The air was sharp and cold, the sky already dimming as Kalemon worked in quiet urgency. Her sleeves were rolled up to her elbows, gray eyes sharp as steel as she loaded bags and crates onto two tired-looking mules, each tethered beside the back barn of her clinic.
Allora, cloak tight around her shoulders, was a bundle of nerves, hands shaking as she tried to help. The wind kept pulling at her scarf, the weight of fear pressing down on her belly and the growing life inside it.
Every loud sound—every creak, every dog's bark—made her flinch.
Kalemon barely blinked.
She tossed a sack of dried herbs onto one mule and tightened the straps with military precision.
"Here," she barked. "Pass me the smaller satchel."
Allora handed it over without speaking.
But the question was bubbling beneath her ribs—tight and hot.
She couldn't hold it back anymore.
"Why?" she asked, her voice small. "Why are you helping me like this?"
Kalemon paused.
Didn't look at her—just adjusted another strap, checked the mule's saddle. Then, quietly, with no drama:
"Because I know what it's like to survive hell and be told it was a gift."
Allora blinked.
Kalemon finally looked over her shoulder.
"I'm not from here either."
The world tilted.
Allora's breath caught. "What?"
Kalemon nodded.
"Earth. Like you. A long, long time ago."
The silence between them pulsed like a second heartbeat.
Allora stepped closer, stunned. "How?"
Kalemon turned fully now. Her face softened—just a little.
"Army. Special ops. Experimental medicine. We were testing viral agents—bioengineering them to see what stuck, what killed fast. Then… we found something. A virus that shouldn't have existed. It didn't follow any of our known genetic rules."
She paused. Her eyes dimmed with memory.
"Turns out it came from a breach. A portal. No one believed it at first. But the virus wasn't just deadly—it was intelligent. It adapted too fast. It didn't kill like a virus. It decided."
Allora's skin prickled.
"So they weaponized it," Kalemon continued, voice bitter. "Let it loose in controlled zones to see how it worked. It worked. Too well."
Her jaw clenched.
"The world started burning. The people in charge were preparing to use the portal to escape—to leave Earth behind and come here. New start. New world. Screw everyone else."
Allora swallowed. "So you came through too?"
Kalemon nodded once.
"Me and a few others. We destroyed the portal from this side. Trapped ourselves here with them. To stop them."
She turned back to the mule, hands moving again.
"But there were already humans here. Brought from older breaches. Survivors. Stragglers. Canariae, they call us now."
She shook her head.
"I've been here ever since—trying to keep us alive. Trying to find another breach. One that doesn't bring hell with it."
Allora stood frozen, throat tight. "And you think one still exists?"
Kalemon's expression shifted—hope and anger warring behind her eyes.
"I know it does."
"And if I find it—I'm taking every human with me."
Allora stood still beneath the trembling limbs of a barren tree, her gloved hands holding a saddle strap that she had forgotten she was tightening. Her breath steamed in the cold air, her eyes locked on Kalemon like she'd just glimpsed a god in a field of ash.
"You said you're trying to find another portal…"
"Do you… do you know where it is?"
Kalemon paused mid-motion.
She looked at Allora. Really looked at her.
Then she stepped forward, her voice lower, more guarded.
"I have ideas. Leads. I wouldn't be here in this town if I didn't."
Allora's heartbeat sped up.
"So you've… seen something?"
Kalemon sighed, pulling her thick coat tighter around her. She reached into the saddlebag, pulled out a folded scrap of thick canvas—an old map, browned at the corners and marked with strange black ink symbols.
"There's a pattern. Where the Cotard Virus hit the hardest, where the anomalies showed up—lights in the sky, compass malfunctions, storms with no source."
She tapped a jagged mountain range with her finger. "I believe the next portal—the real one—is in these cliffs. Guarded. Old. Maybe even living."
Allora blinked. "Living?"
"Some of the breaches, they're not mechanical. They're organic. Not in the way you'd think. They pulse. React. Like they're watching. Waiting."
