The parlor was warm, alive with quiet firelight and the faint scent of pressed linen and herbs. Outside, snow had begun to fall. It was a soft, slow drift—whispers of the North coming to claim them all. Soon.
And soon, they would return to it.
Malec stood near the hearth, his posture straight, arms crossed behind his back, jaw locked in its usual militant discipline. But his eyes—those pale tan eyes—were fixed beyond the flames. Focused. Cold.
There was peace in his stance. For the first time in months, his war had ended.
But that didn't mean his rage had.
It had simply become strategy.
He had her now. He had her, and she would not leave again.
And once she was strong enough, he would take her back to the High North—his home, where the winds screamed and escape was nothing but a dream. A fortress cut into mountains. A place where Allora's wildness would finally be contained, and their son would be raised without interference.
Without politics. Without nobles.
And most importantly, without King Surion, his snake-blooded cousin who would no doubt want to use the child as a symbol. A weapon.
That would never happen.
Not with Malec alive.
Leira sat in the grand armchair opposite him, swaddled in fine blue robes that clashed violently with the chaos of the last few days. Her hair was pinned tightly back, not a strand out of place. She cradled the baby as if he were the last flame in the world.
Across from her, Surian knelt beside the arm of the chair, holding a cloth and a feeding bottle. She had been the one to calm the child's fussing, her voice soft, her movements gentle. Her eyes never stopped watching his little mouth as he nursed.
The quiet should have been soothing.
But Malec's skin crawled with unspent fury.
They had kept her from him.
Leira was the worst of them all. The lies. The smugness. The gall to believe she knew better than him.
And now she was playing grandmother like she'd earned the title.
She didn't even look up from the baby when she said, coolly, "The crazy's gone from your eyes."
Malec turned his head, slow as a serpent.
Leira didn't flinch.
"Calmer," she added. "Since you've found her. Like the rage finally broke."
Malec's voice was sharp, flat.
"Shut your trap and leave her name out of your mouth."
That got her attention.
She looked up, one brow raised.
"I'm not insulting her. She's the reason you're standing there instead of out butchering half the realm."
"She's mine," he said. "You don't get to speak about her. You especially don't."
Leira tilted her head, then gave a slow, cold shrug.
"I hid her because you were marching across the realm ready to kill a baby."
Malec's jaw clenched so hard it cracked.
"I didn't know—"
"Exactly," Leira said. "You didn't know. And still, you had a dagger ready."
The words sat like rot in his chest. He turned back to the fire, shoulders tense.
It was true, and it stung.
Because if Kalemon hadn't intervened, if he hadn't seen the silver in the child's hair, if he hadn't looked into his own son's soul in the dreamscape…
There would have been blood.
His blood.
Her blood.
Allora's blood.
He said nothing more.
Surian, sensing the sudden shift, cleared her throat and smiled softly, trying to redirect.
"Have you chosen a name for him yet?" she asked.
Malec's eyes drifted back to the baby, now drowsy and warm in Leira's arms.
"No," he said.
She blinked. "You're not naming him?"
"I said I haven't chosen. I didn't say he wouldn't."
Leira scoffed. "What, he's going to whisper it to you in your sleep?"
Malec stepped forward, and without a word, reached out his arms.
Leira looked mildly annoyed but passed the baby over, adjusting the cloth gently before releasing her hold.
The moment the child touched his father's arms, he settled again.
Malec cradled him close for a moment. Then walked across the room, sat in the largest chair by the fire, and slowly lowered the baby onto his lap.
The child's eyes still hadn't opened.
But Malec didn't need them to.
He placed one hand lightly over the boy's small chest.
"Stay quiet," he said, voice low. "And keep them out."
The room fell into a hush.
No one spoke.
They knew what he was doing.
The dreamscape didn't come easily—it never did. It had always resisted him. Even as a boy, it had taken pain to reach it.
Malec sat back in the great chair, the fire casting shadows along the far walls of the parlor. The child in his lap was warm and light as a breath, swaddled in linen dyed in soft desert ochre and deep pine green. His eyes had not opened, not once since the moment of his birth, but there was no mistaking his awareness. His stillness was not sleep. It was listening.
He closed his eyes.
He had spent years mastering control over his body and mind—enough to keep his enemies guessing, enough to make even his commanders fear his silence more than his sword. But the dreamscape was never a place that welcomed control. It was ancient, unstable. It obeyed no laws of war or blood. Even for someone like him, entry required more than focus.
