15. Where No One Can Reach Her #2
Allora swallowed against the bile in her throat, her body trembling. "She's going to force him to give her a child?"
Leira tilted her head, eyes gleaming with dark amusement. "Force? Oh, no, little canariae. He will agree. He will do anything if it leads him back to you. Even if it costs him pieces of himself he cannot reclaim."
The fire cracked softly, shadows dancing along the walls.
Leira leaned closer, her voice dropping to a whisper meant to coil in Allora's ear. "The question is not what they will do. It is what you will do, Allora. How far are you willing to go to never be caught again?"
Allora stared back at Leira, stone-faced, her arms crossed tight over her chest.
The Awyan woman tilted her head as she lowered herself onto the floor, lounging languidly in front of the fire. Her deep blue cloak pooled around her like smoke, her mouth curling into that smug little smile Allora was already growing to despise.
"So tell me," Leira said, voice low and smooth, "what type of Canariae got close enough to do that to you? And is he still alive?"
Allora narrowed her eyes. "None of your goddamn business."
Leira's grin widened, all teeth and mockery. Her fingers tapped lazily against the stone as though even her patience was a performance. "Come now, don't be shy, it's practically a miracle. That child must be a stubborn little thing. You should be proud."
Allora rolled her eyes and pushed up from the bed. "I'm done here. I'm tired and need to lie down, and I have to pee every ten minutes. Go interrogate someone else."
Leira let out a quiet laugh, unbothered, her eyes following Allora as she stretched her back and adjusted her cloak. "How long do your pregnancies last, anyway?" she asked suddenly.
Allora turned, blinking. "What?"
"Your gestation period," Leira clarified, her tone flat, as if she were discussing cattle. "How long until the offspring is born?"
Allora wrinkled her nose. "Nine months. Give or take."
Leira's eyes widened. "Nine? Nine months?" She actually gasped, her composure cracking in genuine astonishment. "By the stars. That's barely longer than a seasonal bloom."
She laughed, startled and delighted. "No wonder you multiply like wildfire. Awyan pregnancies take nearly two full years."
Allora choked. "Oh, hell no. No wonder y'all barely procreate. I'd die."
Leira chuckled, dark and smooth. "Some do. But if the child is valuable enough, it's a risk worth taking."
Allora shuddered. "Your whole species is just exhausting."
"And yours is messy," Leira replied silkily. "But entertaining."
She looked Allora up and down as though she were some rare animal displayed in a glass case. "Hmm. I've decided. I'll accompany you."
Allora blinked. "Absolutely not."
"Yes, I will," Leira said, with the same cold certainty Malec used when issuing orders no one dared argue. "You'll need protection. You're hunted and I am an excellent shield."
"Fuck off," Allora snapped.
Leira only shrugged, serene as ever. "Would you rather I follow at a distance? I am a tracker, I will be watching regardless. This way, at least you'll benefit from my presence."
Allora stared, her mouth agape. She saw it now, clear as day. The arrogance, the commanding tone, the unshakable certainty. Malec's blood ran through her veins.
She groaned, dragging a hand down her neck to rub out the tense muscles. "God. You're definitely related."
Leira smiled sweetly, smug as ever. "You're welcome."
Allora looked around the inn room. It was dim and cramped, with two full-sized beds, one dusty rug, and a halfhearted promise of warmth from the mean little hearth in the corner. The three women were scattered like mismatched chess pieces forced into a truce.
Allora sat on the edge of the bed rubbing her lower back, the ache of pregnancy gnawing worse by the hour.
Kalemon perched on a stool near the window, sharpening a curved blade with angry little flicks.
Leira had taken the floor before the fire as if she owned the building, propped on one elbow, studying Allora like a walking medical anomaly.
"So, serious question now," Leira said, as if asking about the weather. "Who is the father?"
Allora groaned. "Oh my fucking God! We are doing this again?"
Leira raised a brow. "I am curious. You refuse to tell me, so naturally I must investigate." She began ticking off names on gloved fingers like suspects in a murder case. "It cannot be any of the Canariae in Surian's house. They were all ancient. One had no teeth."
"That is Surian's cook," Allora snapped. "And she is ninety-seven. What is wrong with you?"
Leira waved it away. "Hard to tell with your kind. You age quickly and you all look the same."
Kalemon growled. "That's racist."