Allora felt the hairs on the back of her neck rise.
"And you want to go through it?" she asked, voice hoarse.
Kalemon nodded slowly. "I want to go home."
Then, after a pause: "But more than that, I want us to have a choice again. Real choice. Not just survival. Not just hiding."
She folded the map again, slid it back into the pack.
"You think I'm helping you because you're special?" she asked.
Allora didn't answer.
Kalemon smiled grimly.
"I'm helping you because you're like me. From the wrong world. In the wrong body. Dragging a war behind you like it's still stitched to your bones."
Allora swallowed hard.
She didn't say it aloud, but something broke open in her chest—a feeling she hadn't had since Earth. Since her unit. Since before everything fell apart.
Recognition.
"If I help you find it," Allora asked carefully, "can I go through it too?"
Kalemon met her eyes, her face grim but honest.
"That's the plan. You, the child—if we survive long enough. If we're not caught first."
The child.
Allora's hand brushed her belly, barely rounded under the thick layers.
The child she didn't ask for.
The child they would hunt her for.
The child of the Silver Fox.
She whispered, "You think he'll stop if I disappear through it?"
Kalemon didn't lie.
"No. But I think if you go far enough, he won't be able to follow."
_______________________________________________________________________
The wind swept low through the valley town just north of the healer's village, carrying with it snow, silence… and soldiers.
At the head of the caravan rode Malec, his blue and white Capitol officer's uniform pristine beneath the layers of travel dust, his platinum hair tied in a tight low ponytail beneath his hood. His black knee-high boots dismounted slowly into the slush of the main road.
He said nothing as he approached the central square.
The people knew who he was.
They always did.
Some ran. Some stared. Others bowed their heads low, pretending not to look at the predator in silk and steel.
Luko trailed behind him, his shoulders hunched, face pale, lips pressed into a line of regret and resignation. He hated this. Every part of this. But he followed—because he always did.
Malec's tan eyes scanned the faces in the square like a surgeon before the first cut.
"You know why we're here," he said softly.
His voice never needed to rise.
The Captain at his side barked orders. "We are searching for a runaway Canariae—dark of skin, clever of tongue, possibly injured. She may be traveling under disguise. Anyone aiding her will be tried for treason."
Gasps. Whispers.
Eyes darted. But no one spoke.
Malec stepped forward, gaze icy.
"You will bring me her name," he said to the crowd. "Or her scent. Or her shadow."
"And I will be merciful."
The word sounded wrong in his mouth—an echo of a man who used to want to be gentle.
But that man was buried.
Dead.
Consumed by hunger and loss and the absence of her.
The town elder—a weathered Awyan woman—stepped forward. She bowed, hands shaking. "My Lord… we've seen no one like that."
Malec stared at her.
Then slowly, he took off one black glove and reached into his coat, pulling out a small, folded cloth—a remnant of fabric from Allora's robe, the one she wore the night she fled.
He pressed it to his face.
Inhaled.
She was close.
His lips twitched.
"She passed through here."
He looked to his guards.
"Search every home, every barn, every cellar. Leave nothing untouched. She's no longer running."
"She's hiding."
And that meant she was tired.
Which meant… she was almost his again.
Snow crunched under Malec's boots as he wandered away from the main square, the chaos of the search unfolding behind him like a storm on the edge of his awareness.
He needed quiet to listen.
To feel.
To sense her.
The world was full of noise—soldiers shouting, doors kicked in, townspeople crying out in protest—but he had learned how to filter the chaos. The scent of her still lingered on the fabric he kept clenched in his fist.
Allora.
His Allora.
He followed it past the shops and into the narrow alleys that twisted behind the marketplace, where the snow didn't reach, and shadows clung to the stone walls like secrets.
He paused.
A wind stirred—just slightly—and with it came a familiar trace.
Fruit.
Sweet. Warm. Faintly tropical.
His eyes narrowed.
