12. Checkmate #6
Malec stood at the foot of the throne platform, unflinching.
He let the king's fury crash against him like waves against rock.
Inside, his own rage roared hotter, deeper, but he forced it down and held it there.
He needed Surion's resources, Imperial guards and his reach.
Let him shout and spit. Malec would suffer it for now.
When he finally turned to face his cousin, he regarded him with cool disdain, as though Surion were no more than a gnat buzzing around a ripe fruit bowl.
"You know how Allora is," Malec said, his voice calm but edged like steel.
"No one on this planet can keep her from accomplishing what she wants.
Not even me." His jaw tightening, gaze burning like flame over ice.
"But I will get her back, even if I have to burn down every town in Ulvareth to do so. "
The words fell heavy in the chamber. Surion blanched.
From the shadows, Luko shifted uncomfortably, his grip tightening around the tablet in his hands.
Surin's jaw flexed as his eyes flicked toward his son, then back to the king.
Across the cold hall, Surin and Luko exchanged uneasy glances, the same grim realization settling in both of their eyes. This was only the beginning.
The doors opened again.
The Wascori'Thil family was escorted in, dressed impeccably in silks and velvets, their powdered cheeks pale beneath the weight of dread.
Henriq, the patriarch of the line, walked first with a stiff spine that betrayed his age more than his dignity.
At his side came Dariose, his stepson and heir, face set but hands betraying a restless twitch.
Lady Oriz followed, Kirelle's mother, her jewels flashing like cold fire at her throat.
Kirelle herself came last, her posture perfect, her eyes fixed ahead.
Her gaze found Malec immediately. Nothing in her expression betrayed her thoughts.
"Commander," she said, bowing her head with practiced grace. "You sent for us."
Malec smiled. The expression held no kindness whatsoever.
The marble throne hall was colder than usual, lit not with sunlight but with the metallic sheen of fear.
Courtiers gathered along the edges watched with downcast eyes, the weight of their collective held breath thick enough to choke on.
The Wascori'Thils stood in a line before him, gowns pristine, jewels immaculate, but no embroidery nor powder could hide the tension in their fingers or the faint tremble of their lashes.
They had not been invited—they were summoned. And they all knew what that meant.
Malec stood at the base of the dais, framed by pillars of black stone and banners bearing the insignia of the royal house.
His uniform clung defined and perfect to his frame, blue and white cut with gold, the high collar biting against his throat.
Black leather boots gleamed as he shifted his weight, set shoulder-width apart with a soldier's stance.
His platinum hair, bound back into a severe low ponytail, caught the torchlight like cold fire.
At his hip, his sword gleamed. Today it was not ceremonial.
Behind him stood Luko, pale and hollow-eyed, his notes trembling in his grip though he couldn't read a word of them.
The poor healer looked more ghost than Awyan, his presence as fragile as parchment left out in the rain.
Surin sat to Malec's right, silent and inscrutable, the still weight of judgment incarnate.
The father watched his son with growing concern, noting the too-rigid set of his shoulders, the faint tremor in his clenched fists, the wildness barely restrained behind those sand-washed eyes.
King Surion perched on the throne itself, alert but uneasy, watching with a tension he tried and failed to mask.
Malec's gaze raked across the family with glacial slowness. He let the pressure build until it began to claw at their nerves, until every breath in the chamber felt too loud. When he finally spoke, his voice was silk drawn over stone.
"I called you here," he said, "because my Canariae is missing."
Not one of them dared answer him.
A single step forward. The sound of his boot echoed like a hammer strike.
"I am not here to ask if you helped her."
The tension grew heavier. The hall itself seemed to hold its breath.
"I'm here to ask..." He let the words drip slow, deliberate, savoring the way unease rippled through the family.
Then his eyes locked on Kirelle. The chill in his gaze was so absolute that even King Surion stiffened where he sat.
"...which of you whispered in her ear that she could outwit me?"
A shiver rippled through the room. Lady Oriz's jaw clenched, her jeweled hand tightening against the folds of her gown.
Dariose's eyes dropped, the weight of silence forcing them down.
Only Kirelle met Malec's gaze, unflinching, though the faint pulse at her throat ticked visibly, betraying her calm.
Malec circled them slowly, deliberate as a hawk riding thermals above cornered prey.
Each strike of his boots against the marble carried steady rhythm, the sound magnified in the brittle quiet.
"She couldn't have done this alone," he said, each word deliberate, damning.
"Someone fed her confidence. Gave her cover.
Perhaps it was a laugh, a shared drink, a private word in a corner you thought I wouldn't notice. "
He lifted his hand, and pinched between his fingers was a small black paper packet, empty but damning in its implication.
He held it like evidence, like a promise.
Stopping behind Kirelle, he let his voice drop into a tone that cut lower than steel.
"She didn't escape through force. She escaped through grace. Through access."
Surin shifted in his seat, the first movement he had made since the family entered.
Watching his son pace like a caged predator, watching the tremor in his hands that Malec thought he concealed, the father felt dread settle deep in his chest. Surin had watched Malec survive wars, betrayals, losses that would have broken lesser men.
But this was different. Allora had been the tether that kept him grounded, and without her, Malec was a storm with no anchor.
Kirelle exhaled, soft and measured. "With all due respect, Commander, she fooled all of us."
Malec's lips curled, but the expression was no smile.
"No. She didn't fool me." He stepped around her, back into their line of sight, his dune-beige eyes burning through the air like cold fire.
"I knew she would run. I just didn't think she'd get help from you.
You brought her back down the stairs, didn't you?
Smoothed her hair. Played the role. Invited her to your tea party, even though she humiliated you twice in public.
But where did you send her after that, Lady Kirelle? "
The woman said nothing.
Malec closed the distance until the air between them quivered. "Did you give her gold? A distraction? Or was your discretion the real gift?"
The chamber held its breath. Malec's mouth curved again, the kind of smile wolves made before tearing out a throat.
Kirelle stood alone now.
Malec faced her with the full weight of command pressed into every line of his body.
His blue and white uniform sat immaculate, black knee-high boots planted in marble, sword gleaming at his hip like it had been waiting for war.
He watched Kirelle for any tells or signs, voice low and cutting.
"She played us all. But not without help. "
Kirelle lifted her chin, her spine straightening. "She doesn't need help. You underestimated her."
Malec's eyes narrowed, the glint in them pointed and steady. "And you overestimated my tolerance."
Henriq Wascori'Thil finally stepped forward, voice tight with practiced courtesy. "With all due respect, Commander, do you have proof that Kirelle did these things, or are you simply accusing? Because this is a serious accusa?—"
Malec tilted his head, ignoring the old man as he studied Kirelle. “What do you want?”
Kirelle inclined her chin, the motion slow and deliberate. “Yes. A simple request.”
She stepped closer, copper-auburn hair catching the candlelight like molten glass, her expression composed. “You know my family has pressed for a union between us. Since we were children. Since the moment your blood became valuable enough to measure and covet.”
Malec's face remained unreadable.