16. If It Were a Better World #3
"Oh, darling," Leira said, wiping at her eye with one gloved finger.
"If I wanted to eat you, I'd have done it already.
You're far too stringy from all that running.
" She gestured grandly at the room. "But worry not.
I only devour Canariae when they bore me.
“And you two?” A sly smile curved her lips.
“Far too fun to kill. This is hospitality, learn to accept it gracefully. "
"Hospitality," Allora repeated flatly. "From someone who calls her servant Thing."
"He knows what he did," Leira said sternly and sudden.
Kalemon set her jaw. "I'm sleeping with one eye open."
Leira smiles amiably, turning toward the door. "Please do. Someone needs to tell me if Authur tries to escape again." Then she was gone, the door clicking softly behind her.
Allora and Kalemon stood in silence, the room too pristine, too bright, the shadows pressing at its edges.
Kalemon finally elbowed Allora in the ribs. "You idiot. Never tip a predator off." She threw her cloak onto the bed. "Also, I get the right side."
Allora scoffed. "You don't snore on the left side."
"I definitely do. And I'll make it worse if you keep talking."
Allora opened her mouth to fire back, then froze at the clatter behind them.
They turned to see poor Thing—Authur?—kneeling at the foot of the bed. He had dropped one of the heavier bags, the metal buckles of Allora's duffle ringing harsh against the polished floor. His arms trembled violently, breath wheezing as though his body would give out at any second.
He looked up, lips cracked, voice faint. "Forgive me, mistress..."
Allora flinched. Her throat went dry, she opened her mouth but no words came.
Kalemon gave her a single wide-eyed look, dangerous as a warning blade. Don't you dare.
The old man bent again, his spine bowing with the weight of centuries as he struggled to lift the last bag. His hands shook so badly the buckles rattled against the polished floor.
Allora muttered under her breath, low enough that only Kalemon could hear, "This shit is depressing. If Leira doesn't kill us in our sleep, waking up to this mummy every morning will definitely do it."
Kalemon snorted, biting the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing outright. "Shut up and pick your side of the bed."
Snow drifted in slow, deliberate spirals beyond the high-arched windows of the Wascori'Thil Estate, each flake glittering faintly before melting into the frost-veined glass.
The marble towers rose like pale sentinels against the bruised afternoon sky, their polished surfaces catching the faint light in gleams like a dragon's scales at rest.
A messenger bird cut through the gray, a streak of blue-gray feathers and black-tipped wings. It circled once, twice, before alighting with delicate precision on a blackwood perch outside the third-story balcony.
Inside, warmth reigned. The fire crackled low, perfuming the chamber with cloves and orange peel. Heavy drapes of damask red softened the tall windows, while the gleam of silver-gilt furniture cast glimmers across the marble floor.
Lady Kirelle reclined in a lounge of carved ivory, her copper-auburn curls cascading over one shoulder, her gown a river of wine-red velvet.
Before her lay a board of obsidian and mother-of-pearl, its surface carved with territories and bloodlines—the ancient Awyan game of Dominion.
She held a small onyx marker delicately between two fingers, tapping it against her lip as her eyes traced possible alliances and betrayals with predatory calculation.
Her maid, Elira, finally moved, a pale ivory piece placed with hesitance, as though she already feared the mistake.
Kirelle's lips curved without warmth. "Wrong move, Elira. You've just surrendered the west gate. Again."
The maid said nothing, never did. That was why Kirelle kept her.
Before her opponent could stammer a reply, a servant entered bearing the bird, its talons clicking lightly against his gloves. The creature gave a curt metallic chirp, then hopped daintily to its golden perch. From its leg, the servant unfastened a small scroll and presented it with a bow.
Kirelle took it without rising. Elegance was her armor, disinterest her blade. She unrolled the parchment with lazy grace, her eyes flicking over the words.
A soft, sharp breath escaped her.
"For the love of blood and boredom," she murmured, the parchment trembling slightly in her hand before she crushed it. "Leira, again!"
The paper crumpled like a dying leaf in her lap. "Why is it that brilliance so often breeds insufferable theatrics?"
With a flick of her wrist, she cast the scroll onto the board, scattering her armies like fallen soldiers. She rose in a single fluid motion, her silhouette etched against the golden firelight, but the movement felt hollow. Performative. As though she were playing the role of herself.