A strange scent for this province in winter.
He turned toward a nearby stack of broken crates near an abandoned stall. The canvas above it fluttered, torn at the edges, but something beneath it had been disturbed—recently.
He knelt.
There, half-buried in the snow, was the rotted core of a fruit.
Peach-like. Southern.
Teeth marks were still visible on the flesh, faint but human.
The bite was too small for an Awyan.
Too recent for coincidence.
Malec reached out slowly, brushing frost away from the fruit, and then—
There it was.
A single, wiry strand of black hair.
Stuck to the pulp.
He picked it up between gloved fingers, brought it to his face.
His heart stuttered.
His blood burned.
"She's here."
His whisper was reverent. Like prayer.
Behind him, Luko approached, breathless.
"Malec?"
Malec didn't turn.
"She's no more than a day ahead. Maybe less."
He stood slowly, the wind catching his cloak like wings unfolding.
"Send riders south. Quietly. No lights. No banners."
He crushed the fruit's core in his fist.
"She's running out of places to hide."
____________________________________________________________________________
The rain fell in sheets, the sky swollen with thunder but holding its strike. Allora sat sideways on the mule, her back aching, hand resting protectively against the soft swell beneath her ribs.
Three months.
It felt impossible—unreal. And yet her body, ever the truth-teller, betrayed her at every turn. Her hips ached. Her gait was slower. Her sleep was fleeting and full of dreams she refused to speak aloud.
Kalemon rode ahead, hood drawn low, face locked in focus.
They had been riding since nightfall—through snow and fog, and now finally, rain.
The world was warmer here, if not kinder.
The town was tucked near the cliffs, salt in the wind and smoke rising from the chimneys like curled fingers beckoning them closer. Not home, but shelter.
They arrived in silence.
Kalemon slid off her mule with the groan of an old soldier and handed the reins to a stable boy. Allora followed slowly, every movement deliberate. She adjusted her scarf and tried to hide the curve of her belly beneath her dark cloak.
The tavern was louder than she liked. Warm, but crowded. Wet cloaks hung on the wall pegs, and the air was thick with firewood, fish stew, and tobacco smoke.
Kalemon gave her a nod. "Stay here. I know the owner."
Allora obeyed, moving to a worn corner table near the hearth. The seat groaned beneath her as she settled down, breath short from the ride. She kept her eyes low, her hands folded in her lap.
And then—
A shift in the air.
A strange pull.
She felt it before she saw it.
Across the tavern, sitting at a small table alone, was a cloaked figure—the same deep blue velvet, with gold-stiched constellations glinting like quiet warnings in the firelight.
Their hood was up. A pipe hung from their lips, smoke curling lazily to the ceiling beams.
Their boots were propped on the table, crossed at the ankles.
Watching her.
Allora's breath caught.
Her hands curled into fists beneath the table.
It was them.
The one from the market.
The one who had handed her the fruit and whispered that eerie warning.
Her instincts screamed at her to move, to run, to hide—but her body sat frozen, like prey in the eyes of a predator.
The figure tipped their head, just slightly.
A greeting?
A dare?
The pipe glowed faintly. Smoke puffed out in idle curls, like they had all the time in the world.
Allora's voice barely made it to a whisper.
"Kalemon…"
But Kalemon was still at the bar, laughing with the tavern owner. Unaware.
Allora stood at the edge of the table, the fire behind her casting long shadows down her cloak. The stranger said nothing, only gestured again—that slow, deliberate motion—toward the chair opposite them.
Reluctantly, and with no small amount of tension in her shoulders, Allora sat.
The stranger didn't move. Didn't speak.
The silence stretched like a drawn bowstring.
Allora leaned forward, narrowing her eyes beneath her hood.
"Alright. I'll bite," she said coldly. "Who the hell are you, and what do you want?"
The figure shifted slightly. The smoke from their pipe lingered like a cloud between them. The scent—earthy, almost floral—tickled her nose.
