The morning sun spilled golden across the townhouse floor, warming the polished marble and catching in the delicate curve of Surian's teacup. She sat at the long dining table, elegant as always, sipping a pale blue tea while flipping through court reports. Luko sat beside her, chewing quietly on a slice of toasted bread, glancing at her every so often as if afraid to break the silence.
The quiet didn't last long.
Malec descended the stairs like a shadow in sunlight—dressed sharply, but dark circles haunted beneath his eyes, and his usual cold elegance was soured by something heavier. Bitterness.
Surian looked up, raising an eyebrow as she set her cup down with a deliberate clink.
"Did you not join us for dinner last night, dear brother?" she asked innocently, though her gaze was piercing. "How...unusual of you."
Malec didn't answer. He didn't have to.
The silence, the storm-cloud tension rolling off his shoulders, said everything.
He passed her without a glance, poured himself a cup of something stronger than tea, and sat at the end of the table like a man preparing for war.
Luko glanced at Surian, then cleared his throat carefully. "Would you like me to check on Allora? Make sure she's hydrated… not too hungover?"
Malec's pale tan eyes snapped to him. Sharp. Possessive.
He didn't speak for a beat.
Then—grudgingly—he nodded once. "Fine. But knock first."
Luko blinked. "Of course."
Surian's smile was just a little too knowing. "Touchy this morning, aren't we?"
Malec's jaw ticked.
She leaned in slightly. "What happened last night?"
He didn't answer at first. Just stared into his untouched drink like it might reveal the answer for him. But the words came eventually—tight, pained.
"I told her I loved her."
Luko froze mid-chew.
Surian, to her credit, didn't react outwardly. But her eyes softened just a little.
"And?" she asked gently.
"She didn't say it back," Malec replied, every syllable brittle.
He stared down at the table, lips parted slightly like the breath was still caught in his chest.
"She still hates me," he added, quieter now. "And she's not wrong."
Surian leaned back in her chair, folding her hands in her lap. "Malec, what did you expect? You can't rip someone from their world, lock them in a golden cage, and then ask for their heart like it's a favor."
Luko nodded in agreement. "She's not a project. She's a person. She's… been through hell. And you were the fire."
Malec's jaw clenched, the guilt curdling in his gut. "I don't know how to court her. Not properly. I don't even know how to be what she needs."
Surian tilted her head. "Then start with this—let her go. Even if just a little."
He looked up at her then. Slowly. A dangerous gleam had returned to his gaze. Cold. Protective.
"Take her to the luncheon," he said. "Let her have that."
Surian blinked, surprised by the concession.
"But if any of those highborn peacocks look at her the wrong way…" Malec's voice dropped, deadly. "If even one of them makes her upset—I will burn their estates to ash. With their families inside."
There was no smile this time. No jest.
Just a promise.
Surian's brows lifted. She rose gracefully from her chair, smoothing her skirts. "Duly noted."
She turned toward the stairs, barely concealing the little skip in her step.
"I'll go wake our little vulture," she called behind her. "She'll want to look her best for society."
Malec didn't respond.
He sat alone at the end of the table, staring down into his cup like he could drown in it. The weight of love unreturned pressed heavy on his shoulders.
____________________________________________________________________________
Surian's knuckles tapped lightly on the chamber door before she let herself in, already knowing Allora wouldn't be fully decent—or conscious.
"Time to wake, little storm," she called, her voice sing-song and far too cheerful for the hour. "The world awaits your chaos."
A groan sounded from the tangled mess of blankets on the bed.
Surian smiled, walking in with a casual grace, hands clasped in front of her as she took in the scene: Allora sprawled across the pillows, hair a wild halo, a sheet twisted around her waist, brow furrowed like she was deep in war with the morning sun.
"I feel like someone put me through a grinder," Allora muttered, voice hoarse. "Then tossed me into a vat of peach wine and spun me for three hours."
Surian chuckled, sitting gently on the edge of the bed. "That's because someone drank half a vat of peach wine. And then decided to reenact a dramatic opera in my parlor."
Allora cracked one eye open. "Did I at least sing well?"
"You moaned Luko's name and accused Malec of smelling like secrets."
Allora laughed softly, her head falling back into the pillow. "That tracks."
Surian leaned forward slightly, tucking a strand of hair behind Allora's ear. "So… are we going to talk about it?"
Allora gave her a lazy smirk. "About what?"
