20. The Womb of the Realm #6
"This isn't a petition," Surin said quietly. "It's from the Capitol."
A muscle ticked in Malec's brow. Still, he did not move a muscle.
"I don't care what my cousin wants. He can find someone else to irritate."
Surin stepped closer, the hem of his robe brushing against the damp stone floor. The torchlight glinted against the seal in his hand.
"It's not a personal request," he said carefully. "It's imperial."
That made him open both eyes.
The steam seemed to shudder, disturbed by the sudden shift in his energy. The air thickened. The warmth no longer soothed but smothered.
He sat forward slightly, pale tan eyes narrowing. "Who's it addressed to?"
Surin did not answer immediately. He simply extended the scroll, letting it speak for him.
Malec took it, unhurried, though the water sloshed softly as his arm broke the stillness. His fingers tore through the seal with graceful precision.
He read the name inked in bold, careful script.
Lady Allora.
Malec went very still.
The air changed. The steam curled tighter around him, no longer comforting but threatening, suffocating. He placed the scroll on the rim of the basin with deliberate care that belied the fire raging beneath his skin.
"Who told him?"
Surin's expression remained neutral. "Someone in the guard. They talk. One of the attendants present at the birth probably returned to the Capitol or a messenger sent by bird more likely. Word spread, quickly."
Malec leaned back slowly, the tips of his fingers tapping the basin's porcelain edge in measured rhythm. Each tap echoed like a drumbeat of war.
"He dares to summon her?"
"It's not a request," Surin said softly. "It's an imperial command."
What descended was lethal in its patience.
Surin watched his son carefully, reading the violence coiling beneath the surface. "This will put enormous strain on you, Malec. On all of you. The court will circle like vultures. The pressure will be relentless." He paused. "And it will hurt my grandson."
Malec said nothing.
"Perhaps..." Surin continued, his voice measured, "perhaps it's time to consider what's best for everyone involved."
Malec's eyes flicked to his father.
"Send her back to her people," Surin said quietly. "Keep Vaeril. He belongs with his own kind. But Allora... she wants to go home. Letting her leave might be the only way to keep her safe."
"Never."
The word cut through the steam like a blade.
Malec rose from the water, his movements controlled but radiating barely restrained fury.
Water rolled down the hard lines of his body, sliding over the thick muscles of his back and chest, his broad shoulders scarred with faint pale slashes from wars fought long before Allora had ever entered his life.
He stepped out of the tub, grabbed the dark towel folded over the brass stool, and dried himself slowly. Deliberate.
"She belongs with me," Malec said, his voice low and absolute. "By my side. Nowhere else."
Surin's expression tightened. "You're planning to go to the court and demand for a change in laws overnight that have been set for centuries.
To make a Canariae your legal wife." He shook his head.
"That will make you more enemies, Malec.
You're a father now. You need to concentrate on your son, not fighting political battles you cannot win. "
Malec threw the towel aside and walked, bare and unhurried, across the room toward where his clothes had been laid out.
"I will ask Allora to accompany me to Caelistra," he said, pulling on black trousers.
"We'll leave Vaeril with Surian and Luko.
He's too young to be in court with all the wolves eyeing him.
" He fastened the belt at his waist. "But I cannot ignore the summons.
And I need to legitimize Allora with her presence. "
Surin sighed, the sound carrying centuries of weariness. "This will not turn out well."
Malec reached for his silver tunic, the fox emblem catching the candlelight like frost on steel. "If it comes down to it, I'll just have to take the throne. Then no one can question it."
Surin's eyes widened slightly. "You're being reckless, you cannot fight off the whole kingdom!"
Malec pulled the tunic over his head, then turned to face his father fully. "I can. And I will if I'm pushed to do so. I will always put her and my son first."
The conviction in his voice left no room for argument.
Surin stood unmoving for a long moment, his pale blue eyes searching his son's face. Then the tension in his expression eased into resignation. Possibly a quiet acceptance. Or even a glimpse of pride beneath the concern.
"Then I would like to accompany you," Surin said quietly, his voice carrying a soft acknowledgement as though the words were painful to speak but necessary nonetheless.
Malec nodded once. "As you wish, Father."
He fastened the red sash around his waist, pulled on his boots, and strode past Surin toward the door. To the one being in this world that could make him feel like the war was worth fighting. And that the fight was no longer a lonely one.