A voice, low and androgynous, finally replied from beneath the scarf:
"I'm no one important. I'm just here to observe. Nothing more. Nothing less."
Allora scoffed.
"Well, I don't like being observed."
The figure exhaled through their pipe, a lazy puff of smoke rising between them. It drifted right into her face.
Allora waved it away, standing abruptly. "You know what? Forget it. I don't care who you are."
She turned to leave—but before she could fully rise, a gloved hand reached forward and placed something onto the table with a quiet, heavy clink.
A white coin.
Allora froze.
Her gaze dropped.
Pale silver-white, almost glowing in the firelight, engraved with markings only the highest-ranking Awyans used—House sigils, layered seals, and the emblem of judicial right.
It was real.
It could buy five horses. A ship. A new life.
Allora's breath caught.
The figure spoke again—voice calm, almost amused.
"Three questions. You answer them honestly, and the coin is yours."
Allora sat back down slowly, her eyes flicking toward Kalemon across the room—still chatting, unaware.
"And when I'm done," she said carefully, "you'll answer my question."
"Of course."
"And put out that damn smoke."
There was a pause.
Then, with a little chuckle, the figure tapped the pipe on the table edge, extinguishing the ember.
They placed it gently on the table, then leaned back, hands folded neatly on their lap.
Their hood still masked their face, but Allora could feel the weight of their gaze.
Then the first question came.
The tavern noise faded to a dull hum.
Allora's eyes flicked to the white coin still resting on the table between them, shining like a frozen moon. She leaned back slowly, arms folded, doing her best to keep the weight of her nerves buried deep beneath her skin.
The hooded figure had gone still—calm, composed, unreadable. And then they asked:
"When you sleep, do you dream of the world you left behind… or the man you can't escape?"
The words sank like stones into the quiet between them.
Allora's lips parted, but no words came at first. Her eyes lowered to the crack in the table wood, tracing it with her thumb.
"I don't dream," she said finally. Her voice was low. Defensive. "Not really."
A pause.
"But when I do... I'm always running. Doesn't matter if it's Earth, or here. Same shadows. Same leash."
The figure didn't nod. Didn't speak. They simply moved to the next.
"Do you believe you are hunted because of what you are… or because of what you represent?"
Allora swallowed.
Her first instinct was to lie—to brush it off with sarcasm.
But she didn't.
Not this time.
"I think I'm hunted because he doesn't know how to let go."
She leaned forward now, voice sharper.
"Because power that says it's love will always chase you when you stop kneeling."
The gloved hand twitched slightly on their lap.
Still, they said nothing. Just moved to the third and final question.
"If you had the chance to vanish entirely, with no trace left behind… would you take it? Or would you make them remember your name?"
Allora looked away for the first time. Her throat tightened. She let the question hang—like smoke in her lungs.
She wanted to say "disappear." She wanted to believe it.
But instead, her jaw clenched.
"I used to want to vanish."
"Now?" Her gaze cut back, sharp as a blade. "Now I want them to remember."
The final question still hung in the air like the smoke that no longer curled between them.
Allora's fists were tight in her lap, shoulders coiled like wire.
The figure, leaning back now, folded their gloved hands again.
"You've earned it," they said softly, and slid the white coin across the table.
Allora didn't touch it.
She leaned forward, voice clipped, sharp.
"My turn."
A silent nod.
"Why are you following me?"
The hooded head tilted slightly. "I told you… I observe."
Allora's eye twitched. "That's not an answer."
A pause. Then the voice came again—measured, low, unbothered.
"I am here to see which path you choose. And the path you choose… will determine what I do next."
That was it.
Allora's hands slapped the table as she stood sharply, making a few heads turn.
"What the fuck? Why do you all talk in riddles and cryptic bullshit?! Just tell me why you're here, asshole!"
The figure didn't flinch.
Instead, they…
laughed.
Out loud.
Not mockingly.
Just… full of genuine amusement, as though she'd told the best joke in the world and didn't even know it.