Surian arched a brow. "What happened last night. The commander has been brooding harder than usual, and that's saying something. And he didn't join us for dinner. That never happens."
Allora stretched slowly, wincing at the ache in her shoulders. "He told me he loved me."
Surian's eyes widened slightly. "And…?"
"I didn't say it back."
Surian studied her for a moment, searching for cracks, for guilt—but found none. Just that usual defiant steel wrapped in velvet.
"You don't seem particularly bothered."
"I'm not." Allora pushed herself upright, grabbing a robe to drape over herself. "His feelings are his. I didn't ask for them."
Surian opened her mouth, then closed it. Her face softened. "Still, I think it mattered to him."
Allora looked away. "Yeah. That's the problem."
There was a pause. A weight between them.
But Allora broke it with a grin. "Now help me pick out something scandalously elegant. If I'm going to be paraded in front of society, I might as well make them sweat."
Surian gave her a slow, approving nod. "You've got some fire today."
"Oh, I've got plans today."
And she did. She had every intention of smiling, curtsying, and extracting every piece of political intel she could get her hands on. She needed information—about the nobility, the courts, the scientific infrastructure… anything that might lead her to a portal. To another chance.
But that part? That part stayed locked in her chest. Even from Surian. Especially from Surian.
Because as kind as she was, Allora knew the truth: if Surian had to choose between her and Malec… she would choose her brother. Every time.
A soft knock interrupted the moment.
Luko peeked his head in, a satchel slung over one shoulder, his expression gentle and familiar. "Can I come in? Just to do a quick check-up. You look like you wrestled a warbeast."
Allora smirked. "You should see the warbeast."
He chuckled, entering with a quiet grace, pulling out tools and salves. "I'll be quick. Just want to make sure your blood pressure isn't trying to kill you."
As he worked, checking her pulse and scanning her vitals with a small glowing device, his voice lowered. "You okay? After last night?"
Allora watched him for a moment. Then nodded. "Yeah. I'm fine."
"You don't have to pretend with me."
"I'm not," she said, more firmly this time. "But I do appreciate you asking."
He smiled gently. "Good. Just wanted to say… whatever you decide, I support your decision."
Her smile faltered—just a breath. A flicker of sadness in her eyes.
"I know," she said softly. "But I also know where your loyalties lie."
Luko didn't answer.
He didn't have to.
Because they both knew: when it came down to it, if Malec said jump, they'd all ask how high.
So she nodded once. Quietly grateful. Quietly alone.
But stronger than ever.
Because the truth was…
She would never belong to anyone again.
The sun filtered softly through the tall windows of Surian's dressing room, casting long golden lines across the floor and the mirror where Allora stood—an absolute vision.
She was adorned in a deep Awyan blue dress, the color so rich it looked like it had been pulled from the twilight sky itself. The fabric clung to her like a second skin, hugging the generous curve of her hips, the swell of her breasts, the strength in her shoulders. Black jewels lined the edges like midnight stars, and gold threads shimmered at every movement. It had been made just for her. And she knew exactly who had ordered it.
Malec's favorite color on her.
She hated that he was right. She looked ravishing.
Surian, ever the perfectionist, stepped behind her and adjusted the fit on the shoulder, then added the final touch—white gloves that reached past her wrists.
"There," Surian said, stepping back to admire her. "You're going to be the talk of Awyan society today."
Allora rolled her eyes. "Because of the gloves?"
"No. Because you're glowing like a goddess and about to walk into a room full of people who can't decide if they want to crown you or kill you."
Allora smirked. "Great."
But then came the lecture.
Surian, smoothing her pale green gown embroidered with delicate florals, began rattling off the rules—how to hold the wine glass, when to bow her head, how not to interrupt, the precise moment to laugh at someone else's terrible joke.
Allora felt her soul leave her body.
Etiquette was a leash wrapped in velvet and poison, and she hated it with everything in her.
Still, she nodded. She had to play the part.
Luko arrived shortly after, holding a glass of sweet Awyan nectar in both hands. "Hydration," he said cheerfully. "Hangover cure with nutrients. You'll feel like a queen in ten minutes."
Allora downed it in three seconds.
Surian, Luko, and Allora descended the staircase together, chatting easily, tension lightened for a moment by shared jokes and Luko's awkward attempts at formal farewells.
But the mood shifted the second they reached the foyer.
Because Malec was there.
