9. Her Terms #2
The next morning split her open like glass.
Allora woke with a strangled cry, clutching at her temples as pain carved itself through her skull.
Her head throbbed as though caught in a vice, tightening with every breath until the pressure was unbearable.
She gasped, but no air seemed to reach her lungs.
Her mouth went dry, her throat parched as tears slipped free.
The pain came in a wave, peaked, and then broke. She released a ragged breath, realizing she had been holding it. Her chest heaved as the sobs caught her throat.
Arms closed around her waist. Malec's warmth pressed against her back, his voice rough with sleep but severe with worry. "Allora, what is it? Why are you crying?"
Her voice cracked. "My head. It's splitting. I think… I think I'm sick."
The sound of sheets shifted as he moved. She barely noticed until she realized he had left the bed, pulling his clothes from last night over his body in haste before returning to her side. In his hand was a cup of water.
She reached out with trembling fingers and clutched it greedily, drinking until the cup was nearly empty.
The coolness soothed her throat but did nothing for the pounding in her skull.
He took the cup gently from her, setting it on the nightstand.
His hand brushed her hair from her damp forehead. "Lie back. I will summon Luko."
She nodded faintly, folding into the pillow. The migraine still hummed just behind her eyes like a storm waiting to break. Her body shivered, her arms wrapping around herself as though she were freezing.
By the time Malec returned with Luko in tow, she was trembling outright, her teeth almost chattering from the chill wracking her. Malec's eyes went wide, his breath coming faster as panic clawed through him. He pointed at her with a hand that shook. "She is dying."
"Malec," Luko snapped, lifting a hand for silence. "Quiet." His tone carried the command of a healer, his focus narrowing as he moved to Allora's side. He pressed two fingers to her wrist, then to the base of her throat, his brow furrowing. "These are withdrawal symptoms."
Malec froze, breath caught in his chest. "Withdrawal? From what?"
Her lashes fluttered weakly as she groaned, but Luko ignored her, concentrating.
Malec's voice rose, hoarse and urgent. "Last night. There was a dragonfly, glowing, magic. It landed on her. I killed it."
Luko's head jerked up, his gold eyes flashing wide. "What?"
"I crushed it with my hand," Malec said firmly, though his tone carried no pride, only desperation.
Luko pinched the bridge of his nose and exhaled a long, irritated sigh. "You barbaric savage. Do you ever think before you act? That could have been the key to understanding what's happening to her."
Malec's fury snapped, his voice like a whip. "She is dying, Luko! I will smash every creature in this realm if it threatens her. Now find out what she needs before I lose her."
Luko's gold eyes went distant as he took her pulse again, counting inwardly while his other hand rested over the throb at her throat.
He listened to her breathing, watched the tremor in her fingers, noted the clamminess along her hairline and the way her muscles slightly shook, as if starved for more than food.
He set the handkerchief aside and spoke aloud, thinking through the symptoms as he went.
"Headache on waking, chills without fever, tremors, nausea.
The medallion draining to nothing the instant I passed it over her heart.
" He tapped the bronze disk at his belt.
"This doesn't read like poison. Infection would turn the medallion green or black.
Simple malnourishment wouldn't cause this kind of acute crash after a night's rest. This behaves like her body has been siphoned of a specific essence and is now in withdrawal for that essence. Nothing else will satisfy it."
Malec's hands curled at his sides. "Essence."
"Yes." Luko nodded once, decisive now, the line snapping taut.
"Last time she faltered, you gave her blood.
She didn't just survive that, she thrived after it.
Appetite returned. Color, strength, sleep.
We wrote it off as coincidence because we had no repeatable trial.
" His mouth flattened. "We have a repeatable trial now.
The drain happened again last night. You saw the dragonfly; the medallion confirmed the loss.
If your blood stabilized her before, it is rational to assume it can do so again.
Call it a theory if you like, but it is a theory with evidence, Malec. "
Malec looked from Luko to Allora, the worry in him honed into resolve. "Do it," he said to Luko, then leaned over the bed. He lowered himself into her field of vision, voice gentled, patient in a way he rarely was. "Allora. Listen to me. We will need to give you blood. Mine."
