The soft knock at the door was followed by Kalemon's voice—low, steady, laced with that no-nonsense tone Allora had come to trust.
"It's me. You decent?"
Allora, sprawled on the edge of the plush daybed, one arm draped over her forehead, groaned in reply.
"If I say no, will you go away?"
Kalemon entered anyway, holding a steaming cup of tea in one hand and a worn cloth satchel in the other.
"Nope."
She stopped at the foot of the bed, eyes scanning Allora from head to toe.
"You look like hell."
Allora cracked one eye open. "Thanks. That's what every woman eight months pregnant wants to hear."
"Eight and a half, actually," Kalemon corrected gently. "And you're swelling more than I like."
Allora tried to sit up, but winced. Kalemon was instantly beside her, setting the cup down, helping to ease her into a more upright position.
"I had some sharp pains earlier," Allora confessed. "Didn't last long. But they were real. And real ugly."
Kalemon's lips tightened. "Where?"
Allora gestured to her lower abdomen and lower back. "Kinda like someone was pulling on my insides. Hard."
Kalemon nodded, then reached into her satchel and pulled out a small glass bottle, opening it and dabbing a thick oil onto her fingertips.
"Lie back. Let me check."
Allora, too tired to argue, laid down again as Kalemon placed cool, steady hands on her belly.
Kalemon was quiet for a long time—feeling, prodding gently, watching Allora's reactions.
"You're firm. That's pressure building. And I don't like how low the baby is sitting."
"So what does that mean?" Allora asked, voice tight.
"It means your body's getting ready. Could be days. Could be a week or two. But you're not going full term. Not if this keeps up."
Allora let out a low breath. "Fantastic."
Kalemon leaned over, tucking a pillow beneath Allora's side to help her sit more comfortably.
"You need to rest more. No more long walks, no lifting, no dealing with Leira's sass. Got it?"
"Leira is the stress," Allora muttered, cracking a weak smile.
Kalemon smirked. "She's a lot. But right now, you focus on keeping your strength up. No more pushing yourself."
Allora hesitated, her fingers pressing to her round belly.
"Do you think it's going to be… normal?" she asked softly.
Kalemon paused.
She didn't lie.
"I think this baby is going to come into this world how it wants to. And we'll be ready. Whatever that means."
There was something in Kalemon's voice—not fear, but gravity.
Something deeper than medicine.
Allora nodded, her throat tight.
"And you'll be here?"
Kalemon looked at her like she was insulted by the question.
"You're stuck with me, soldier. I'm in this until you're holding that baby in your arms."
Allora smiled faintly, blinking back something heavy.
"God help me," she whispered, "I think I believe you."
Kalemon pressed the warm cup of tea into her hands and sat beside her in silence.
Outside, the breeze rustled the garden leaves, carrying with it the smell of wild lavender and the distant thunder of fate rolling in from the horizon.
Allora had just managed to settle herself into the nest of pillows Kalemon had fluffed when the door creaked open without a knock.
Leira.
Backlit by sunlight, wearing a fitted black riding coat and breeches tailored within an inch of sin, she stepped inside with a trail of lavender-scented pipe smoke swirling around her.
Her gaze immediately dropped to Allora's stomach.
"So… how's our little parasite doing?" she asked in a sing-song voice.
Kalemon raised a brow. Allora groaned.
"What do you want?"
Leira leaned in the doorway, puffing on her thin Awyan pipe, inspecting her nails.
"Just checking to make sure you haven't exploded yet. Honestly, you look like a swollen sheep that wandered into a silk bed and never left."
Allora bolted upright—well, as upright as a woman nearly nine months pregnant could bolt—and threw a pillow.
"Get out, Leira! I am not in the mood for your bullshit today!"
Leira caught the pillow midair, giggling.
"Feisty as ever," she said sweetly, tucking it under her arm like a trophy. "You know, one day you'll miss me when I'm dead."
"You'd still talk then."
Leira snorted. She turned to go, flicking a stray curl from her shoulder.
