17. The Wound She Left #3
By the time she reached the edge of camp, the sight was unmistakable. Kirelle stood before the gate draped in fox fur and arrogance, arguing with a guard who looked one breath away from collapse.
The poor watchman was sweating despite the cold.
"I told you," he stammered, "civilian entry is not permitted beyond?—"
"Oh, spare me," Kirelle cut in, eyes glittering with disdain. "I've already bedded half your officers in my time. Don't insult me with rules."
Her voice carried like silk drawn over steel.
"Enough," Surian called, stepping forward.
The guard nearly sagged with relief. "My lady, I?—"
"She's expected," Surian lied smoothly, lifting her hand. "Let her through."
The soldier gratefully obeyed. Kirelle swept past him with a triumphant tilt of her chin, heels striking the frozen stone like a ticking clock.
"Well," she said, brushing gloved hands together. "Am I to be paraded, or shall we walk?"
Surian narrowed her eyes but motioned forward. Their strides fell in sync, though tension coiled between them like barbed wire.
"What are you doing here, Kirelle?" Surian asked quietly, voice low and controlled. "This is a military outpost, not one of your salons."
"Oh, sweet Surian." Kirelle's tone dripped with sugar-laced venom. "If I had known you missed me, I would have sent letters."
"I asked you a question."
Kirelle's mouth curved, razor-thin. "It's family business. And Malec needs to hear it. So do you, actually."
Surian's stomach tightened. "What kind of family business?"
Kirelle tilted her head, copper curls catching in the pale light. Her lips pressed together in that dangerous way that never meant anything good.
"You know," she murmured, "it's almost adorable how neither of you realize just how relevant your mother still is."
Surian stopped dead.
The cold bit deep into her bones, but it wasn't the winter that froze her.
Kirelle took two more steps before pausing, turning with feline grace. Her eyes gleamed.
"What did you say?" Surian's voice was low, shaking despite her best effort.
Kirelle's expression darkened to predatory acknowledgement.
"I’m saying—it's about Leira."
The tent was dim, the air thick with smoke and iron. Malec stood over the war table, sleeves rolled to his forearms, eyes fixed on a weather-worn map. Colored pins glittered like wounds in the canvas: sightings, rumors, whispers intercepted from every border.
But his gaze wasn't on any of them.
It lingered in the empty space between kingdoms, where no marks lay. That's where she was. He knew it. And that presence was there too — the one he'd felt in the dream. Small. New. And miserably undeniable.
His hand gripped the edge of the table as he reached for a new pin when?—
"Malec!"
The tent flap slammed open. Luko stumbled inside, snow clinging to his cloak, breath fogging in the cold.
Malec didn't look up. "You'd better be dying."
"Worse," Luko panted. "Kirelle's here and she's inside the camp, asking for you."
The room froze.
Malec's head lifted slowly, his gaze honed and merciless. "…What?"
"She arrived ten minutes ago," Luko said quickly. "Arguing with the guards at the gate. Surian intercepted her, but she's insisting it's about… family." He swallowed. "About Leira."
The name hit like a blade.
Malec's jaw tensed, his knuckles whitening against the table's edge. Kirelle here meant movement. He straightened, not fast, but with the slow, precise control of a predator before it lunges. "Why now?"
Luko shook his head. "She wouldn't say. Only that it concerns Leira directly. Which means it's big. But Malec… if you're going to face her, you need to keep your head."
Malec turned, pale hair unbound and wild in the brazier's glow. His eyes, shadowed and far too aware, fixed on Luko with chilling clarity. "My head is the only thing I haven't lost."
A beat of silence passed. Then he began rolling down his sleeves, slow and deliberate. "Send her in."
"Maybe Surian should speak to her first."
"Send. Her. In."
The words landed like dead weight and suddenly the tent seemed to breathe colder for them.
Luko's jaw twitched. He gave a single nod and disappeared through the flap, the wind hissing after him.
Malec didn't move. He stood in the center of the room, staring at the crimson pins on the map until the canvas stirred again.
The flap lifted. Surian entered first, her cloak clutched close, face pale with apprehension. Luko followed, uneasy. And then came Kirelle.
She glided in draped in fox-fur and lace, the brazier light catching in her copper curls.
The pungent scent of her perfume curled through the air, clove and crushed rose clashing with smoke and sweat.
A smile played at her lips, the kind that suggested she held all the pieces to a game no one else understood.
Her gaze swept the tent, landing on Malec, and for the briefest heartbeat, she faltered.
