Allora stared back at Leira, stone-faced, her arms crossed tight over her chest.
The Awyan woman tilted her head, her mouth curled in that smug little smile Allora was already growing to despise.
"So tell me," Leira said, voice low and smooth, "which Canariae got close enough to do that to you? And is he still alive?"
Allora narrowed her eyes.
"None of your goddamn business."
Leira's grin deepened, all teeth and amusement. Her fingers tapped lazily on the table as though her patience was a performance.
"Come now, don't be shy. It's practically a miracle. That child must be a stubborn little thing. You should be proud."
Allora rolled her eyes and pushed up from the booth.
"I'm done here. I'm tired, I need to lie down, and I have to pee every ten minutes. Go interrogate someone else."
Leira let out a quiet laugh, unbothered, watching her stretch her back and adjust her cloak.
"How long do your pregnancies last, anyway?" she asked suddenly.
Allora turned, blinking. "…What?"
"Your gestation period," Leira clarified, as if she were talking about livestock. "How long until the offspring is born?"
Allora wrinkled her nose. "Nine months. Give or take."
Leira's eyes widened.
"Nine? Nine months?" She actually gasped, blinking in astonishment. "By the stars. That's barely more than a seasonal bloom."
She laughed again, genuinely startled. "No wonder you multiply so quickly. Awyan pregnancies take nearly two full years."
Allora choked. "Oh hell no. No wonder y'all barely procreate. I'd die."
Leira chuckled. "Some do. But if the child is valuable enough, it's a risk worth taking."
Allora shuddered. "Your whole species is just—exhausting."
"And yours is messy," Leira replied smoothly. "But entertaining."
She stood then, drawing her gloves back on, and looked Allora up and down like a particularly fascinating animal in a glass case.
"I'll accompany you."
Allora blinked. "No, you won't."
"Yes, I will," Leira said, with the same cold confidence Malec used when announcing things he had no intention of debating. "You'll need protection. You're hunted. I am an excellent shield."
"Fuck off," Allora snapped.
Leira only shrugged. "You'd prefer I follow you at a distance? I'm a tracker. I'll be watching regardless. This way, at least you'll benefit from my presence."
Allora stared at her, mouth agape. She saw it now. The arrogance, the commanding tone, the unshakeable certainty—Malec's DNA ran deep.
She sighed.
"God. You're definitely related."
Leira smiled sweetly, smug as ever.
"You're welcome."
____________________________________________________________________________
By the time Allora returned to the inn's modest courtyard, the sun had slunk behind the hills, casting the world in deep blue shadow. Her feet ached. Her lower back was a burning coil of tension. But the real headache?
Was walking beside her.
Leira, with her long cloak trailing behind like a royal afterthought, glided next to her as if they were old friends. Her stride unhurried, her posture regal, her eyes darting to every rooftop like she'd memorized every sniper's perch in the region.
Allora muttered under her breath, "Stop walking like you own the place."
"I walk the same everywhere," Leira said serenely. "It's not my fault the world behaves better when I do."
Allora barely stopped herself from groaning.
Ahead, Kalemon was pacing near the stables, arms crossed, expression dark. Her thick gray braid had come half undone, and she looked like she'd aged five years in the last hour. The moment she saw Allora, she let out a sharp breath of relief.
"You were gone too long," Kalemon barked. "I was two minutes from dragging this whole town apart."
Allora held up a hand, as if to say brace yourself, then gestured beside her.
"I brought something worse."
Kalemon's eyes landed on Leira.
"…Stars help us."
Leira offered a small wave and the most insincere smile ever produced in a mortal face.
"Hello, Kalemon. You must be the guardian."
Kalemon's mouth twitched like she was considering committing murder. Allora dropped the bag of fruit at Kalemon's feet with a sigh.
"She's been following us. For days. Malec's mother."
Kalemon looked like she'd been slapped with a dead fish.
"What?"
"She says she's not working for him," Allora muttered. "Says Kirelle hired her. Says she's curious."
Kalemon pointed a calloused finger at Leira.
"And now what, you just let her tag along?"
Allora threw up her hands. "I told her to fuck off!"
"And?"
"And she basically said 'no.'"
Leira chimed in sweetly, "I said it with grace."
Kalemon looked skyward as if begging the heavens to smite someone—anyone.
"So let me get this straight," she snapped. "We're running from your lovesick blood-hungry warlord, and now we've invited his bloodline architect along for the ride?"
Leira perked up. "Oh, I like that. Bloodline architect. I'll add that to my formal titles."
Allora massaged her temples. "She's invasive, Kalemon. She's got Malec's arrogance, but with a worse sense of humor and a longer vocabulary."
"Thank you," Leira said, not the least bit offended.
Kalemon crossed her arms.
"She's going to poke into everything—your body, your mind, your emotions—until she finds something she can use."