It required surrender.
And so, with one steady breath, he lowered his walls.
The air changed.
The fire vanished. The room faded. Stone became earth, and warmth became wind.
He stood in a vast glade ringed by trees that reached beyond vision. Their leaves shimmered like silver and spun softly through the air. The sky glowed with an eternal dusk, and the world smelled of ancient things—dust, starlight, and blooming memory.
Malec looked forward—and then saw him.
A small figure running, barefoot and fast, from the edge of the trees. Silver hair streamed behind him. His limbs were too coordinated for a toddler, too purposeful. And when he saw Malec, he ran faster.
Before Malec could brace, the child collided into his legs.
Small arms wrapped around him tightly, and a voice muffled into his thigh whispered, "Thank you, Father. Thank you for taking care of ma-ma."
Malec didn't breathe.
He looked down slowly, his body stiff, unready for the way that voice would shatter something inside him. He dropped to one knee, placing a hand over the boy's back.
"How do you know?" he asked.
The boy pulled back just far enough to look up, his eyes bright and unafraid. "I talked to her," he said plainly. "When she was asleep. She was mad, but she's okay now. I made her laugh."
Malec's jaw tightened. "She spoke to you?"
The child nodded. "She used to come here before I was born. I followed her. She hums when she doesn't think anyone's listening."
Of course she did.
The boy stepped back, folding his hands in front of him. His expression turned curious. "Why is she angry with you?"
Malec exhaled through his nose.
That was the question, wasn't it?
"Because I kept her too close," he said at last. "Because I made choices for her, and she didn't want that. Because she felt more like a prisoner than a partner."
The boy tilted his head.
"She's strong," he said. "She doesn't like cages."
"No. She doesn't."
He seemed to consider this.
Then his entire posture shifted.
It was subtle—but immediate.
His chin lifted, his shoulders set. The air around him grew heavier.
And when he looked back up at Malec, it was with the eyes of someone far older than the small body could possibly belong to.
"Be careful," the boy said.
His voice was no longer soft.
"She is not a fragile doll, Father. She was born from the soul of a goddess. You cannot bind her with walls or rings or blood. She is not yours to contain."
The words echoed.
Malec narrowed his eyes. "What do you mean? What goddess?"
But already, it was fading.
The child blinked.
And just like that—he was small again.
He dropped to the ground and began to gather glowing leaves from the mossy floor, crouching as if the moment had never happened.
Malec remained still, watching him.
This was no ordinary Awyan child.
Whatever soul had come into his house through Allora's womb, it had carried something ancient with it.
He would not push. Not now.
Instead, he shifted the subject. The one thing he had come for.
"I need a name," he said. "Do you have one?"
The boy didn't look up immediately.
Then he stood, leaves forgotten, and wiped his hands against his tunic.
"There's one I remember," he said. "Not my real name. But I liked it."
Malec waited.
The boy stepped forward and said it.
A name foreign to modern tongues. Rich in syllables, smooth in cadence. It tasted of old magic and star-buried graves. A name that did not belong to any house of the North or South.
But it suited him.
Malec repeated it aloud, testing the shape of it in his mouth.
"Yes," he said. "That one."
The boy grinned, proud. "I'm not ready to tell you my real name yet."
Malec arched a brow. "Why not?"
The boy shrugged, as if it were obvious. "Because you haven't earned it."
Malec let out a dry breath that might have been a laugh. It had no humor. Only disbelief.
"Then I'll earn it," he said.
The boy reached forward and pressed one small hand over Malec's chest.
Then he whispered, "Tell ma-ma I love her."
The world cracked.
And the dream dissolved.
Malec opened his eyes to the firelight and the steady weight of his son curled against his chest.
The name echoed in his mind.
He didn't whisper it aloud.
Not yet.
He simply held the boy closer and closed his eyes again, this time not to enter the dream—
But to remember it.
____________________________________________________________________________
The door to her chamber opened slowly.
It didn't creak. Malec would never allow it to. Every movement he made was measured, intentional. Controlled. Even now—especially now—with the weight of a swaddled newborn resting in the crook of his arm, his steps made no sound on the stone floor.
Allora stirred in the bed as the scent of warm milk and pine-skin leather reached her first. Her eyes fluttered open, heavy-lidded with fatigue and soreness. Her body still felt like it had been run through a meat grinder, but she forced herself upright against the pillows as her senses sharpened.