"Anyway. I've business. I'll be gone for a few days."
"Thank fucking god," Allora muttered.
"Try not to explode until I return," Leira added over her shoulder.
She closed the door behind her with a click.
Kalemon turned back, silent for a moment as she sat beside Allora again.
The air had gone still.
"What are you going to do?" Kalemon asked, her voice soft, but serious. "After the baby's born?"
Allora didn't answer right away.
She looked out the tall windows at the rolling fog creeping over the garden.
Her fingers moved to her stomach. The baby shifted under her palm.
"I'll leave it here," she said finally. "With Leira. And a note."
Kalemon's eyes widened. "You're serious."
"It's not a baby I can keep," Allora said flatly. "Not where I'm going."
"Where are you going?"
"Home," Allora said. "Or I'll die trying."
Kalemon's jaw clenched. "You're planning to abandon it."
"No," Allora snapped. "I'm planning to give it a fighting chance. A place. A life. One it can't have in my world. In mine, it'll be a freak, an anomaly. Here… it has both races to draw from. It could… fit."
"Are you sure you can do that to your own child?"
The question hung in the air like thunder about to break.
Allora's hand stilled on her belly.
"Yes," she said. "Because it's not about what I want. It's about what the child needs."
Kalemon didn't answer. But the silence between them was one of deep, shared grief.
Outside the room, standing on the other side of the door, Leira's eyes narrowed.
She leaned silently against the wall, pipe between her fingers, forgotten ash gathering at the tip.
"Hmm…"
Her mind churned.
That tone. That weight. That conversation.
Something's not adding up.
The child… wasn't just any child.
Leira's gaze flicked toward the window, where early blooms crept along the sill, bright and oblivious.
She took another drag of her pipe and exhaled slowly, her eyes clouding with too many thoughts.
What are you hiding, little dove? And more importantly… why does it feel like I already know?
Leira strolled out to the courtyard, pipe still lit, her dark cloak trailing behind her.
She was always poking, always playing—but this?
This was tormenting her son.
She had laid so many false leads, scattered rumors across the map, even disguised herself in that awful curly wig and painted her face to look like a caricature just to draw him away—and it worked.
But it wasn't funny anymore.
Not with Allora this far along. Not with Malec's descent into madness.
Not with the baby being a possible victim if Malec found out she was carrying someone else's child.
She hadn't been supposed to keep Allora this long.
She had told herself she'd hand the girl over once the pregnancy was stable—but seeing her like this, swollen with something that didn't belong to her world, holding her own despite the fire, despite the fear?
It changed things.
"Damn Malec," she muttered, ash flicking into the grass. "Damn his obsession. And damn me for seeing myself in her."
She stared up at the sky.
No turning back now.
It was no longer about playing games.
Now she had to decide: protect the girl… or protect her son.
____________________________________________________________________________
Kirelle's estate in the Capitol was as gaudy as ever.
High ceilings adorned with imported silk tapestries. Gold-trimmed walls that reflected light like a mirror meant only to admire itself. And the smell—cloying, sweet perfume meant to impress, but stifling in the heat.
Leira was already annoyed.
She entered without announcing herself.
The guards, wisely, said nothing.
Kirelle was in the parlor, lounging like a panther on velvet cushions, her copper-auburn curls piled artfully on her head, draped in crimson lace. She sipped from a crystal goblet and didn't rise when Leira entered.
"Ah," Kirelle purred. "I wondered what storm the breeze was whispering about. To what do I owe the intrusion?"
Leira didn't smile. She crossed the room, slow and deliberate, each step echoing off the polished floor.
"I came to deliver an update," she said smoothly. "On the Canariae."
Kirelle arched a brow. "You mean the one who was promised to me? The one you were contractually obligated to hand over six months ago?"
Leira reached for a grape from the platter and popped it into her mouth. "That one."
Kirelle's smile sharpened. "Well? Where is she?"
Leira met her gaze without flinching.
