8. The Unwelcome Guests #2
Leaning closer, Kirelle's perfume mingled with the brisk night air.
"I'm hosting a gathering soon. A small party at my family's estate.
I'll send an invitation to you and Lady Surian, make it look like I'm apologizing for the tailor shop incident. “Everyone will think I’m trying to save face, trying to be the bigger person.” Her eyes gleamed with calculation.
“If you come, I can give you the means to escape, if you use it wisely. No one will suspect a thing if you attend as my guest.”
Allora's eyes narrowed, searching Kirelle's face for any hint of deception.
"I'll come to your party," she said, her voice low and deadly serious.
"But you better not be playing with me, Kirelle.
I'm not joking about wanting to escape. If this is some game to humiliate me or earn points with Malec, I swear I'll make you regret it.
" She leaned in closer, her tone dropping to a growl.
"But if you're serious, if you really can help me get out, then fine.
Take him. Have all the frosty goat babies you want. Just get me the hell out of here."
Kirelle let out a breath, then smiled. The expression was strange and fragile, nothing like her usual smug, venom-dripping smirk, as though she hadn't worn this version of herself since she was a girl.
Slowly, almost reverently, she raised her hand.
Her long fingers glinted with jewels, a dozen rings catching the moonlight.
"Then let's strike a deal," she whispered. Her voice shook, not from weakness, but from the weight of finally saying what she truly wanted.
Allora looked at the hand, hesitating. Trusting Kirelle felt dangerous, reckless. But for the first time, she saw no malice in those green eyes. Only hunger, desperation, and the faint, breaking hope of a woman trapped as much as she was.
Finally, Allora reached out and took her hand, gripping it firmly.
And in that moment, a truce was born, not of friendship or forgiveness, but of necessity. Two women in cages, quietly agreeing to break each other's locks, knowing full well the consequences could destroy them both.
Surion's boots cracked against the marble floor as he stormed down the long corridor, the gold-etched walls trembling with the weight of his temper.
His breath came harsh, ragged, and the guards lining the way dipped their heads though none dared speak.
Behind him, Kael followed with measured grace, his eyes burning beneath furrowed brows.
Electric blue, severe and unyielding, they tracked the furious sweep of the King's cloak.
He said nothing, though his chest burned.
Surion's cruelty toward Allora gnawed at him in ways he refused to name aloud.
He had come to watch and linger at the edges of this game, prepared to intervene only if Surion's spite tipped toward ruin.
But the scent of vengeance was already thick in the air, and Kael could almost taste ash on his tongue.
The war room opened before them, a cavern of firelit shadows and high banners.
Long tables gleamed with untouched goblets of wine, maps curling at the corners, while a circle of wealthy Awyans waited in silk and armor.
They were merchants and warlords whose fortunes were carved from other people's suffering, the kind of Awyans who smelled of smoke, oil, and gold dust. Their laughter curdled the air, loud and false.
Surion lifted his hand and the room quieted, their eyes gleaming with expectation.
At his command, Allora's fate would be dangled before them.
Kael's fingers curled at his sides as Surion began to speak, his voice smooth with venom.
He laid her out before them as a commodity, a rare Canariae trained in medicine, sharp of tongue, her fire still unbroken.
Surion's words dripped with contempt and delight, every syllable meant to carve humiliation into Malec's pride.
The gathered Awyans leaned forward, interest flashing in their eyes, calculation gleaming on every face.
Kael's stomach turned. His electric gaze flicked from face to face, each hungry expression a spark against the storm inside him.
He masked it well, standing motionless, the elegant mask of a foreign king resting easily on his features.
Yet beneath that composure, he seethed. The thought of her trapped in the cold cages of these men, reduced to property, her flame smothered or exploited, filled him with a fury he could not show.
His voice slid into the chamber, smooth and low, each word softened by his accent.
"Zis... is reckless," he said, his vowels lingering.
"You would place a soul upon ze table, beneath ze eye of 'er soul-bound?