She didn't speak. Just stared.
He came closer, pale tan eyes unreadable, his long silver hair hanging loose around his shoulders, a single streak clinging damply to his collarbone. His broad shoulders were tense beneath the change of shirt someone had finally forced on him—black, crisp, unfamiliar. But his eyes never left her as he crossed the room with the slow determination of a man entering holy ground.
And in his arms…
The child.
Their child.
Still small. Still perfect. Wrapped in dark emerald cloth lined with golden stitching. Eyes closed. A soft, curled fist pressed beneath his chin. His tiny chest rose and fell in slow rhythm.
Malec stopped at the edge of the bed.
"I spoke with him," he said.
His voice was even. Low. Not the distant steel of before, but something quieter. He wasn't masking the emotion anymore. It pulsed under every word.
She didn't answer.
Not yet.
"I asked him what name he would carry in this life."
Malec looked down at the boy, something almost reverent in the way he shifted his arms to cradle the child higher.
"He remembered one," he continued. "From a long time ago. Not his true name, he said, but one he liked. One he earned."
She finally found her voice, rough as gravel.
"And?"
Malec looked at her, the corner of his mouth twitching—not a smile, but something close to it.
"He wants to be called Vaeril."
The name hung in the air, ancient and powerful. Not Awyan. Not Canariae. Something older. Something rooted in soul rather than lineage.
Allora blinked, her breath catching, and Malec stepped forward.
"May I?" he asked.
Her eyes narrowed.
"You're asking now?"
"I always could," he said, and for once, there was no challenge in it. No venom. "I didn't."
She hesitated. Then, slowly, she reached out her arms.
He placed the child in them with both hands, as if handing over a piece of himself. Which, in truth, he was.
Vaeril stirred as her arms closed around him. Her heart clenched at the warmth of him. At the reality.
She felt Malec sit on the edge of the bed beside her, a solid shadow at her side.
"I nearly killed him," he murmured. "Because I didn't know. Because I was too angry."
She didn't correct him.
Didn't soften the truth.
He turned to look at her, gaze heavy with something restrained.
"I'll never let him be used," he said. "By Surion. By the court. By you. Or me."
She looked down at the boy in her arms.
"Too late for that, isn't it?"
Malec said nothing.
She didn't expect him to.
And yet—when his hand came to rest lightly against her back, grounding her in the bed they now shared with something terrifyingly permanent—she didn't pull away.
Not yet.
Vaeril shifted in her arms and gave the faintest yawn.
And still, he hadn't opened his eyes.
Not once.
As if even he was waiting.
____________________________________________________________________________
The congratulations came in waves.
Surion accepted each one with the grace expected of a king, nodding politely, his fingers brushing goblets, his jaw aching from holding the same charming grin.
But somewhere in the fourth or fifth toast, something began to sour.
The compliments were too generous.
The handshakes lingered a touch too long.
And the smiles—those polite, tight-lipped political masks—they were expectant.
They weren't celebrating him. Not truly.
They were watching him. Measuring him.
Lady Neysha leaned in again, her voice lilting and gentle. "It's such a relief to know the bloodline has been secured. And in such a miraculous way, too."
Surion blinked.
He turned to her, still smiling. "Yes, well. I suppose even my cousin can't stay mad forever."
Neysha looked confused. Then her eyes widened just slightly.
"Oh," she said, covering her mouth delicately. "You mean… you don't know?"
Something in Surion's spine went cold.
The next noble who approached didn't give him time to question her.
"Magnificent news, my king," said Lord Daram, one of the wealthier borderland barons. "The realm is truly blessed to see such proof of union. The child must be radiant."
"…Child?"
Surion's voice dropped a register.
Lord Daram hesitated. Then, assuming the king was merely being discreet, leaned in and chuckled. "Of course, I understand. State secrets. But rest assured, once word spreads officially, we'll be first in line to offer our support. Perhaps… a trade pact? Or—" he glanced around, lowered his voice— "even just one moon's visitation with the Canariae mother. A few noble houses would be honored to—how shall I put it—borrow her womb."
Surion stared at him.
Lord Daram's smile faltered.
Behind them, another politician nodded enthusiastically. "Just to see if it's true. If the… compatibility is stable."
"Imagine," another said. "An entire generation of mixed blood heirs. No more sterile lineages. No more desperate cross-house matings."