"Not coming."
The silence hit like a drop of venom into water.
Kirelle's fingers tightened around her glass. "Excuse me?"
Leira picked up another grape. "I've changed my mind."
"You don't get to change your mind," Kirelle hissed, rising now, fire building behind her words. "You signed blood to ink. That Canariae is mine. She was promised to me so I could bear Malec's heir—not rot in exile while you keep her locked away like a pet."
Leira exhaled through her nose, unimpressed. "Your desperation is showing, dear."
Kirelle stepped forward, eyes blazing. "I'll take this to Malec myself. To Surian, even. You think they'll let you break a sacred contract? You think you can withhold his bloodline from him?"
"That's precisely what I'm counting on," Leira said softly.
Kirelle stilled.
Leira stepped into her space now, voice velvet and ice.
"You're right. They won't listen to me. But you… you, with your pride, your hunger, your need to prove yourself—you'll go storming into the palace and tell them everything. You'll scream until they pay attention. You'll chase their favor like a dog at a banquet."
She leaned in.
"And when you do, they'll come running. Just like I want them to."
Kirelle's mouth opened, then closed.
"You manipulative—"
"Spare me," Leira cut in, stepping back. "The contract is void. I'm terminating it. As of today, you are no longer owed a single drop of Malec's legacy."
Kirelle's face contorted—a flash of humiliation wrapped in rage.
Leira adjusted her gloves, turned toward the door.
"Oh, and one more thing," she said without looking back. "The Canariae isn't where you think. But I'm sure you'll try anyway."
She paused at the threshold.
"Just… don't get your dress dirty, darling. The North is muddy this time of year."
And with that, she vanished down the corridor, her cloak trailing behind her like shadowed silk.
Kirelle stood frozen for three full seconds before she threw the wine glass across the room.
It shattered like her last remaining grip on control.
____________________________________________________________________________
The estate was quiet when Leira returned.
She didn't use the front entrance. Slipping through the servant's door, cloaked in twilight and the bitter scent of pipe smoke, she moved like a shadow—silent, decisive, and armed with one last gamble.
She reached her private study and bolted the door behind her. Three locks. No interruptions.
The drawer beneath the old cabinet clicked open under her hand. Inside: a folded piece of parchment, already bearing half a dozen false leads and ink-stained terrain maps.
This wasn't a letter.
It was bait.
Coordinates near the salt cliffs. Rumors of a foreign caravan traveling with a Canariae girl. Witnesses claiming she was hiding her face. Whispers of a healer. All fabricated, all laced with just enough detail to feel credible.
And then—
The final line.
She hesitated. Then she dipped the quill.
"Rumored to be carrying a child of powerful origin."
Nothing confirmable.
But enough.
Enough to ignite Malec's paranoia. Enough to push Kirelle into a frothing fury. Enough to get them both moving without ever realizing they were walking the path Leira designed.
She sealed the message in navy wax—Malec's color, not her own—and wrapped it in nondescript cloth.
She summoned a lower court runner. Not one of her usuals.
Someone expendable.
"Take this to Lady Kirelle. Today. No stops. If she's not home, leave it with her steward. Say it was found on the border."
"Yes, my lady."
He left.
Leira remained seated.
In the silence, she reached for the bottle in her drawer. The exit plan. Just enough sedative for a mother, a healer, and a newborn.
She didn't know what kind of life the child would have—not with a mother like Allora and a world that tore women like them in half.
But she did know Kirelle didn't deserve to own it.
Didn't deserve to own any part of this story.
And if Malec came storming in…
Well.
She'd handle him like she always did—
With smoke in her lungs, a knife in her boot, and just enough leverage to survive.
____________________________________________________________________________
The wind howled through the narrow stone alleys of Dremond's Gate, carrying with it the stink of soot, salt, and survival. It was colder here than Surian expected—the kind of cold that felt like it didn't care who you were.
