Festival of Fall

The streets were bursting with color.

Golden banners, woven with autumn leaves, hung between buildings. Strands of red, orange, and brown fabric swayed in the crisp breeze. The scent of spiced apples, roasted nuts, and warm honeyed bread filled the air, mixing with the sharp bite of woodsmoke from open fire pits.

Music drifted from every direction—soft strings, the occasional burst of drums, and the lively sound of flutes. Children danced in the streets, laughing as they chased each other between market stalls draped in rich tapestries selling fine silks, exotic spices, and intricate jewelry.

It was beautiful.

It was alive.

It was everything her world wasn't anymore.

Allora watched in quiet awe, taking it all in—the colors, the warmth, the laughter.

But she wasn't here to enjoy it.

Her hands subtly tightened at her sides.

This was her only chance to escape.

And she couldn't afford to get lost in the charm of it all.

Despite the joyful atmosphere, there was still a distance between her and the Awyan people.

She could feel their eyes.

Could hear their whispers.

"That's the dark one."

"The wild Canariae that caused the fire."

"And yet, he still keeps her?"

"A dangerous pet."

"Look at her collar—he's claimed her."

The silver emblem around her throat did what Malec had intended.

No one dared to approach her.

But it didn't stop the staring.

It didn't stop the comments.

It didn't stop the children.

A group of Awyan children—no older than five or six—scurried toward her, their eyes wide with curiosity.

"Look at her ears!" one whispered.

"She really is a Canariae!"

Allora blinked as they reached out toward her, their small hands eager to touch, to feel.

Before they could get too close—

Malec stepped in front of her.

His towering presence alone was enough to send the children stumbling backward in fear.

His eyes were sharp, his expression unreadable—but there was warning in his stance.

Parents quickly grabbed their children, whispering frantic warnings.

"Do not cross him."

"Do not look at the Silver Fox."

"He is not one to anger."

The children whimpered, nodding obediently as they were pulled away.

Allora glanced at Malec.

His face was calm, unreadable, but his hand—the one resting at his side—was clenched into a fist.

As they continued to walk, he finally spoke.

"Do you want anything?"

His voice was lighter than usual, almost charming—a strange contrast to his usual stern and demanding nature.

Allora looked at him carefully.

His mood had shifted.

Gone was the tense, brooding Malec.

Now, he seemed... relaxed.

At ease.

Even pleasant.

She raised an eyebrow.

Was he in such a good mood because of earlier?

A smirk tugged at her lips before she could stop it.

So that was the secret, huh?

Whenever he became difficult, all she had to do was give him a little hanky panky and he'd chill out.

Allora was about to laugh at the thought when she suddenly stiffened.

Her stomach turned.

She was thinking in future tense.

As if she was going to be here long enough to have to manage his moods.

She shook the thought away, quickly correcting herself.

She wasn't staying.

She wasn't his.

She had a mission.

She had a goal.

And she wasn't going to let herself get comfortable.

"Allora?"

She snapped back to the present, realizing Malec was still watching her.

"Is there something on your mind?"

She forced a small smile.

"Just... taking in all the sights," she lied.

Malec hummed in response, but his eyes scanned the crowd.

Even here, in a festival of peace and celebration, he was on alert.

She noticed small, subtle movements—the way guards nodded to him as he passed, the way he acknowledged them in turn, the way he never let his hand stray too far from his weapon.

She frowned.

"How do you know all the guards?"

Malec glanced at her, his lips twitching into a smirk.

"Because I trained them all."

Allora snorted.

"Ah, so that's why you're so bossy."

Malec gave a small chuckle, nudging her forward as they walked deeper into the festival.

Late afternoon.

The sun was low, golden leaves swirling through the air.

The music was lively, the rhythm intoxicating.

The sharp twang of strings, the playful clap of drums, the light, airy flutes weaving through the melody—it was all so familiar.

Allora hadn't heard music like this in years.

Not since the world ended.

Not since her life became nothing but survival.

Her body began to move on instinct, her feet tapping lightly in time with the beat, her hips swaying subtly as she let herself feel the music.

She hadn't realized how much she missed this.

Missed dancing.

Missed singing.

She had a beautiful voice. She knew that.

People used to tell her she could make a grown man weep with her voice alone.

But ever since she'd been taken from her world, ever since she'd been collared and captured, she hadn't been happy enough to sing.

Maybe she never would be again.

But dancing...

Dancing was something she could still have.