Still beautiful, but not with life. With collapse. Like a dying star, brilliant and burning itself out.
His uniform hung loose on a frame carved down to the bone, skin gleaming silver-pale, almost translucent in the firelight. The severe lines of his cheekbones no longer suggested elegance, but erosion. And his eyes. Shadow-ringed, sunken, burning with some feral, starved obsession.
This wasn’t the controlled commander she had last seen. This was a mind unraveling, barely held together by sheer will. Kirelle drew in a slow breath, hiding the quick catch in her throat. She had expected fury, perhaps. Cold dismissal. But this? This madness staring back at her?
She straightened, recovering her composure, letting smugness settle back into her expression. She had what he needed. For once, she held the power.
Malec's gaze dragged over her with open contempt, lips curling faintly. He knew. Knew she'd helped Allora slip through his fingers, knew she'd played her little games while his world burned.
And now she stood here, thinking she could bargain.
"Speak," he said softly, his voice like frost cracking underfoot.
Kirelle's chin lifted, her voice cutting through the tension. "I know who has your Canariae."
Malec went still. His arms folded across his chest, slow and deliberate. She had his full attention now.
"Let me guess," he said, his tone flat. "You are here to give me information on the whereabouts of my Canariae for a price?"
Kirelle's lips curved into a smile. The Silver Fox was always more perceptive than most Awyans, an intelligent opponent. She had always respected that but feared it nonetheless.
"This is the new deal. Take it or leave it.
" Her voice was steady, certain. "I know who has your wild Canariae and the general area she is in, but I cannot pinpoint the exact spot.
I know she is being watched after by someone that you know, and I have written proof of correspondence that was taken in transit.
" She paused, letting the weight settle.
"If I give you these things, regardless of the outcome, will you give me the chance to carry your sire? "
The tent went silent.
Luko's face twisted in disgust. Surian scoffed, the sound terse and disbelieving. There was no way, no possible way Malec would agree to such a thing.
"Done."
The word fell like a stone into water.
"Malec, no!" Surian stepped forward, voice cracking. "You cannot possibly?—"
"Are you out of your mind?" Luko's protest overlapped hers, horror plain on his face.
Malec didn't acknowledge either of them. His toasted beige remained fixed on Kirelle, cold and unwavering. "But you will give me the information first."
Kirelle's smile widened. She nodded once, reaching into her furs and drawing out a folded parchment. She crossed the space between them and placed it in his hand, her voice soft but deliberate as she spoke.
"This whole time, your dearest mother has had her."
Malec froze.
Luko gasped. Surian made a strangled sound, as though Kirelle had invoked the devil himself.
Malec's pupils dilated, pale irises swallowing into blackness. Of course. Of course Leira was involved. Why wouldn't she be? The Awyan strategist orchestrated chaos like others breathed air. But how did Kirelle know? And had she known this whole time?
His voice came out low, dangerous. "And you knew this whole time and said nothing?"
Kirelle stepped back instinctively, pulling her furs tighter around her body like armor.
"I... I... did not know until recently." Her words tumbled out, defense written across her face.
"I had hired her to search and didn't hear back from her until about a week ago when she informed me that she had the Canariae and she was voiding the contract.
She even slapped me in my own home when I confronted her about it. "
Kirelle saw Malec pinning her with his accusations and his stare as he watched her with the letter in his hand waiting to be read. She only smiled, trying to shift the blame from herself to another victim, one that wasn't there to defend themselves.
"And that's not all," Kirelle purred. "According to the correspondence, your Canariae isn't just being hidden from you."
Malec unfolded the parchment with slow, deliberate precision, the paper groaning in his grip. His eyes, holding the color of fields before the scythe, tracked the words, line by line, absorbing the report about the eastern highlands, the dark-skinned Canariae, the healer, the supplies.
Then his gaze snagged.
The Canariae appears to be with child, approximately seven to eight months along.
He read it again.
With child.
Again.
Seven to eight months along.
His body went rigid. Muscles locked. His jaw ticked once. Twice. Then stilled.
An emptiness colder than the wind outside spread through the tent.
Surian took a step forward, careful, voice low. "What does it say?"
No answer.
Malec didn't move. Didn't blink. His pupils had narrowed to pinpoints, black needles in pale ice. His hand crushed the edge of the table until his knuckles blanched bone-white. His other hand shook faintly, still clutching the parchment.
The air felt heavy. Dangerous.