He stood at the entrance, disheveled in a way that looked entirely wrong on him—his normally sharp attire wrinkled at the edges, his hair not fully combed, and pale tan eyes ringed with exhaustion. He looked like a ghost of himself. Like he hadn't slept all night.
Luko and Surian instinctively stiffened.
They both sensed it—that precarious edge between eruption and heartbreak.
Malec didn't say anything at first. He simply walked up to Allora, reached into his coat, and pulled out a small silver ring. He didn't ask for her hand. He simply took it.
The ring gleamed—elegant and finely crafted—with the symbol of the silver fox etched delicately along the band.
A replacement.
For the collar she had always loathed.
He slipped it onto her finger and looked up at her like she was the only thing anchoring him to this world.
"It's to let them know," he said quietly, "which house you belong to."
Allora stared at the ring. Her chest tightened.
Then he added, voice firmer, "And remember—you promised. Keep your end of the deal."
Surian and Luko exchanged a sharp glance. Deal? their eyes asked in silent alarm.
But neither of them said a word.
Malec stood there like a war-torn king, every inch of his body carved from longing and control, and Allora—still high from the thrill of her beauty, her plan, her fire—didn't have the heart to tear him down.
So she leaned in and kissed his cheek.
"Thank you," she whispered. "For letting me go."
And just like that, something lit in his face.
Hope.
Maybe she didn't hate him after all.
He helped her into the blue Awyan robe he'd once given her—dark silk to match the gown—and draped it over her shoulders with the care of a man touching a relic he'd once buried.
Then he stepped back, letting Surian take her arm.
The two women walked out into the morning light, Allora radiant, Surian composed. A storm and a calm before it.
Malec and Luko stood at the doorway in silence.
Watching.
Waiting.
Malec's gaze never left her figure as it disappeared into the carriage. And he thought—
All she needs is time. And space. She'll come back.
But deep in his chest, something whispered:
Do you have it in you… to give her those things?
And Malec didn't know the answer.
___________________________________________________________________________
The carriage rolled through the gilded gates of Lady Teyel's estate, the wheels crunching over white stone paths lined with sculpted hedges and perfumed vines. The estate was nestled atop a low hill overlooking a shimmering lake, and the gardens were in full bloom—meticulously arranged to impress, not invite.
Allora leaned slightly toward the window, watching Awyan nobles stroll through the ornamental paths like gliding ghosts. Everything about the estate screamed old money and manufactured grace. She resisted the urge to scoff.
Surian glanced at her from across the seat and smiled faintly.
"You ready to be dissected by a dozen bored aristocrats with nothing better to do than judge your posture and your breathing pattern?"
Allora smirked. "Born ready."
In truth, her heart beat just a little faster.
Because this was more than a social call. It was a reconnaissance mission. Her first step into understanding how this world really worked—the cracks in the empire, the people who mattered, and maybe… just maybe… where the strings were being pulled.
Information was her weapon now.
The carriage came to a smooth stop before the grand staircase of the estate. The footman opened the door.
Allora stepped out.
The sun hit her dress just right—casting a blue-black sheen like an oil slick, making her skin glow. Heads turned instantly. Murmurs began. The Awyan nobility standing in loose, glittering clusters took notice—and not just because of the gown.
It was the way she moved.
Confident. Controlled. A shadow of something wild curled in silk.
And then they saw the ring.
The silver fox gleamed on her finger like a whispered warning.
Surian stepped out after her, a graceful contrast in her pale green gown, her every movement measured, soothing, safe. Together, they were a vision: war and peace, side by side.
Lady Teyel approached from the terrace, arms open, her smile bright but carefully calculated.
"You look stunning," she said warmly, eyes flicking to Allora first. "Both of you."
Allora inclined her head with just the right amount of poise—learned only hours before. "Thank you for the invitation, Lady Teyel. Your estate is breathtaking."
"And so are you," the red-haired noblewoman replied with a wink. "I expect at least four minor scandals before lunch."
Surian rolled her eyes. "Don't encourage her."
"I wouldn't dare." Teyel turned, leading them toward the outdoor seating area, where white cloth tables shimmered under golden canopies and nobles whispered behind jeweled fans.
Allora could feel it.
Every pair of eyes.
Some curious. Some jealous. Some openly disapproving.
But none indifferent.
And she thrived on it.
She straightened her shoulders, adjusted the robe that draped around her arms, and gave the smallest smile.
Let them whisper.
Let them watch.
Because she was here not to survive— But to win.