Dancing was freedom—if only for a moment.

She barely had time to process it before a firm arm wrapped around her waist.

Before she could protest, Malec's hand caught hers, pulling her onto the dance floor.

"Malec—!"

She twisted in his grip, but he held fast, his iron strength unyielding.

"No protests, little dove," he murmured against her ear.

His low voice sent a shiver through her.

He guided her with effortless precision, his footwork sharp and confident, the way only a man who had been taught from childhood could move.

Damn him.

Of course, he was a good dancer.

His grip was firm, but not painful, controlling, but not forceful.

For once, he wasn't dragging her, yanking her, forcing her into submission.

He was simply... leading her.

She didn't know how to fight it—so she didn't.

Her body responded naturally, falling into step with him, their movements perfectly in sync.

Malec's eyes flickered down to her.

And something shifted in his face.

For the first time since she'd met him—since this whole twisted ordeal began—

She saw genuine warmth in his eyes.

Not amusement.

Not possessiveness.

Not the hunger he usually looked at her with.

Just... warmth.

Like she had done something to make him happy.

Allora felt her stomach twist.

She hadn't meant to.

She hadn't meant to give him that.

But still, she couldn't help but smile—even just a little.

Malec stared at her, his expression unreadable.

For several moments, he just watched her, his tan eyes studying every detail of her face.

His hold on her tightened slightly, as if grounding himself.

Her body moved on instinct, her hand resting in his, her other against his firm chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.

"How do you know how to dance so well?"

The words left her before she could stop them.

A slight smirk touched Malec's lips.

"All soldiers are trained to dance," he replied smoothly, leading her into an effortless step.

"It teaches footwork, agility… grace."

Allora blinked, momentarily awed.

It made sense in a strange way.

Dancing was fluid. A sequence of steps, pivots, dodges, and control.

It wasn't so different from combat.

He moves like a warrior.

She looked up, but Malec wasn't focused on their movements anymore.

He was staring at her.

Not in the usual way—not with smug satisfaction, not with amused arrogance.

There was something else.

Something unspoken.

Something akin to yearning.

Her breath hitched as she met his gaze, the depth of it pulling her in.

"What?" she finally asked, raising an eyebrow.

Malec hesitated.

Then, in a voice lower than the music, he asked—

"How do you feel about me?"

Allora hesitated.

For once, she didn't think of a clever lie.

For once, she didn't think of how to manipulate him.

For once—she just spoke the truth.

"I don't hate you, Malec," she admitted, her voice soft, careful.

He tensed slightly, as if her words surprised him.

"But I don't love you either."

His tan eyes darkened.

"I don't want your fear, Allora," he murmured, his voice low, almost desperate as he twirled her, pulling her back firmly against his chest.

His breath was warm against her ear.

"I want your love."

Her heart pounded in her chest.

"I want you to smile at me, and me alone."

His fingers tightened around hers.

"I want you to want me—"

His grip on her waist burned.

"Like I want you."

Allora stiffened in his hold.

Her chest felt tight, but she didn't allow herself to get lost in his intensity.

"As long as I am beneath you," she reminded him, her voice like steel,

"As long as I am collared, as long as I am considered a lesser being—"

Her fingers dug into his shoulder.

"Those things cannot happen."

Malec's jaw clenched.

He fell silent.

The music played on, the festival still in full celebration—but between them, it was quiet.

For the first time, he looked... weary.

Like he was tired of fighting her.

Like he was tired of something much deeper.

Allora studied his face carefully.

For just a second—

She saw it.

A flicker of sadness.

Like he was pondering something that hurt him.

Something he couldn't bring himself to say.

And then—

"You will learn to love me, Allora."

His voice was a whisper against her ear, so soft it made her skin prickle.

"You will learn to want me."

His lips brushed dangerously close to her jaw.

"You will learn to need me."

His fingers tightened around her waist—just slightly.

"Even if it takes time."

His next words sent a chill down her spine.

"All I have is time."

The music faded, leaving behind only the sound of laughter, chattering voices, and the faint crackling of fire pits scattered throughout the festival square.

Allora turned away from Malec, stepping toward a table where various food vendors had gathered.

She needed a moment—a breath, a distraction, anything to calm the storm raging inside her.

Malec didn't follow her immediately, but she could feel him.

His presence lingered, his gaze a heavy weight on her back.

But then—something changed.

Malec looked away.

She caught it from the corner of her eye—he tilted his head slightly, a silent command.