"First her son, now her," she said, voice tight despite her attempt at control. "Always making art out of cruelty, when efficiency would serve better."
She moved to the window, folding her arms as she gazed out at the falling snow. Its stillness was a mocking contrast to the storm building in her chest.
"Leira…apparently ruling kingdoms, weaving alliances, and holding half the noble Houses in her palm isn't enough." Her reflection in the glass looked back at her, beautiful and cold and alone. "She must toy with the mouse before she delivers it to the cat."
A memory struck her unexpectedly, unbidden and unwelcome. A laugh, bright and reckless and utterly human. Allora's laugh. The sound of wildfire unchained, of someone who didn't calculate every word before speaking it.
Kirelle's jaw locked. Her fingers tightened on her arms.
She had liked that laugh. Liked the Canariae who made it.
"I still don't like this," she admitted to her quiet handmaid, the confession slipping out before she could stop it. Her voice was quieter now, stripped of its usual polish. "But I cannot afford not to play. Not when I am this close."
Behind her, Elira bent in suspended quiet, resetting the board with trembling fingers. The soft click of pieces being returned to their positions was the only sound. Kirelle closed her eyes briefly. When she opened them again, her reflection had regained its composure.
"If Leira wants to toy with her target," she continued, her tone once again smooth as steel, "let her. So long as she doesn't break it before I deliver it."
She crossed to the side table, lifting a glass of garnet-dark wine. The surface quivered faintly, like blood remembering the body it once sustained.
"Empathy," she whispered, more to herself than to anyone else. "Useless in court. Useless in war. A luxury I cannot afford."
She drank deeply, the wine burning down her throat.
"She's a Canariae. And I, Awyan." The words tasted like ash. "We don't rewrite bloodlines for the sake of friendship."
But as the wine burned down her throat, the bitterness that lingered was not from the drink.
It was the lie.
Because she had considered it. In the quiet moments between strategies and schemes, she had imagined a world where she helped Allora escape for real.
Where she sent her somewhere Malec could never reach and chose the one who had looked at her with genuine warmth over the political advantage that Canariae's capture would bring.
But imagination was cheap. Action required sacrifice.
And Kirelle had not gotten this far by making sacrifices that benefited others.
She set the glass down with careful precision, each movement controlled, perfect. The mask firmly back in place as she returned to her seat, her gown settling around her like a throne of blood-red silk. She lifted another pawn, studying it in the firelight.
"Reset the board," she said quietly. "And this time, Elira, try to last longer than three moves."
The maid obeyed in silence.
And Kirelle played on, surrounded by warmth and luxury and the ghosts of choices she could not unmake, moving pieces across a board while somewhere far away, a Canariae who she was about to betray ran for her life.
The fire in the parlor crackled low, shadows flickering across velvet curtains and glinting off silver-framed portraits.
Surian paced.
Barefoot, her hair slipping loose from its braid, she drifted like a ghost in her own house. Her fingers worried the hem of her robe, her lips trembling as she sniffled, breath catching in her throat. The room was warm, yet she shivered.
Her eyes, raw and red-rimmed from sleepless nights, brimmed again as she circled past the hearth.
"Always Malec," she whispered, broken and bitter. "Everything is always about Malec."
Her gaze snagged on the silver candleholder above the mantel. She didn't think, she moved.
Her hand seized it, and with a violent cry she hurled it across the room. The crash against the stone rang like a sword dropped on the battlefield.
A maid rushed in, startled. "My lady?—!"
Surian spun, wide-eyed, feral. She straightened at once, her voice clipped and brittle. "Clean it. Then leave."
The maid bobbed a quick nod and scurried out, skirts rustling.
From the adjoining room came the soft tread of her father. Lord Surin stepped in, tall and composed in his house robes, spectacles perched lightly on the bridge of his nose. He studied her quietly, calmly, as though this scene were not new to him.
"What happened now?" His tone was low, unjudging.
Surian didn't answer. Instead she flew into his arms like she had as a child.
He caught her without hesitation, sighing gently as she buried her face in his chest. His hand came to rest at the back of her head, steadying her as sobs wracked her thin frame. The gesture was instinctive, practiced, as though he had held her through a thousand storms before this one.
"There now," he murmured, his voice soft as worn velvet. "My bright girl. You've been crying for weeks. This must stop."
"I can't," she gasped. "I feel sick…I betrayed her."