Do you believe Malec Talandros will suffer such insult...
and not set zese walls aflame around you? "
Surion only smiled, teeth glinting, his eyes pointed with madness.
"That is the point," he snapped, his hands sweeping wide.
"He will choke on his own impotence. Watch as the woman he clings to is traded among men who know her worth better than he does.
She will be reminded she is nothing." His gaze swept the circle, hungry for their offers. "We begin the bid."
A voice broke from the circle, low and contemptuous.
One of the elder Awyans leaned back in his chair, lips curling.
"Do you truly believe we would pay for a creature that openly defies her master, a king, no less?
She mocked you before the whole capital.
Why should any of us waste our coin on such a beast? "
The chamber rippled with unease, eyes flicking toward Surion, waiting for his temper to flare.
Instead, the King only smiled, incisive and sly, his laughter cutting through the tension.
"Because she is not for the faint of heart," he said smoothly, spreading his arms. "She is for the one who craves a challenge, a wild one to tame, to break. If that is not you, then bow out."
He leaned forward, voice dropping into a growl meant to tempt and sting all at once. "But imagine…just imagine what her fire would do to you in bed."
The room erupted in a storm of cheers and jeers, cruel laughter shaking the rafters. Cups slammed against the tables, their mirth rising like smoke from a battlefield.
Kael's expression tightened, the sound grating against his skin like iron on bone.
His gaze flashed across the crowd, taking in faces twisted with hunger, every voice another insult carved into her name.
He masked it well, standing apart, the elegant mask of a foreign king resting easily on his features.
Yet beneath his restraint, the storm gathered.
Surion raised his hand, smug satisfaction painted across his face. "Then let us begin," he declared, his voice dripping venom. "The bidding starts now."
When Surian led Allora back into the ballroom, the atmosphere shifted at once.
The music swelled, but hushed whispers spread like ripples in water, carrying her name on every tongue.
Malec caught the sound before he even saw her.
His senses honed, his gaze snapping toward the doors.
And there she was. His chest tightened at the sight of her.
She looked folded in on herself, weary, her shoulders heavy with defeat.
Even the air around her seemed dimmed, her light pressed down by the weight of this cursed place.
Malec excused himself from the cluster of Awyans with a clipped nod, his every motion precise and purposeful.
He crossed the room with the speed of a blade drawn in battle, his presence cutting through the gathering like shadow through firelight.
In an instant he was at her side, towering, shielding her from the prying gazes, his broad frame a wall between her and the whispers.
His voice, low and commanding, brushed against her ear. "We leave. Now."
A servant appeared with her cape, bowing low.
Malec snatched it and swung the fabric around her shoulders himself, fingers lingering just a moment longer than necessary, as if by covering her he could protect her from every vile thought in the room.
Surian followed behind, composed but watchful, while Luko fell into step with them, eager as ever to chatter about the night's politics.
Outside, the night was cool, the moon carved half-full against the black sky.
Allora's eyes lifted to it, her mouth opening in silent yearning.
She ached to run, to shed the suffocating layers of silk and expectation, to bare her teeth and howl as one of the wild, free under the trees. She longed to be nothing but instinct.
Instead, she was trapped in this grotesque parody of a romance, a spectacle of power and fantasy, surrounded by rigid, icy creatures who toyed with her life like actors in a play. It was hell.
In the carriage, Malec's gaze never strayed from her, his wheat-toned eyes flickering to every shift of her posture, every drawn breath, as though he could will her strength back into her with his stare.
Luko, oblivious, beamed in his seat across from them.
"Not one insult tonight!" he announced proudly, leaning forward, his grin broad.
"Can you believe it? And the Head of Medicine actually invited me to a seminar.
A real one. With his staff." He was glowing, delight spilling from him in every word.
Surian listened with a small smile, always gracious, while Allora pressed her head against the cool window glass, the reflection of the moon her only comfort.
Luko's joy filled the carriage, yet even his triumph seemed to rest like a weight on her shoulders.
His success, however innocent, had been carved from the night of her humiliation, exhaustion and her sacrifice.