8. The Unwelcome Guests #4
The private breakfast room was small compared to the formal dining hall, meant for family and blood, not ceremony.
Three days had passed since the banquet, and the weight of that night still lingered in the air like smoke.
The windows were half-open to the morning, sunlight spilling over the polished table where Surian sat, poised as always.
A book lay open before her, her slender fingers turning the pages with unhurried grace.
Beside her cup, steam curled upward, carrying the faint scent of herbs — medicinal, pungent, calming.
She sipped as she read, unbothered, her posture regal even in the casual intimacy of the room.
Malec was another story entirely. He paced the floorboards like a wolf trapped in a kennel, his long strides restless, rigid, one hand clasped behind his back while the other held his pipe.
The long wooden stem rested between his fingers, purple smoke curling from its bowl in lazy spirals.
He drew from it between steps, the familiar ritual doing little to ease the tension coiled in his chest. Each creak of the house caught his ear, every faint rustle from the servants in the hall turned his head toward the door or the staircase, his eyes narrowing in expectation.
His thumb traced the carved groove along the pipe's stem in small, repetitive strokes, the motion unconscious, grounding.
He could not stop. The rhythm of his boots striking wood was as steady as a drumbeat, as maddening as a clock ticking too loud.
Surian's sigh cut through the stillness. She set her cup down with deliberate care and fixed him with a look sharp enough to cut. "Oh, for the sake of the goddesses, sit down. You will drive me mad drilling holes into my floor."
He ignored her, of course. His steps halted not because of her rebuke but because of movement outside the room. The door pushed open, and Luko wandered in, rubbing at his eyes, his yawn as exaggerated as his slouch.
"Why does everyone get up so damn early around here?" he muttered, stretching before collapsing into a chair. His hair was mussed, his tunic slightly wrinkled, but his grin was intact.
Surian did not even glance up from her book. "Because we do not work the night away as you do. We are nobles, Luko. The laziest creatures alive."
He barked a laugh, pouring himself tea from the pot at the center of the table. "I'll drink to that."
Malec had already turned from them, his eyes cutting to the window, jaw working as he listened, his body taut with the strain of waiting. Another pull from the pipe, another trace of his thumb along the groove.
Luko leaned back in his chair, cradling the steaming cup between his hands. His eyes flicked toward Malec but his words were for Surian. "So… has anyone seen the princess stir?"
Malec's ears twitched. A small gesture, but telling. Surian's eyes darted toward her brother's rigid back, a flash of concern passing over her composed expression.
Allora had not emerged from her room in days.
How many? Malec had lost count. The servants whispered that she hardly ate, pushing trays away untouched.
Each day that passed was a knife carving into his patience.
If she did not appear by noon today, he would break her door down and see her fed with his own hands if he had to.
He would not watch her wither away behind his walls, while she was under his protection. Absolutely not.
He resumed pacing, faster now, the tension thickening around him. Purple smoke trailed behind him like a ghost.
Luko blew on his tea, unfazed. "Funny thing," he said casually, "I heard from one of my guard friends in the market yesterday. He swears the King's been calling in advisors. Whole legal teams, the works. Looks like he's getting ready to sign some kind of big deal."
Malec did not turn. His jaw shifted, but his eyes stayed locked on the garden beyond the window.
He couldn't think, not with everything off balance.
His world demanded order: a picture straightened, a weapon polished, a table setting aligned just so.
But this was not a picture frame or a crooked fork.
This was Allora. And she could not be straightened.
If she could, his life would be far easier.
The comment dug its claws into him. Why couldn't he shake it off? It beat against his ribs like a drum, insistent, unrelenting, telling him he was missing a crucial detail. He stopped mid-stride, his back still to them, shoulders broad and rigid.
Without looking, his voice cut the air. "Tell me more of these meetings."
Luko blinked, startled by the sudden interest. He shifted in his chair, tea cup halfway to his lips.
"Well… I can't be sure. Just chatter, you know.
But…" His words trailed, and then he sighed, leaning forward.
"If I had to guess, I'd say it has everything to do with her.
" His chin tilted faintly toward the stairs.
