The Warlord's Cure

The sound of soft humming reached his ears as he descended the stone staircase into the cellar.

There, nestled between barrels of wine and casks of aged liquor, was Melodie.

Sitting comfortably on a stack of wooden crates, a half-empty bottle of some strong northern alcohol in her grip, she was grinning to herself like she had just gotten away with murder.

Malec exhaled slowly, his irritation spiking.

"Ora delusco mar ver," he muttered in Awyan.

Melodie blinked up at him, her dark eyes gleaming with mischief.

Luko—who had followed behind—translated.

"He says you're reckless."

Melodie smirked, taking another sip.

"And?"

Luko sighed and translated.

Malec pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Stop drinking."

Luko relayed the message.

Melodie, fully buzzed and unbothered, grinned.

"Make me."

Luko coughed, hesitating.

"She… uh… says you should make her."

Malec's patience snapped.

With one smooth, frustrated motion, he plucked the bottle from her hands.

"Hey!" she protested, reaching for it.

Malec's tan eyes burned into hers as he held it out of reach.

"You should not drink like a fool," he muttered.

Luko translated.

Melodie huffed, crossing her arms.

"Well, maybe if I weren't being held in an ice fortress like a prisoner, I wouldn't have to find ways to entertain myself."

Luko translated, his tone flat.

Malec let out a sharp sigh.

Then, without another word—

He grabbed her by the waist and threw her over his shoulder.

"What the hell?!" she shrieked, kicking her legs as he carried her up the stairs.

Luko sighed heavily as he followed behind.

"You know, Melodie, I feel like this was your fault."

"Shut up, Luko, you damn snitch!"

Luko blinked, "What did I do? And what in the name of the god's was a snitch?"

Malec carried her through the halls, ignoring the startled glances of servants and guards alike.

He could feel her soft body squirming against him, her breath warm against his back as she muttered curses in her strange language.

Annoying female.

His fingers tightened slightly on her hips as he reached her chambers, pushing open the door with one swift movement.

He set her down, firmly but gently, his tan eyes locking onto hers.

"Stay in your chambers," he ordered.

Luko translated.

But Melodie wasn't listening.

She was watching him.

Studying him.

And then—she smirked.

Slowly, deliberately, she stepped closer, her dark eyes shimmering with something dangerous.

Malec stilled.

"What are you doing?" he asked suspiciously.

Luko translated, now looking concerned.

Melodie tilted her head, her voice dropping to a silky murmur.

"You carried me all the way here like I was yours."

Malec's throat tightened.

"Because you are," he muttered instinctively.

Luko's translation faltered slightly.

Melodie chuckled, taking another step closer.

Too close.

"Then why do you resist?" she whispered, running her fingers lightly down his chest.

Malec froze.

Her touch burned.

Her scent—**warm, rich, intoxicating—**clouded his thoughts.

His fingers twitched at his sides, his body tight with restraint.

Melodie smirked.

Good.

She was getting to him.

"Go to sleep," Malec growled lowly, stepping back.

Luko translated, visibly sweating now.

Melodie laughed softly.

"Goodnight, then… master."

Luko choked.

Malec turned sharply, storming out without another word.

Because if he stayed—

He wouldn't resist much longer.

The room was dimly lit, the fire in the hearth burning low and warm as Melodie finally stirred from sleep.

Her head throbbed.

Damn that northern alcohol.

She groaned, rubbing her temples when a knock sounded at her door.

"What now?" she muttered, rolling over.

Before she could ignore it, the door creaked open, and Luko stepped inside.

"You're awake. Good."

Melodie frowned at his serious expression.

Luko was always mildly exasperated with her, but this was different.

He shut the door behind him, crossing his arms.

"I need to warn you, Melodie."

She sighed, sitting up, stretching her aching limbs.

"Let me guess, another lesson on why I shouldn't be myself?"

Luko didn't laugh.

"I'm serious," he said, stepping closer.

"You're playing a dangerous game with Malec."

Melodie's smirk faded slightly.

Luko's golden eyes held no amusement now, only concern.

"He's not just some arrogant noble you can manipulate. Malec is… different."

Melodie arched an eyebrow.

"I already know that."

"No, you don't," Luko said firmly.

He let out a slow breath before continuing.

"Malec has never been one to desire women. He has never played romantic games, never cared for companionship. But he is obsessive. And when Malec decides something is his, he does not stop until he has full control of it."

Melodie's chest tightened slightly.

"So what are you saying?"

Luko ran a hand through his tousled loose hair, looking frustrated.

"I'm saying don't push him too far. Because if he decides to truly break you…" he hesitated, meeting her gaze.

"…you won't win."

A slow chill ran down Melodie's spine.