She pulled her hood tighter and dismounted just outside the old trade square. Miners moved like ghosts across the yard, heads low, coats frayed. The stalls were sparse, mostly Canariae merchants wrapped in wool and chain, shouting in a dozen dialects over crates of ore and faded spices.
This place was barely Awyan anymore.
And that's exactly why Malec had chosen it.
One gate. One road. One way out.
Anyone trying to flee the kingdom would pass through here eventually.
She approached a hunched servant girl with frostbitten fingers and offered her a coin.
"I'm looking for the Capitol Guard's outpost. You know where they've pitched?"
The girl blinked, nodded, and pointed south.
"By the quarry ridge. Near the burned watchtower."
Surian flipped her another coin. "Thank you."
She led her horse in that direction, each step slower than the last as her breath turned to fog. Just as the wind kicked up a sharp gust, she heard it—
"SURIAN!"
She froze.
That voice.
Turning, she caught sight of a tall figure weaving through a half-frozen crowd, carrying a bag of provisions too heavy for one arm.
Luko.
His face was weathered, cheeks red from wind, lips cracked—but his eyes lit up with something real.
"By the stars, how are you here?" he asked, embracing her one-armed, as if afraid she might vanish. "Does Malec know?"
She arched a brow. "I'm a grown elf, not a prisoner. I don't need permission to travel."
Luko chuckled breathlessly. "No, I suppose you don't."
He looked older. Not by age—but by grief. By exhaustion. There were purple smudges beneath his eyes and a sadness behind his smile that hadn't always been there.
Surian softened.
"How is he?"
Luko's jaw tensed.
He didn't answer right away. His gaze drifted downward, to the snow beneath their boots—grayed with soot and the ash of distant fires. The same kind of fires Malec used to stare into without blinking.
"He's… holding together," Luko said finally, voice brittle. "If you can call it that."
He paused, then shook his head like he hated the words he was about to say.
"If sleep is forced and the liquor flows."
Surian's chest ached. Her fingers curled tighter around her reins.
Luko glanced up at her, the wind pulling his hood back, exposing more of the harsh lines that hadn't been there last year—or maybe they had, and she hadn't cared to look.
"I started slipping herbs into his wine weeks ago," he confessed, barely above a whisper. "Sleeping draughts. Mood stabilizers. Things the healers used on soldiers after the siege. Sometimes he notices. Sometimes he doesn't care."
Surian stared at him, stunned. "You're drugging him?"
Luko exhaled slowly. "I'm saving him from himself. On the nights he does eat, he only picks at food. On the nights he doesn't, he drinks. And then he paces. For hours. Mumbles. Sometimes I hear him talking to her… like she's in the room. Like if he just keeps talking, she'll answer."
He looked haunted.
"He still calls her his dove, Surian. Every night. Like a prayer."
Surian felt her throat tighten, the wind catching the edges of her vision with tears that stung more than they should have.
"I've never seen him like this," she murmured. "Not even during the war. Not when Father cast him out. Not even when he—"
Her voice faltered.
Not even when he chose cruelty over mercy.
Luko nodded. "He's not just broken. He's… rotting. From the inside out. And the worst part is? He thinks if he suffers enough, the gods will give her back."
The words punched through her ribcage.
"I was going to leave months ago," Luko said after a long silence. "I packed my things. Had my boots on. I couldn't stand the way he looked at me. Like I was the enemy. Like I was her. But I stayed."
"Why?" she asked, voice hoarse.
He looked up at her with eyes full of grief.
"Because if she ever shows up again... and I'm not there to fall to my knees and tell her how wrong we were, how wrong I was—then I'll never be able to forgive myself."
Surian looked away, blinking hard. "You're not the only one."
They stood there, the two of them, a general's daughter and a healer soldier, cloaked in guilt and breath and the ache of hindsight.
The wind howled again.
And in the hush that followed, Surian whispered:
"She was the best thing to happen to him."
"And he was the worst thing to happen to her."
Luko's lips pressed together. He nodded slowly.
Then came his answer.
"And now we have to live with that."