"Yep," Allora said.
"And if you think she'll stay loyal the second this stops entertaining her—"
"I know," Allora said again.
The two stood there, radiating frustration. Leira casually leaned against the stable post, utterly unbothered.
"But," Kalemon growled, "she's right about one thing. She's useful. A living, breathing shield. She can distract anyone who might follow us… and if someone does catch up…"
"We could use the firepower," Allora admitted.
They stood in silence for a beat.
Kalemon exhaled through her nose.
"Stars help me, I'm starting to miss being hunted by just one psychopath."
Allora patted her arm. "At least that one was predictable."
Leira stretched luxuriously.
"Are we going inside now, or do you plan on glaring at me until morning?"
Kalemon grumbled and walked toward the inn.
"Do we at least get to pretend we're in charge?"
Allora glanced sideways at Leira, then back to Kalemon with a smirk.
"Let her think she is. We'll play the game... until it stops being useful."
____________________________________________________________________________
The inn room was dim and cramped, with one large bed, one dusty rug, and the barely-there promise of warmth from the old iron stove in the corner. The three women were sprawled in various corners like mismatched chess pieces forced into a truce.
Allora sat on the edge of the bed, rubbing her lower back, the constant ache of pregnancy getting worse by the hour. Kalemon was perched on a stool near the window, sharpening a curved blade with angry little flicks. And Leira, somehow having taken over the floor in front of the fire like she owned the damn place, leaned on her elbow, staring at Allora like she was a walking medical anomaly.
"So," Leira said casually, as if asking about the weather. "Who's the father?"
Allora groaned. "Oh my fuckin gawd. We're doing this again?"
Leira raised a brow. "I'm just curious. You won't tell me, so naturally, I must investigate."
She began ticking names off on her gloved fingers like she was listing off suspects in a murder mystery.
"It can't be any of the Canariae in Surian's house. They were all ancient. One had no teeth."
"That's Surian's cook," Allora snapped. "And she's ninety-seven. What the hell is wrong with you?"
Leira waved her hand dismissively. "Hard to tell with your kind. You age fast and all look the same."
Kalemon let out a growl. "That's racist."
"Mmm," Leira replied with zero remorse.
She tapped her lip, deep in thought.
"Was it the dark-skinned one who helped you escape the portal facility?" she asked, turning her hawk-like eyes on Allora.
Allora blinked—then stared in horror.
"That was my dad."
Leira blinked, then gave a thoughtful hum. "Oh. I see." She made a vague scribbling motion with her hand in the air. "Mental note: not the father. Possibly too old. And… related. Good to know."
Allora looked like she might combust.
Leira looked unbothered.
"You see, it's difficult for me. All Canariae blur together. You have such… soft faces."
Kalemon slammed her whetstone down on the windowsill. "Enough. Allora, stop talking to her. She's not trying to find the father. She's collecting information."
Allora narrowed her eyes. "You're right."
She looked at Leira, who only smiled and lifted both hands in mock surrender.
"Guilty," she said brightly. "But it's a habit. My brain works in maps and questions."
Allora grabbed the nearest dusty pillow from the bed and hurled it at Leira's face.
It hit with a satisfying thwump.
"Sleep. On. The. Floor."
Leira sighed, pulling the pillow off her head and tucking it behind her neck as she reclined by the fire with an obnoxious amount of comfort.
"Gladly."
Kalemon muttered, "This is the dumbest team I've ever been part of."
Allora flopped back on the bed and groaned.
"Wake me if she starts dissecting someone in their sleep."
____________________________________________________________________________
The sky was bruised with gray, heavy with an impending storm as Malec's forces cut through the hills of the southern frontier. Frost clung to the pines like brittle lace. Every hoofbeat punched into the cold earth like a war drum. They moved with urgency, sweeping through the narrow forest pass that led to the outer border towns.
Malec rode ahead, silent as winter death.
His white fur coat, thick and regal, shimmered beneath the gray sky—black spots scattered like a snow leopard's pelt, draped across his broad shoulders with effortless menace. Beneath it, he wore a dark gray high-necked tunic, tight and elegant, tailored for battle in the cold. His black pants were tucked into heavy war boots, crusted with frost and grit, each step of his dapple gray horse pounding like war drums against the earth.
His sword bounced lightly against his hip, the only thing that seemed to move with rhythm.
But what drew the eye—what unsettled even the soldiers riding behind him—was his hair.
Unbound. Wild. Whipping in the wind.
No longer the slicked, disciplined braid of the Capitol officer. It mirrored the storm inside of him now—untamed, violent, unraveling.
Dark circles carved shadows beneath his eyes, and though his jaw was tight with fury, his weariness hung from his bones like armor made of ghosts.
He looked like a man haunted.
Or worse—possessed.
And he wasn't slowing down.
Not until he had her.
