The Caged Bird

Melodie sat motionless, locked in a silent staring match with Malec.

Luko was gone. The silver-haired woman had left.

Now, it was just her and him.

The commander.

The high-ranking warlord.

The giant with gold eyes that held no warmth, no kindness—just calculation.

She refused to look away.

But something about the way he stared at her—unblinking, patient, dissecting—set her nerves on edge.

The silence stretched between them like a taut wire.

She scoffed.

"What? You just gonna stare at me all day?"

Malec didn't answer.

Didn't move.

She exhaled sharply, shifting her weight on the stool. "I'm not a damn painting. You got something to say, or are we just doing this creepy eye-contact thing for fun?"

His fingers tapped against his arm, as if considering something. Then, finally, he spoke—but in his own language.

A short sentence. Flat. Even.

She raised an eyebrow.

"And what does that mean?"

Again, no response.

She rolled her eyes. "Of course. Too good to speak the language of us lesser beings."

Something flickered in his expression. Just for a second.

Then, he moved.

She tensed, but he only walked toward the table, grabbing a cloth and dipping it into a small metal basin of water.

She expected him to toss it at her like Luko had, but instead, he turned back and—

He grabbed her face.

His fingers pressed against her jawline, firm and unshaking as he tilted her head slightly.

"Hey—!" She tried to jerk away, but his grip tightened just enough to warn her.

Her pulse spiked.

He lifted the damp cloth and dragged it slowly across her cheek, wiping off some dried blood she hadn't even realized was there.

For a moment, she stilled, her breath caught in her throat.

Not because she was afraid.

But because it was so damn unexpected.

After all that violence, all that rage, he was just… cleaning her.

Like she was some dirty pet.

She scowled.

"I can do it myself," she muttered.

Malec ignored her, continuing his silent, methodical movements. He wasn't gentle, but he wasn't rough either. Just efficient. Like he was cleaning a weapon, not a person.

And then, as if to prove her point, he did something that ignited her anger all over again.

He grabbed her chin, tilted her head slightly to the side—

And examined her.

Like she was something foreign. Something strange.

Something he still hadn't figured out yet.

"Seriously?" she snapped, pulling back. "I get it. I don't look like your people. Congratulations on figuring that out."

Malec didn't react.

Instead, he finally said one word.

One that she actually recognized.

"Canariae."

Her fists clenched.

"We. Are. Called. Humans," she growled, enunciating each syllable.

Malec seemed unimpressed.

He wiped the cloth against his palm, discarded it into the basin, and turned away.

The conversation was over.

She scowled.

"So that's it? You just cleaned me up and now you're done?"

He sat down, reached for his thin smoking pipe, and exhaled a slow breath of pale blue smoke.

No response.

She let out a sharp laugh. "Wow. You're a real conversationalist, huh?"

Again, nothing.

It was infuriating.

She sighed, rubbing her temples.

Fine. If he wasn't going to talk, she'd figure things out herself.

Her eyes flickered around the room, analyzing every detail again.

Books. Globes. Strange instruments. Weapons.

The walls were lined with maps, neatly stacked in a corner. Scrolls, likely records or military reports, were arranged with meticulous order.

But her gaze lingered on the weapons rack near the far wall.

Swords. Daggers. A few ornate-looking spears.

And then—a whip.

Something tightened in her stomach.

She looked away, her jaw clenching.

The Awyan weren't just soldiers. They were slave-owners. War-mongers. Butchers.

And yet, despite everything, she still didn't understand them.

If she was just another slave, then why weren't they treating her like the others? Why was Malec watching her like a puzzle he couldn't solve?

She exhaled slowly.

Fine. If they were studying her, then she would study them back.

Twenty minutes passed.

Malec smoked his pipe, occasionally glancing at her, but said nothing.

Luko still hadn't returned.

She considered her options. Escape was impossible right now—but information? That she could get.

She shifted slightly, looking at Malec again. "So. What now? Are you gonna kill me? Sell me? Keep me as a pet?"

Nothing.

"Oh, right. I forgot. You don't talk to lesser creatures."

Still nothing.

She narrowed her eyes, leaning forward. "Or maybe you just don't talk at all. Maybe you just take orders like a good little dog and do whatever your King tells you to do."

That got a reaction.

His gold eyes flickered sharply to her, his jaw muscle tensing.

Ah. There it is.

"Hit a nerve, did I?" she smirked, but her pulse was quickening. "Let me guess. You hate me, but you don't know why. You're trying to figure out what I am, where I came from. But most of all, you hate that I fight back. That I don't bow to you like the others."

His fingers tightened slightly around the pipe.

She was pushing him.

Dangerous.

But necessary.