Lady Neysha's voice trailed in behind them, gentle as silk. "A Canariae who can bear an Awyan child… she could elevate entire bloodlines."
And there it was.
Surion's blood ran cold.
Child.
They weren't just congratulating him on Malec finding his pet. They were congratulating him on an heir. An impossible heir. The one thing the Awyan people had long since stopped believing in.
And he'd known nothing.
He clenched his goblet so hard it nearly cracked.
The murmurs around him turned sharper now—more eager.
Alliances. Marriage offers. Temporary contracts. Noble women offering titles and coin if they could simply have access to the woman. To Allora.
And every single request came with the same soft question buried in the silk:
"Can we use her, too?"
Surion's jaw flexed.
He was being cornered in his own court.
And he hadn't even heard the damn news first.
The moment the last noble's voice dropped into that humiliating murmur, Surion's smile cracked.
He didn't excuse himself.
He didn't offer a final toast.
He simply turned on his heel, the hem of his black-gold robe slicing the air behind him like a whip, and strode out of the summit hall with fury laced beneath every bootfall.
Two guards and his steward stumbled to keep pace behind him, nearly tripping as they tried to match his long, elegant strides. His knuckles were white where they gripped the signet rings at his hip, the leather of his gloves creaking from the tension in his fingers.
The moment they turned into the corridor, he barked, "Get me Ilyra. Now."
One of the aides peeled off immediately.
By the time he reached the council antechamber, Ilyra was already waiting—perfect posture, hands clasped behind her back, a tailored charcoal jacket hugging her tall frame. Her hair was as red as crushed embers, cropped bluntly at the jaw in a fashion only she could pull off without inviting ridicule. Sharp, composed, and never flustered.
Surion rounded on her, breath hard, eyes blazing.
"Well?" he snapped. "What in the name of my crown did I just hear back there?"
Ilyra didn't blink.
"The information just arrived, Your Majesty," she said evenly. "One of our scouts, posted with Leira's household guard at her western estate, has just returned. He reports… that Malec's Canariae gave birth. In secret. He claims to have seen the child himself."
Surion froze mid-step, arms raised, fingers twitching as if suspended between command and disbelief.
He stared at Ilyra, eyes narrowing. "Wait. Say that again."
Ilyra's expression didn't shift. "Malec went to the estate believing the child was not his. According to the scout, he was preparing to kill it. He only stopped when he saw it—when he recognized it as his own."
Surion blinked. "You're certain?"
"Yes, Your Majesty."
There was a long pause.
And then, laughter—sharp and full of wicked glee—burst from his chest.
Surion clapped his hands, spinning once in place as though he were drunk on the idea.
"I knew she was strange," he muttered, pacing now. "That little stray—there was something about her the first time I laid eyes on her. And now this. The only being in the realms to tame him. And she didn't just warm his bed—she gave him an heir."
He stopped pacing and looked back at Ilyra.
"Do you understand what this means?"
"I do."
He grinned. "No, I don't think you do. This little miracle didn't just elevate Malec's name—she's elevated mine. The bloodline of House Thalan has what no other can claim. A fertile Canariae who can breed viable heirs with our kind."
He turned to the window, eyes glinting with greed as he looked out over the golden spires of the Capitol.
"She's worth more than silver. More than spice. Entire provinces would bend the knee to have her in their courts. I'll have kings and queens trading their secondborns for a chance to 'borrow' her womb."
He was already moving, hands clasped behind his back, breath quickening with excitement.
"Send a summons."
Ilyra glanced up. "To Lord Malec?"
Surion turned, that wide grin returning.
"No. To her."
She stiffened. "The Canariae?"
"Do try to keep up, Ilyra," he said with mock patience.
She blinked once. "That will undoubtedly provoke your cousin."
"Good," Surion snapped. "He still owes me for the last time he laid hands on me."
He stepped closer, voice darkening.
"He beat me for helping her run. You remember, don't you? That sweet little escape plan—Surin, Surian, and me? The great betrayal. That was the first time she vanished."
He adjusted the cuff of his robe, brushing invisible dust from the embroidered gold stitching.
"Now it's my turn."
Ilyra hesitated, but gave a sharp nod.
"Yes, Your Majesty."
Surion turned toward the stairs.
"I want her here by next week."
And this time, it wasn't just gold he saw.
It was vengeance.