Her eyes snapped open, raw and wary. "Absolutely not," she said, voice hoarse.
"I don't need blood. What I need is a sterile field.
An open transfusion is insane. Infection, cross-reaction, a dozen ways this goes wrong.
No." She tried to push herself higher on the pillows, anger fighting with the weakness dragging at her limbs. "I'm a doctor and this is a hard pass."
"Nonsense," Luko said, not unkindly but firm as stone. "You've already had a transfusion from him, and it took. It saved your life. We're not debating medical theory in a lecture hall right now. You're shaking in a bed, your body is failing, stop being irrational and let me help you."
Allora shoved herself upright, breath catching, glare severe as glass. "Try it and I will break your fingers. Both of you, don’t you dare cut into me."
A long, controlled sigh left Malec as he straightened from the bed. Every muscle in his body went taut with the effort it took not to simply pin her down and end the argument by force. His hand lingered for a heartbeat over hers, then he pulled away.
"Enough," he said, voice low, final.
Allora glared up at him from the pillows, mouth open to retort, but he was already turning toward the door.
His steps were measured, deliberate, his shoulders rigid with purpose.
He was not going to waste more words. He would not ask Surian for counsel or beg for her logic.
He would enlist her precision for a far more necessary task.
For her sake and survival.
Malec strode down the hall, already planning the transfusion in his mind, already hearing the sound of her protests fading into nothing. She would rage when she learned what he had done, but better her fury than her funeral.
Allora's chest tightened with panic as Luko's questions came one after another, his healer's voice calm but insistent.
He was trying to assess her, to map out the pattern of her symptoms, but all she heard were bars being built around her with every word.
Her mind clawed at escape routes. She knew Malec—knew that caveman Awyan would do whatever he wanted regardless of her answer.
Her consent meant nothing to him. She could already feel the inevitability of it: his will pressed over hers until she broke.
She had hoped, na?vely, that he was changing. That maybe he was learning to temper himself, to give her the space to be human. But no, the truth was uglier. He would only grow worse: more bossy, even more overpowering…just more everything.
She thought back to the first transfusion.
That had been different because then, her life had been a chip she was willing to gamble against the fate of humanity.
Her father, brother, unit, the people she grew up with, the civilians they fought to save—her death would have been worth it for them.
But this? This wasn't sacrifice. This was Malec feeding his fear, smothering her with it, as he always did when it came to her.
Her mind shifted, slipping into the clinical detachment she'd been trained for.
The first transfusion had worked. That was the data point.
No infection, rejection not even anaphylaxis.
But why? She ran through the variables: blood type compatibility was the first barrier in any transfusion.
ABO matching, Rh factors, cross-matching to prevent hemolysis.
But they weren't even the same species. The likelihood of their blood being compatible was statistically improbable, borderline impossible. And yet it had worked.
What was the common denominator? The soul bond?
Some magical element in Awyan blood that her body recognized?
Was there an immunological component she couldn't account for without proper testing?
She needed a microscope, a centrifuge, blood typing cards at minimum.
Without lab equipment, she was working blind, reduced to educated guesses and empirical observation.
It grated against every fiber of her training.
It was strange. He was a creature of discipline, a soldier forged in iron structure.
Yet when it came to her, every rule fell away.
He unraveled. She almost laughed at the irony.
Maybe she should start calling him Grandpa, she thought with a bitter chuckle.
He was old-fashioned enough, hovering and fussy as an elder.
While Luko still spoke, questions she no longer cared to answer, she slid out of bed.
She moved slowly, her limbs aching, pretending that she was steadier than she felt.
If they thought she was well enough to stand, maybe they would leave her alone.
She crossed to the chair where her robe lay draped.
Pulling it on, she winced; her muscles were tight and sore, like when she'd had the Covart Virus, but this wasn't the same.
She felt drained, as though a deeper part of her had been siphoned away.