The guards near her eased up, though they remained close.

Like hunting dogs given permission to let the prey wander… for now.

Allora almost laughed at the absurdity of it.

She wasn't some prey animal.

She wasn't his Canariae.

She was a soldier. A survivor. A scientist.

And if Malec thought she was his, then he had another thing coming.

But for now…

She had a role to play.

Malec watched her go, his face stoic as always.

This was all part of the plan.

Give the bait space.

Let her be the hook.

Malec's stomach twisted at the thought of it.

His Canariae—his Allora—was bait.

The thing that was after her, the thing that threatened to take her from him, would only reveal itself if it thought she was unguarded.

Malec clenched his fists.

He hated this.

But it was the only way to eliminate the threat.

To protect what was his.

Even if she didn't know it yet.

Allora reached the food table and was immediately drawn in by the smell of warm, buttery pastries.

It had been so long since she'd eaten something wih precious butter. 

Her eyes settled on a vendor—a fellow Canariae.

A man with graying hair and kind, tired eyes.

He saw her collar, his expression shifting between wariness and curiosity before he hesitantly spoke in English.

"Would you like one, miss?"

Allora blinked in shock at the sound of her native tongue.

She wasn't expecting that.

"I don't have any money," she replied, shaking her head.

The vendor gave a small chuckle, gesturing to the silver collar around her throat.

"That is your currency."

Allora stiffened.

Her fingers brushed the cool metal as the realization settled in.

This wasn't just a mark of ownership—

It was power.

The vendor's meaning was clear—

Her association with Malec, with the Silver Fox, meant she could have whatever she wanted.

Her collar was an unlimited credit line, a status symbol, a weapon if she played it right.

She took the pastry with a slow smirk.

Maybe, for once, being collared wasn't a complete disadvantage.

As she ate, a tug on her sleeve made her look down.

A small Canariae girl, no older than five or six, stood before her.

Her big brown eyes were wide with cautious excitement as she held up a tiny flower.

Allora knelt down, taking it gently.

"What's this for?" she asked.

The child leaned in close, her little voice a whisper—

"Lilly says to follow the little red bird."

Then, just as quickly as she appeared—

She was gone.

The little girl vanished into the crowd, weaving between bodies, disappearing before Allora could even react.

Lilly.

The name sent a shockwave through her chest.

Lilly was alive.

Lilly had found a way to contact her.

And she was trying to help her escape.

Heart pounding, Allora spun on her heels, searching for the girl in the crowd.

She needed to follow her, find out what she meant.

But before she could take more than two steps—

A firm hand caught her arm.

"Commander Malec is expecting you."

The voice belonged to one of Malec's guards, his grip firm but not rough.

Two more stepped into place beside him, blocking her way.

Her chance was slipping through her fingers.

She gritted her teeth.

"I just need to—"

"Wait for Commander Malec."

The guard's expression didn't change.

Her stomach twisted.

She looked over his shoulder, back toward the crowd, the festival, the people.

Somewhere out there, Lilly was waiting.

Somewhere out there, her path to freedom was opening.

The guards closed in, their presence a quiet, looming force as they herded Allora forward.

She barely resisted—there was no point.

They weren't rough, but the message was clear.

She was being brought to him.

Malec.

She caught sight of his familiar form, standing tall and imposing among the festival-goers, engaged in low conversation with an unfamiliar face. 

A shorter Awyan, his features sharp but weathered, giving off the air of a merchant or someone who traveled often.

Beside him stood a female Awyan, her eyes bright, curious, lingering too long on Allora.

She knows she's not supposed to look at me.

Awyan did not acknowledge Canariae.

That was the unspoken rule.

And yet—this woman's gaze lingered.

Like she was taking notes.

Like she was memorizing her. Allora glanced at Malec, taking in his silhouetted figure, standing tall in the glow of the festival fires.

His long fur coat draped over his broad shoulders, a mix of gray and white, luxurious and heavy.

Beneath it, he wore a black turtleneck like sweater, the fabric tight against his powerful frame, extending past his hips.

His pants—black, fitted, smooth leather—tucked into dark boots that looked far too practical for a night like this.

He looks like he's preparing for a journey.

Or worse—

A hunt.

It wasn't that cold.

Not cold enough for all this.

So why had he wrapped her in thick layers too?

The question gnawed at her, but before she could pull at the thread, the two Awyans took their leave, offering curt bows before vanishing into the crowd.