks. He rested one hand on the pommel of his sword, the gesture easy and certain.
"I would trade... my crown," he said, his accent thickening further, "to stand... in her fire... for one breath."
A charged stillness swept the chamber.
Inside, a knot pulled tight in his chest. The words had left his mouth before he could stop them, raw and unguarded.
He'd meant them as performance, as the kind of extravagant flattery these vipers expected.
But the truth beneath made his pulse quicken.
The way his skin had prickled when he'd first seen her.
The way his breath had caught when she'd turned those dark eyes on him.
The heat that had crawled up his spine, insistent and unwelcome.
And the shock.
He could still feel it. That first time he'd moved to touch her hand, a gesture of comfort, nothing more.
The static crack that had jolted through his palm, racing up his arm and settling in his chest like lightning trapped beneath his ribs.
An electric current so violent it had stolen his breath.
He'd pulled back, startled, but the sensation had lingered for hours afterward, humming beneath his skin.
He hadn't been able to forget it since. It could only be one thing.
Saen'trien.
The warning sign his kind whispered about in hushed tones.
The recognition that pulled at the soul, the alarm that screamed compatibility where none should exist. He'd dismissed it at first, told himself it was nothing more than appreciation for beauty, for spirit.
But standing here now, speaking her name into the air like an invocation, he couldn't lie to himself anymore.
The dark-haired elf with the clouded eye let out a disbelieving laugh, breaking the tension. "You are mad. No Canariae is worth such talk."
Kael lifted his gaze, calm and unwavering, his voice softer as he chose each word with care.
"Zis," he murmured, "is because you... never know true passion. You never feel... real flame... on your skin." His eyes gleamed with a private certainty. "And when you look... in zose dark eyes... you will bite your tongue... before you call her less."
The silence that followed seemed to swell until even the musicians held their breath. And at the head of the table, Surion leaned back in his chair, smiling like a man who had already won the game.
The banquet would not be just another bland parade of wine-stained trade talks and polite false promises.
Surion had designed it with exquisite calculation: a stage dressed in gilded linens and perfumed lanterns, set to dazzle foreign dignitaries while concealing its true purpose.
By the time the last toast was raised, this room would be less a ballroom and more an auction hall, with Allora displayed as the rarest prize.
She was the perfect bait to stir appetites and ambitions, to lure those too jaded to be moved by treaties or tariffs.
Let them see the Canariae who had tamed the Silver Fox himself.
Let them imagine what she might be worth in their hands, what power she could bring if she were unmoored from Malec's claim.
And if in the process Surion secured the alliances he needed to keep himself relevant and delivered a wound to Malec's pride that would fester for years, so much the better.
Revenge, after all, was a dish best served with applause.