"Mmm," Leira replied without remorse.
She tapped her lip, thinking. "Was it the dark-skinned one who helped you escape to the portal?" Her hawk eyes slid to Allora.
Allora blinked, then stared in horror. "That was my dad."
Leira paused, then hummed thoughtfully. "I see." She traced a lazy scribble in the air. "Mental note: not the father. Possibly too old. And related. Good to know."
Allora looked like she might combust. Leira remained serenely unbothered.
"Wait, how the hell do you even know about that?" Allora demanded.
Leira's smile curved slow and feline, her tone rich with lazy disdain. "Because, little spark, I am God. I see what I choose, I know what I please, and I ask because watching you squirm is infinitely more amusing than simply telling you."
She yawned and settled her head in her hand, her elbow propping her up as she lounged on the old wood floor. "You see, it is difficult for me. All Canariae blur together. Such soft faces."
Kalemon slammed the whetstone onto the sill. "Enough. Allora, stop talking to her. She is not trying to find the father. She is collecting information."
"You are right," Allora said, narrowing her eyes.
She looked at Leira. Leira only smiled and lifted both hands in airy surrender. "Guilty. My mind works in maps and questions. I cannot help it."
Allora grabbed the nearest dusty pillow and hurled it into Leira's face. It hit with a satisfying thwump.
"Sleep. On. The. Floor."
Leira sighed, peeled the pillow off, then tucked it behind her neck and reclined with obscene comfort by the fire. "Gladly."
Kalemon muttered, "This is the dumbest team I have ever been part of."
Allora flopped back on the bed and groaned. "Wake me if she looks like she is going to start dissecting me in my sleep."
The sky was bruised with gray, heavy with an impending storm as Malec's forces cut through the hills of the southern frontier.
Frost clung to the pines like brittle lace.
Every hoofbeat punched into the cold earth like a war drum.
They moved with urgency, sweeping through the narrow forest pass that led to the outer border towns.
Malec rode ahead, silent as winter death.
He wore weather-appropriate hunting gear now: a black suede fur coat, thick and regal, snow leopard fur lining with fibers blowing in the wind.
Beneath it, he wore a dark gray high-necked tunic, tight and elegant, tailored for battle in the cold.
His black pants were tucked into heavy war boots, crusted with frost and grit, each step of his dapple gray horse pounding like war drums against the earth.
His sword bounced lightly against his hip, the only thing that seemed to move with rhythm.
But what drew the eye, what unsettled even the soldiers riding behind him, was his hair. Unbound. Wild. Whipping in the wind like silver flame. No longer the slicked, disciplined braid of the Capitol officer. It mirrored the storm inside him now: untamed, violent, unraveling.
Dark circles carved shadows beneath his eyes so deep they looked like bruises. His skin had taken on a waxy pallor, and though his jaw was tight with fury, his weariness hung from his bones like armor made of ghosts.
He looked like an Awyan haunted. Or worse, possessed.
And he wasn't slowing down. Not until he had her, his Canariae in his arms, warm and safe.
But Luko noticed the smaller things, the cracks only a friend would see.
Malec's gloves were worn thin at the fingertips from the endless scrape of nail against leather, his thumb dragging in a constant, frantic circle that left darkened smudges of frost and dirt.
His pipe had not touched his lips in days.
Luko saw the bulge of the pouch at his hip, unopened, forgotten.
The commander's jaw twitched each time a branch snapped or a horse snorted, his head jerking at the sound before he forced himself forward again.
His hands trembled slightly on the reins, a tremor he couldn't quite control.
The Awyan who prized order, who braided each silver strand of hair into perfection, now rode with strands whipping across his face, sticking to the damp corners of his mouth.
His breathing was clipped, as though the air itself stung his lungs.
Twice in the last hour, Luko had seen him sway slightly in the saddle before catching himself, his grip tightening on the pommel.
Behind them, the soldiers exchanged worried glances. One of the younger men leaned toward his companion, murmured briefly, and received a quick shake of the head. They had never seen the Silver Fox, who had always been ice and steel and perfect control, break before.
Beside him, Luko rode in stiff silence, his breath fogging in the cold. He clutched a stack of reports: scrawled observations from scattered border guards, whispers from merchants, rumors of a cloaked Canariae female seen passing through hamlets and hill towns.