13. Healer Kalemon #4
"I can't," she cut in, louder this time, her throat tight, words fracturing. "You don't understand. If they find out, if he finds out?—"
She stopped. The rest of the sentence shattered in her throat like broken glass.
Kalemon set the book down and crossed the room. She pulled a thick wool blanket from a chair and draped it across Allora's shaking shoulders. The younger woman didn't resist, only sat there, clutching herself tighter beneath the weight of it.
"Take a breath," Kalemon murmured. "You're safe here."
But Allora shook her head hard, curls shifting loose from her wrap. "I'm never safe."
Kalemon crouched in front of her, resting her elbows on her knees, her presence grounding and solid.
"If this gets out," she said, her voice low and edged with certainty, "they'll make you a spectacle.
Lock you up in the finest room in the palace, dress you in silk, parade you before every noble house.
You won't disappear. You'll be everywhere.
Your name on every tongue, your face sketched in every broadsheet.
The first human to carry Awyan offspring.
" Her expression darkened. "You'll be worshipped as a miracle and confined like a zoo animal.
Malec will keep you under his protection, and every Awyan in the realm will know exactly who you are. "
Allora went still. Her chest rose and fell once, shallow. "And the child?"
Kalemon's gaze flicked downward. She clasped her calloused hands together. "Royal, rare and highly desired, the first of its kind. The Awyan wouldn't just raise it, they'd breed it, study it. Use it to legitimize attempts at creating more hybrids. You'd be nothing more than a vessel to them."
The silence that followed was suffocating.
Then, shakily, Allora asked, "Is there a way to stop it? Can you get rid of it?"
Kalemon’s breath caught suddenly. For the first time, her steady composure cracked. She lifted her eyes to the trembling young woman in front of her. For a long moment she said nothing. And then her skeptical face softened, not in pity but in understanding.
"I could try," she said softly. "But I'd be gambling with your life.
Your body's already in uncharted territory.
If this pregnancy is tied to whatever's happening in your biology...
" Her voice trailed off. "I don't know how it would react and all I have is medieval level medical instruments, no access to their magical tools since I do not wield magic.”
Allora stared at the floor, jaw trembling. She hated this. This was all that fucking albino goat’s fault.
Kalemon straightened at last, folding her arms across her broad chest. She exhaled a long sigh, gray eyes narrowing as if measuring what came next.
"You can stay here. For as long as you need.
No one comes this far south. I'll monitor you, keep you hidden.
If anyone asks, you're my niece from the western valley. Stubborn, pretty, and very pregnant."
A weak laugh broke from Allora's lips, dry and brittle. It died almost instantly in the thick, firelit air.
Kalemon's voice was steady, practical, as if she were discussing trade routes instead of futures.
"Once the baby's born, I'll smuggle you out of the continent.
Get you to the isles. Or across the channel.
Somewhere far. Hell, we might even sell the child back to the father and use him as a bargaining chip. "
Allora's eyes lifted at that, her breath catching in her chest. And there it was again. That name. That ghost.
Malec.
Her heart clenched so hard it hurt. She shook her head slowly, her curls brushing against the blanket around her shoulders. “No,” she whispered. “He’ll never stop hunting me.”
Kalemon didn't argue. She watched Allora with the calm of someone who had already accepted what could not be changed. Her face said it all. The truth needed no voice.
The Silver Fox was many things. A creature of violence wrapped in military precision with a mind so etched it had rewritten the art of war and a conqueror whose shadow stretched across empires.
Strip away the titles, the accolades, the fear he commanded, and what remained was far more dangerous: a tyrant whose obsession had become his religion.
The past several weeks in the hollow towns far south of the Capitol had been quiet, and Allora had begun to settle into a rhythm.
Perhaps not peace, but at least survival.
She and Kalemon lived off the small fortune Kirelle had pressed into her hand, and Kalemon's shrewd bargaining and steady work kept them moving, always one step ahead of notice.
They had decided that staying in one spot was too risky and so they moved every few weeks from one town to another, never staying in one spot too long, avoiding the bustling cities and the bright, tourist-choked roads, choosing instead the forgotten villages, the quiet alleys, the places where people minded their own business.
But travel weighed on her. Each day left her more drained, her body betraying her with every step, every morning she woke heavier, slower, hungrier.
Still, she carved routine out of the chaos.
She rose with the cold dawn, helped Kalemon arrange jars, separate herbs, grind powders.
Her training in physics and biology became unexpectedly useful when measuring dosages, calculating timing, understanding chemical combinations.
Though Kalemon never offered open praise, the fact that she trusted Allora to measure tinctures and stir salves was praise enough.
Every few days, the golden dragonfly would appear, materializing from nowhere like a glint of sunlight given form.
It would land on her wrist or shoulder, and she would feel warmth spread through her body, chasing away the bone-deep exhaustion that clung to her.
She would whisper her thanks, watching as its wings caught the light, and then it would vanish as mysteriously as it came.