Not until his Canariae was in his arms again.
He didn't speak.
He didn't need to.
His silence was the command.
Beside him, Luko rode in stiff silence, his breath fogging in the cold. He clutched a stack of reports—scrawled observations from scattered border guards, whispers from merchants, scattered rumors of a cloaked Canariae woman seen passing through hamlets and hill towns.
"She's close," Luko finally said, trying to break the tension. "No more than two, maybe three days ahead. Locals in Soren's Reach mentioned a heavily cloaked woman buying fruit. She used coin stamped in the northern mint—same pattern as the ones Lady Kirelle gives out."
Malec's head turned slightly.
"Kirelle," he muttered. Not a question. Not a surprise. Just… not relevant.
His voice was tight, controlled—but Luko knew better. The commander was a kettle about to blow steam through every crack in his porcelain façade.
"I have scouts narrowing the path," Luko added. "They'll alert us the moment they spot a trace of her."
"They won't," Malec said flatly. "They're too slow."
He kicked his horse forward, surging ahead through the trail, the trees whipping past like ghosts. The entourage behind them struggled to keep pace.
Luko cursed softly under his breath and followed.
By evening, they stopped in a narrow mountain town built from moss-covered stone, tucked along a river bend. Luko dismounted, bone-tired, and handed the latest report to Malec as he stared out at the dusk.
"Still no confirmation of her location," Luko said quietly. "But someone saw a woman matching her build and skin tone… accompanied by a known Canariae herbalist. Name's Kalemon."
Malec's fingers closed around the parchment, crumpling it unconsciously.
"I want him found."
"We're on it," Luko replied. "But Malec—"
"Don't." Malec's voice was a whip. "Don't ask me to slow down. Don't ask me to wait. I gave her softness. I gave her choice."
His jaw flexed, the pale tan of his eyes glinting dangerously in the torchlight.
"She spat on both."
Luko said nothing. The tension between them was no longer just professional. It was moral.
And yet he followed.
Because he always had.
"You're not yourself," Luko finally said, voice low. "You're getting reckless."
Malec turned toward him, gaze sharpened to a dagger's edge.
"She is mine."
"She was."
A silence so heavy it made the snow feel loud.
"And if you find her?" Luko asked. "What then?"
Malec didn't answer.
He simply looked to the south.
The hunt wasn't over.
Not even close.
The small border town of Velin Reach huddled beneath a blanket of snow, tucked in the cradle of fog-drenched hills. Stone cottages curled around a frost-bitten square, and every shutter was drawn tight as if the buildings themselves could sense what was coming.
Then came the hoofbeats.
Malec and his riders thundered through the fog, their banners torn from wind and ice, and townsfolk scrambled out of sight. The Silver Fox had arrived.
And he wasn't here for diplomacy.
The first guard barely had time to salute before Malec was off his horse, his heavy black war boots slamming into the cobblestones. The town's captain—a grizzled Awyan with a faded crimson sash—met him near the garrison steps, nervous sweat glistening despite the cold.
Malec didn't waste time.
"Has a woman come through here?" His voice was quiet. Terrible.
The captain swallowed. "Several, my Lord—"
"Not several. One." Malec stepped forward, the white spotted fur of his coat rustling like a ghost. "Canariae. Dark-skinned. Hooded. Traveling with another of her kind. Older. Possibly a healer."
The man blinked, clearly thrown.
"I—I believe someone matching that description passed through three nights ago, my Lord. She didn't give a name. They traded for herbs, some dried meat, and left before dawn."
Malec's gaze was knives. "Where?"
"South. Toward the river bend road. But there are dozens of paths—she could've veered off—"
"Did she speak?" Malec interrupted.
The man hesitated. "Briefly. Her voice was low. Controlled. She asked for fruit."
Malec's expression didn't change—but a flicker of something flared in his eyes. He tilted his head slightly.
"She ate fruit?"
"A peach-like thing. Said she couldn't stomach anything else."
Luko, just behind him, froze.
The pattern fit.
Malec turned away slowly, breathing hard through his nose. His hands clenched at his sides.
He was close.
The scent of her was everywhere now—even the air felt thicker, as if her presence had not quite left.
"Search the surrounding woods," he ordered his second-in-command. "Question every trader. Tear apart the hills if you must."
He turned back to the captain, eyes burning.
"If she passed through your gates and you failed to notify me, I will salt this village until it forgets its own name."
The captain bowed, trembling. "Y-yes, Commander. We'll aid in any way."
Malec walked away without another word, snow crunching underfoot.
Beside him, Luko finally found his voice.
"She's only a few days ahead."
"No," Malec muttered, eyes fixed on the south. "Hours, maybe."
He mounted his dapple-gray horse in one smooth, angry motion.
"This ends soon."
And with a sharp snap of the reins, the hunt surged forward again.