Malec stiffened, every muscle in his body going still, his hand curling behind his back until his knuckles whitened.
The pipe stem creaked faintly under the pressure of his grip.
That was it. That was what had been gnawing at him.
He had been blind, too consumed with bending Allora's will, while trying to coax her into acceptance, into submission, and becoming his wife.
So focused on his own battle that he had ignored the dangers moving just beyond his reach.
He should have known better.
His mind moved fast, alarmingly precise in a way that scared most Awyans.
Surion despised him, always had, and there was little the king could do to Malec directly.
But Allora… Allora was different. She was vulnerable, canariae, wild in ways Surion would exploit.
And after the humiliation she had delivered in song, she would be an irresistible target.
If Malec did not stamp this out, it would burn into a wildfire that would consume them both.
Luko was guessing, yes. But his instincts were rarely wrong.
And Malec needed more than scraps of rumor.
He needed to storm the palace and wring the answers from that sly weasel himself.
But first, he had to make certain Allora was safe, that she was not left vulnerable while he hunted their enemies.
"Malec," Surian's voice sliced from behind her book, cool but weighted with exasperation. "Must I repeat myself? You'll pace a trench straight through my floor if you keep on like this."
He turned to answer her, lips parting, but the sound of the entrance bell cut through the room.
All three heads lifted. The butler's steps echoed faintly as he moved down the hall. The wait drew out until the doors opened again, and the butler's voice rang, measured and calm: "Lady Maren. Miss Avona. Lady Kirelle."
Surian rose abruptly, the legs of her chair scraping across the floor.
Shock widened her eyes, a rare break in her composure, and for a heartbeat even she looked unsettled, horrified.
Luko froze in place, his tea cup still poised midair, as though turned to stone.
Malec did not move. He stood where he was, still as carved marble, his gaze cutting across the room.
His expression remained unchanged, but his eyes, those pale, burning eyes, glared with the quiet violence of a predator.
A silent warning to all three women that if they had come to bring trouble to his feral Vash'telor, they would not leave untouched.
Lady Kirelle spoke first, her voice warm, smooth as honey, every word practiced. She stepped forward with a dip of her head, her jeweled hair catching the lamplight.
"Forgive us, Commander Malec, for coming without invitation," she said, her gaze flicking to him as if testing his reaction. "At the King's banquet, Allora and I shared a long conversation. We put aside our differences, and I realized… I should like to know her better. To be her friend."
Suspicion hardened his pale gaze as he folded his arms across his chest, the breadth of him filling the small breakfast chamber. "A nice sentiment," he said flatly. "But Allora is not seeing anyone. She has confined herself to her room since that night. She has not eaten."
Surian shifted, moving from her place at the table to stand beside her brother.
Her grace never faltered, but the tension around her mouth betrayed her unease.
She knew Kirelle far too well. The woman had been her tormentor since youth, and Surian had no reason to believe her intentions were suddenly pure.
And yet curiosity prickled at her. How had Allora, fierce and guarded, ended up in conversation with the very woman who had made Surian's life a misery for decades?
Calm but edged, Malec's voice cut through her thoughts. "What has changed? You and Allora were not on speaking terms since the tailor shop incident. And now this."
Kirelle's smile deepened, the edges almost wicked.
"A chat at the ball," she answered smoothly.
"We discovered we are more alike than different.
Why waste energy on grudges, when we could make amends?
Besides..." Her eyes lingered on him in a way meant to be coy.
"It is never wise to stay on the Silver Fox's bad side.
" The words were almost flirtatious, but they struck no spark.
To Malec, her smile bounced off him, utterly ineffective.
One of the other ladies, Avona, spoke quickly, her voice nervous. "We are here to apologize. To extend our hands in friendship."
His gaze slid to them, one brow arched, his silence heavy.
He didn't believe them, not for a breath, but perhaps he could use them.
Perhaps this was the coaxing his flame needed to leave her self-made prison.
Inclining his head, his voice came out curt.
"If you can persuade her to come down and eat, then I will accept your apology.
But be sure you apologize to her first. Not me. "