The laugh trailed off. Silence returned like a knife sliding back into its sheath.
Then the figure lifted their chin.
And Allora saw.
Just beneath the edge of the hood, the scarf shifted slightly.
And eyes—that strange, ghostly nude-sienna, almost tan but not—locked with hers.
Pale. Piercing. Otherworldly.
A color so rare it lived in only one memory.
No—two.
Those eyes had haunted her.
Burned her.
Chained her.
Then, as the tavern settled back into its hum, the figure rose from their chair.
Tall. Steady. Cloaked in the storm and smoke.
They looked down at her, head tilted slightly.
Their voice came again, calm and final:
"We'll talk again—when there's more time."
Allora's jaw tightened.
But before she could speak again, the figure turned and walked toward the stairs leading to the upper levels of the tavern, boots tapping softly on the wooden floor. A few heads turned, but no one stopped them.
Her body wanted to move—to follow, to demand more.
But before she could take a step, a firm hand gripped her shoulder from behind.
She startled—spun—and found Kalemon, her gray eyes narrowed, her body tense with instinct.
"Who was that?" Kalemon asked, voice low.
Allora looked toward the stairs, but the figure was already gone into the shadows.
She turned back, her voice quieter now. Uneasy.
"I don't recognize them… but they know who I am."
Kalemon exhaled through her nose. Wiped a hand down her face.
"Damn it."
She looked around the room once, scanning, then leaned in closer.
"We need to get further south. Away from soldiers. Away from Awyan eyes. I don't know if there's anywhere left that doesn't know your name…"
Allora looked at her, lips pressed together, heart racing.
"Then we better move fast."
__________________________________________________________________
The rain hadn't stopped.
By the time Kalemon and Allora had found their room upstairs, the mules were stabled, their cloaks hung to dry, and the door bolted shut behind them. They didn't speak much. The weight of the tavern encounter pressed against them both.
They allowed themselves only a few hours of sleep—Kalemon insisted on it, even though Allora's instincts screamed to keep moving. But they needed to let the animals rest. And their bodies, too. A dead woman couldn't run.
By dawn, they were in the common room, seated near the window with bowls of hot grain and thick crusted bread, Kalemon watching the inn's entrance like a hawk.
Allora pushed food around her bowl until Kalemon gave her a look that said, eat or I'll feed you myself.
She finally obeyed.
Between bites, Kalemon leaned in slightly.
"There's something I didn't tell you yesterday," she said. "About the portal."
Allora paused mid-chew.
Kalemon's voice was low. "It's not a guarantee. But the south… past the old salt flats, deep into the cliffs—there are readings. Places where the magnetic field spikes. The last team I came with—we buried sensors there. Before… before the others gave up."
Allora set her spoon down carefully.
"So you think it's real?"
Kalemon nodded. "Real enough to try."
Allora let the information settle like hot tea in her chest. She reached into her coat and pulled something from the inner pocket.
She slid it across the table.
The white coin.
Kalemon's face changed instantly.
Her eyes widened, then narrowed sharply.
She picked it up and turned it in her fingers, letting the silver-white metal catch the firelight.
"Where did you get this?"
Allora answered quietly, "The hooded figure from last night. Said it was payment for answering their questions."
Kalemon went still.
Then, after a moment, she placed the coin back down carefully.
"This is Awyan high-rank currency. Very high. This isn't something a merchant or noble just carries. These are used in closed council trades, House war contracts… or silent favors."
Allora frowned. "So it was a test?"
Kalemon shook her head.
"A message. Or a warning."
"Either they want you to know someone powerful is watching—or they want to intimidate you. Maybe both."
Allora's gut twisted.
"They said they were just observing."
Kalemon scoffed.
"Observers don't leave royal coin behind. That's not an observer. That's a spy."
Her eyes met Allora's with sudden clarity.
"And we're not just being hunted by your pale demon anymore."
Allora looked out the window at the slowly waking world.