But she masked it with a carefree shrug.

"Relax, Luko. I know what I'm doing."

Luko exhaled sharply, shaking his head.

"Come eat, then. Before you get yourself killed."

The great dining hall was lit with golden candlelight, the long wooden table lined with warm, steaming plates of food.

Malec was already seated at the head of the table, arms resting on the armrests of his high-backed chair, his tan eyes flickering toward them as Luko led Melodie inside.

His light, almost frosty-colored hair was pulled back into a half-ponytail, while the rest of it fell loosely over his shoulders, framing his sharp, angular features.

He wore a long, dark shirt, fitted just enough to emphasize his broad chest and powerful build, with a silver tunic draped over it. The tunic was cut low enough to reveal just a hint of his bare chest, his skin pale against the dark fabric.

Thick gold cuffs rested on both wrists, the metal catching the firelight with each subtle movement.

He looked impossibly regal, yet dangerously untamed—a beast wrapped in finery but still very much a beast.

Melodie scoffed internally.

He probably thought he looked like some mighty warlord sitting there, all broody and intimidating.

To her, he just looked like a frosty-ass goat.

She plopped down onto a chair across from him, ignoring the stares of the servants.

"Freoi li," Malec ordered as he gestured to her plate.

Luko sighed and translated.

"He says eat."

"I got that much, thanks," Melodie muttered, grabbing a piece of bread and tearing into it.

The tension eased slightly as the meal continued in silence—until Malec suddenly spoke again.

Luko hesitated.

Then, clearing his throat, he translated.

"He has your new name."

Melodie stopped chewing.

Her dark eyes snapped up to Malec's.

"Excuse me?"

Luko winced slightly but continued.

"He's decided to rename you."

Melodie's blood simmered.

"Like I'm some kind of damn dog?"

Luko let out a small cough, but Malec simply continued eating, unfazed.

"Allora."

Luko translated stiffly.

Melodie's jaw tightened.

"And what exactly does Allora mean?"

Luko exhaled before answering.

"It's a nickname given to female children. It means… 'little dove.'"

Melodie blinked.

She was speechless for half a second before narrowing her eyes.

"Why?"

Malec smirked slightly, taking a sip of his drink.

He said something too quickly for her to understand.

Luko sighed, rubbing his temples.

"He says it's because you never shut up. Like a bird that won't stop chirping."

The room fell silent.

The servants stiffened.

The guards pretended not to exist.

Melodie slowly put her bread down.

Then, with perfect precision,

She picked up another piece of bread… and hurled it at his face.

It hit him squarely on the cheek.

Gasps rippled through the hall.

A cup clattered somewhere.

A servant looked like she was about to faint.

Luko inhaled sharply, pressing his lips together.

Malec slowly turned his head back to face her, his expression stoic, unreadable.

For a long moment, no one spoke.

Then—

He took her plate.

And set it aside.

"If you throw your food," he said smoothly, "then you lose the privilege to have any."

Luko translated, his voice strained.

Melodie sat there, glaring.

Was she hungry?

Yes.

Was it worth it?

Absolutely.

She leaned back, crossing her arms.

"That's fine," she muttered. "I'll just steal some later."

Luko barely contained his laugh.

Malec huffed, shaking his head as he returned to his meal.

Another victory for him.

But Melodie?

She was just getting started.

The morning air was crisp as the Canariae now known as Allora, trudged toward the training grounds, her arms weighed down by a wooden bucket of water.

She was still fuming from last night's dinner.

Or rather, from the arrogant warlord sitting at the head of the table, looking so smug and untouchable.

He had humiliated her in front of the entire staff—stealing her name, her dignity, and her food.

Now, she was being punished for throwing bread at him.

Like a child.

Malec had ordered her to clean every weapon in the armory and serve water to his sweaty, exhausted soldiers during training.

A lowly servant's task.

Which was exactly the point.

She was supposed to feel small, controlled, helpless.

But Malec had underestimated one thing.

Allora had done worse jobs for worse men.

And if he thought a little manual labor was going to break her spirit, he was in for a long, long war.

By midday, her arms were sore, her fingers aching from scrubbing down weapons and hauling heavy buckets of water across the field.

Sweat glistened on the backs of shirtless warriors as they trained in the sun, their swords clashing, their bodies moving in a violent, rhythmic dance.

She had just finished handing out water to a group of soldiers when one of them—a young man with sandy blonde hair and sharp green eyes—grinned at her.

"You're mura halto," he said in Awyan, his tone teasing, curious.

Allora narrowed her eyes.

She only understood some of what he said, but the way he looked at her told her everything she needed to know.

"What's your damma?" he asked.

She didn't answer.