The luncheon began with the usual pleasantries—delicate bites of fruit-drenched salads, laughter that never quite reached the eyes, and nobles circling like jeweled sharks, waiting to see what the infamous Canariae would do next.
Allora, to her credit, was flawless. She gave polite nods when appropriate, smiled just enough to seem approachable, and held her glass like it was made for war.
But beneath the calm, she was calculating.
Listening.
Watching.
Cataloguing which nobles deferred to Lady Teyel, which ones made eyes at Surian, and which ones looked at her like she was something fascinating—or dangerous.
And when the lull came—the moment when conversation dipped and the afternoon sun began to press too heavily against silk and skin—Allora struck.
She stood gracefully, drawing the eyes of nearly everyone under the canopy.
"Lady Teyel," she said sweetly, her voice ringing out clear as a bell. "I brought something… unusual. Would you permit me a moment to share it?"
Teyel blinked, intrigued. "Of course. I wouldn't dare say no to you in that dress."
Allora stepped aside, reaching into the elegant black bag she had brought—one no one had thought to question. She opened it with care.
Inside: a small, sleek, Earth-made device.
Silver. Lightweight. Solar-powered.
She placed it on the stone pedestal near the musicians' table, where the harpist and flute player were sipping wine between sets.
The nobles tilted their heads in confusion. Murmurs rippled through the garden.
"What is that?"
"Another human contraption…"
"Is it dangerous?"
Allora tapped a few buttons. The solar cell flickered green.
Then she turned.
And smiled.
"This is called a karaoke machine," she said, her voice smooth, like warm honey laced with mischief. "It plays music. And I… sing."
There was a pause.
A few chuckles.
A few raised brows.
And then the beat dropped.
Soft at first. Melodic. A classic Earth melody—bluesy, moody, threaded with longing and boldness. The kind of song you sang when you didn't need permission to be loud.
And then she sang.
The moment her voice soared through the garden, everything stopped.
It was rich. Sultry. Commanding. Her tone wrapped around every note like velvet and heat, rising with effortless grace, then dropping to a purr that sent shivers down the spines of half the nobility present.
A few gasped.
One woman dropped her glass.
The harpist stared in stunned admiration.
Allora didn't just sing. She performed.
She moved through the notes like a queen in her court, like she had orchestrated the entire afternoon just for this moment—and maybe she had. Her voice filled every inch of the garden, pulling the world into orbit around her.
She didn't sing to earn their approval.
She sang to prove that she didn't need it.
And when the final note hung in the air—vibrating in the bones of every Awyan in attendance—the silence that followed was so thick, it almost ached.
Then Lady Teyel stood up.
And started clapping.
The rest followed in waves. Some enthusiastic. Some stunned. Some still trying to decide if they'd just witnessed brilliance or madness.
But the effect was undeniable.
Allora bowed slightly, graceful and smug, and said, "Just a little something from my world."
And just like that—
She had them.
Applause rippled like thunder through the garden.
Nobles rose to their feet, fanning themselves, whispering feverishly behind gloved hands. Some clapped politely, others with genuine awe. A few simply stared, trying to make sense of what they'd just witnessed.
But one thing was certain:
Allora had changed the game.
And she wasn't done yet.
She stepped off the small platform, the karaoke machine still humming quietly behind her, and made her way toward the head table where Lady Teyel stood—flushed and wide-eyed, both hands over her heart.
Before anyone could redirect the attention, Allora struck.
She turned to the crowd and raised her voice just enough to carry.
"I hope you all enjoyed that little moment. But I must give credit where it's due."
She turned to Lady Teyel, eyes glowing with warmth and cunning.
"This performance was a gift for our gracious hostess. A token of gratitude for her hospitality and her open mind. She believed in offering space to someone different—someone new—and because of that… today will be remembered."
Lady Teyel blinked, stunned.
Then her face lit up like sunrise.
The crowd murmured louder now—of course the hostess was part of this brilliance. Of course Lady Teyel had the foresight to embrace such novelty. How very progressive. How fashionable.
Allora smiled to herself.
If you make someone else shine, they'll never forget who lit the fire.
Teyel grasped her hand, whispering, "You're going to turn this city upside down."
Allora leaned in, her voice smooth as velvet. "Only if it needs it."
Just as the laughter began to swell again, a ripple moved through the gathering—a sudden shift in the air, like a gust of cold wind across silk.
Heads turned.
Whispers sharpened.
And then…
She appeared.
Lady Kirelle.