Malec exhaled slowly, his gaze never leaving hers.

Then, finally—he spoke.

Another sentence in his own language.

Something sharper. More final.

She didn't understand the words, but she understood the meaning in his eyes.

She did not belong here.

She swallowed, her throat suddenly dry.

"No shit," she muttered, but it didn't have the same bite as before.

Because for the first time, she realized something.

He wasn't just saying she didn't belong here in this room.

He meant here in this world.

Malec knew it.

And that meant…

He might know something else.

Something about how she got here.

Something about how she could get back.

Her pulse quickened.

"How do I leave?" she asked.

Malec took one last slow inhale of smoke, then stood.

He walked toward her, stopping just close enough that she had to tilt her chin slightly to meet his gaze.

Then—

He simply walked out, leaving her alone.

Melodie sat in the middle of Malec's study, trapped in a cage. A big human cage—like an animal.

Thick ropes bound her wrists behind her back, her ankles tied just enough to prevent her from kicking. She tested them carefully, feeling the coarse fibers bite into her skin. Too tight. No easy way out.

Across the room, Malec sat at a long wooden table, eating in calm, deliberate bites, as if she weren't there.

The fire from the massive stone fireplace flickered behind him, casting shadows along the bookshelves, leather chairs, and ornate furniture. The study was nothing like the dark, damp cells she had passed earlier. This place was warm. Lived-in.

But she was still in a cage.

The door creaked open.

Three men entered, dressed in long robes, their fair hair neatly kept. Scholars. One of them—a boy no older than sixteen—glanced at her uneasily before approaching Malec, speaking in hushed tones.

Then, after a brief exchange, the boy hesitated before walking toward the cage.

"You… understand me?" he asked, his accent thick but clear.

Melodie's eyes narrowed. "Who the hell are you?"

The boy visibly relaxed, as if relieved she could communicate.

"I am your translator. The others are medics. They are here to… study you."

She let out a dry laugh. "Study me? Great. And where is that dumb, flat-headed one named Luko?"

The translator's expression shifted to awkward discomfort.

Behind him, Malec gave a sharp command in his own language.

The boy hesitated before repeating Melodie's words aloud in Malec's tongue.

For a moment, the Commander's face remained neutral.

Then—

A low chuckle rumbled from his throat.

Melodie blinked.

Not a smirk. Not a scoff. A genuine chuckle.

He tried to suppress it, but his jaw tensed, his lips twitching as if he were holding back laughter.

Unexpected.

For the next hour, the medics did their work while she remained trapped like an exotic specimen.

They prodded at her skin, tugged at her hair, even inspected her teeth like she was some kind of livestock.

She glared at the translator. "Where's Luko?"

He hesitated. "He is no longer your translator."

"Must have really pissed him off," she muttered, smirking to herself.

The boy didn't respond.

But Malec—who had been silently observing—tilted his head slightly.

His golden eyes lingered on her, as if he was studying something unseen.

She stopped smiling.

He's reading me.

Noted.

Eventually, the medics left.

And now—she was alone with him.

Malec didn't move from his seat. He simply sat there, staring.

She studied him in return.

Six foot five. Solid muscle, but built for brute strength, not just agility. Broad shoulders. Powerfully built.

His hair was strange—not true white, but a pale, dull blond like aged parchment. It didn't shine. It absorbed light.

His golden eyes were even stranger.

They darkened when he was angry.

Sharpened when he was thinking.

Right now?

Somewhere in between.

He was reading her.

She lifted her chin. Let him try.

The door opened again.

This time, military officers entered, clad in dark uniforms with silver accents.

They greeted Malec first, speaking in low, serious tones.

Then—they saw her.

She felt their gazes sweep over her, lingering too long.

One of them—bold, curious—lifted a hand as if to touch her.

She instinctively leaned back, narrowing her eyes.

Before he could get closer, Malec spoke.

His voice was calm. Controlled.

But there was power in it.

The officer hesitated, then lowered his hand.

Melodie didn't miss it.

He wasn't protecting her.

He was protecting them from her.

She smirked.

The officers eventually left.

Malec glanced at her before exiting, his expression unreadable.

But his gaze said it all.

"Behave."

She held his stare until the door shut behind him.

Then—silence.

She exhaled.

And reached for the sharp object hidden in her waistband.

Their first mistake was underestimating her.

Their second mistake was leaving her alone.

She pulled out the small, sharp blade she had stolen from Luko's office, her fingers working quickly to angle the steel against the ropes binding her wrists.

They were thick, but they weren't metal.

And she had time.

Slowly, carefully, she began sawing through the bindings.

Her heartbeat was steady. Focused. Controlled.

She was almost free.

And when she was—

Someone was going to regret leaving her alive.