He smirked, stepping closer.

"You're zala musko Canariae," he mused. "What's nor falto zeri amano kutka?"

Oh, she hated him already.

Before she could snap back, Malec's voice cut through the field like a blade.

The air shifted.

The soldier instantly stiffened.

Allora turned—just in time to see Malec stalking toward them, his tan eyes sharp, his expression unreadable.

His long, dark tunic swayed slightly as he moved, the silver embroidery catching the sunlight, the bare skin of his chest visible beneath the deep V of his shirt.

Even without armor, without a weapon in hand, he carried the kind of presence that sent men into battle without question.

"Do you find my Canariae amusing?" Malec asked, his tone too calm.

Luko, standing nearby, instantly translated for Allora.

The young soldier swallowed hard, straightening.

"I was just talking to her, Commander," he replied quickly.

Malec's gaze flicked toward Allora.

She could tell—he wasn't pleased.

Which meant this was a perfect opportunity to poke the bear.

She smirked.

"He was being friendly," she said, her tone dripping with sarcasm.

Luko barely held back a sigh as he translated.

Malec's expression didn't change.

But the air around him did.

His fingers flexed at his sides before he tilted his head slightly.

Then—

"If you have so much energy to talk," he mused, "then you have enough energy to fight."

Allora's smirk faded slightly.

Luko blinked.

"Uh… he says you should fight."

Allora's stomach tightened.

"Fight who?"

Malec's lips curled slightly into something dangerous.

The training grounds fell silent as soldiers turned to watch.

Allora rolled her shoulders, sizing him up.

Malec removed his silver tunic, leaving only his dark undershirt, the fabric clinging to his powerful frame.

Even without armor, he was intimidating.

She had seen him fight before—quick, ruthless, calculating.

But she had trained too.

She had fought men bigger, faster, stronger than her.

She just had to be smart.

A soldier handed her a wooden practice sword.

She tested the grip, bouncing it lightly in her palm before stepping onto the training mat.

Malec stood across from her, his stance relaxed but confident.

He murmured something sharply..

Luko translated, looking highly amused, ""Try not to embarrass yourself," 

Allora smirked.

"Same to you, goat."

Luko choked.

Malec's tan eyes gleamed with challenge.

Then—

He moved.

Allora barely had time to react.

The wind shifted, and suddenly he was there, his sword coming down fast.

She barely dodged, twisting her body as his wooden blade sliced through empty air.

Damn, he was fast.

Faster than she had expected.

Her pulse spiked, adrenaline rushing through her as she launched her own attack—a sharp, precise strike toward his ribs.

Malec sidestepped effortlessly.

Before she could regain balance, his foot swept out, knocking her legs from under her.

She hit the ground with a grunt.

The watching soldiers burst into laughter.

Allora growled, rolling to her feet.

"Focus," Malec said in Awyan.

Luko translated, smirking.

Allora wiped dirt from her hands.

"Oh, I'm focused," she muttered.

She gripped the sword tightly, feeling the weight of it.

It was slowing her down.

She wasn't a swordswoman.

She was a fighter.

Her fingers unclenched.

And she dropped the sword.

A murmur spread through the watching warriors.

Malec's brow arched slightly.

"Done already?" he taunted.

Luko smirked but still translated.

Allora simply smiled.

Then—she attacked.

She moved with precision, speed, and agility—the way she had trained for years.

No wasted movement.

No hesitation.

She closed the distance between them in an instant, pivoting sharply and striking with a powerful elbow to his ribs.

Malec barely dodged—his eyes widening in surprise.

She didn't stop.

She used his momentary misstep, her body moving in perfect fluidity.

A sharp kick to his thigh sent him stumbling a fraction—enough to throw him off balance.

Gasps rippled through the soldiers.

Allora pressed forward, turning his own strength against him.

Her body twisted with practiced efficiency as she hooked her leg behind his and yanked.

Malec's feet left the ground.

And for the first time—he fell.

Hard.

Dust kicked up around them as he hit the dirt, his breath leaving him in a sharp exhale.

The entire training yard went silent.

Allora stood over him, her breathing steady, victorious.

She smirked.

"Yield?" she mocked, using his own words against him.

Malec blinked up at her.

For a brief second, he looked genuinely stunned.

Then—

He laughed.

Low.

Deep.

A sound that sent an unexpected shiver down her spine.

And in that moment—she knew.

She had intrigued him.

Not just as a fighter.

But in a way that felt much more dangerous.

Malec sat up slowly, brushing dirt from his sleeve, his tan eyes burning into hers with something unreadable.

Then—he grinned.

Not angered.

Not humiliated.

Interested.

And Allora had the sinking feeling…

That she had just awakened something in him.