Book 2: You Know She Has Legs

The rest of the day was… peaceful.

Too peaceful, perhaps, for someone like Malec, who spent most of his life tightly coiled in duty, discipline, and an ever-present edge of war. Even Surian, born and bred to be a political chess piece, seemed almost confused by the softness of the afternoon.

But with Allora, somehow… it all made sense.

It was chaotic, of course. It always was with her. But the kind of chaos that broke tension instead of creating it. That filled the space with laughter, with breath, with moments that actually felt like living.

They'd spent hours trying on outfits, haggling with the seamstress, picking unnecessary accessories just because Allora decided that "if I'm going to be dressed like a bird, I might as well have feathers too." Surian had lightened up—truly—laughing in that rare, unguarded way that almost made Malec forget how alike she was to their cold mother.

Even she, the always-perfect, always-controlled Surian, had loosened.

She'd tossed a crust of bread at Allora's hair while pretending to fix her collar, and when Allora shrieked and retaliated with a biscuit to the shoulder, it was on.

The food fight was short-lived—Malec had intervened like an exasperated father, catching a flying olive midair and growling, "We're in public, not a feral colony."

The girls had giggled like teenagers, bolted toward the nearby pond, skirts fluttering, arms linked.

Malec just stood there, staring after them, his lips curving up into a slow, disbelieving smile.

This was what joy looked like.

This was what it meant to have something—someone—worth every storm.

Even though Allora still kept her distance—refusing to offer him the affection he craved unless she initiated it, and only then in brief flickers—he accepted it. For now. He would remind her of the conditions later, gently… eventually. But for now, she needed space. Soothing. Air.

And so, he made do with proximity—the closeness of her voice, her scent, the electricity in the air whenever she looked at him for even a second longer than necessary.

He savored it. Every second.

Surian had taken to giggling with Allora under a tree, pointing at strange birds waddling near the pond. It was ridiculous. Undignified.

And he was in heaven.

But then—like a chill wind passing through a sunlit room—a thought slipped in.

Malec's smile faltered.

He watched Allora, bright and untamable, plucking petals from a flower and tossing them at Surian.

She would age.

He would not.

She would fade.

He would still look the same.

Canariae were temporary. Fast-burning stars in a long, cold universe.

His shoulders stiffened.

Even if he spent every moment by her side… her life would pass in a blink. One moment she would be in his arms—fire, heat, passion—and the next… gone.

No.

No, he would not accept that.

Not if there was still a way.

Luko.

Yes. His physician from the northern sanctum. Luko had studied the limits of blood transfer and shared molecular healing between species. There were rumors—foolish ones, but rooted in science—that prolonged exposure, shared blood, could stretch life. Slow decay. Unbind time.

Malec straightened his spine, jaw set with purpose.

As soon as they returned to Surian's home, he would write Luko. Or better—summon him. Demand answers.

He would not let time be the reason she slipped from his grasp.

He would defy the stars themselves if it meant keeping her.

—————————————————————

Allora padded down the black marble staircase, the light from the high windows cutting across her skin in pale blue beams. She wore a thin robe tied lazily at the waist and a soft cream nightgown that brushed the tops of her feet. Her curls were pulled up in a loose bun, messy from sleep but still regal in its wildness.

The foyer below was spotless, the scent of polish and citrus soap still lingering in the air.

She paused on the last step, blinking at the bustling energy around her. Servants moved quickly, heads down, arms full of linens, scrolls, silver dishes. They weaved around her like she was a decorative column—something to acknowledge but not truly see.

Allora yawned, not caring if it was undignified. She stretched her arms overhead, joints popping with quiet satisfaction. It had been a good night.

She'd woken up to a cold bed.

No Malec.

No possessive arms.

No heavy breathing in her ear.

No man pretending to be asleep while clearly waiting for her to roll into his chest.

It was… blissful.

Her grin faded only slightly as she entered the breakfast room, expecting the low murmur of conversation, the clink of cutlery, perhaps Surian complaining about politics before noon.

Instead—

Silence.

The long table was fully set—baskets of bread, bowls of sliced fruit, soft cheeses, hot nectar and glazed meats steaming beside tall pitchers of water.

But no one sat there.

Allora frowned, one hand still rubbing sleep from her eyes. "Huh."

She glanced at a passing servant, a tall Awyan woman with ivory skin and a tray balanced on one hand. Allora stepped slightly into her path.

"Excuse me," she said, as politely as her morning voice allowed. "Where is everyone?"

The woman slowed, just barely.

She didn't meet Allora's eyes. Her spine was rigid, her chin tilted slightly up. "I am not sure, miss," she replied, a clipped, formal tone. "Perhaps the Lady or Commander is out."

Then, with a silent nod, she sidestepped and continued on her way.

Not rude. But… not warm, either.

It was the standard tone, the one Allora was getting used to. Polite enough not to offend a Commander's property. Cold enough to remind her exactly what she was.

She stood there for a moment longer, surrounded by too much food and not enough welcome.

"Perfect," she muttered, rolling her eyes. "The royal circus has left the tent without telling the main attraction."

Still… she wasn't mad about the peace. Just curious.

Where the hell was Surian? And more importantly… where the hell was The Grinch in silver fox fur?

She grabbed a piece of bread from the table and tore off a bite with her teeth, already plotting her investigation like a queen who refused to be left out of the game.

About twenty minutes later, Allora was picking through the fruit tray, the last of a pear slice clutched between her fingers. She'd been trying to make herself eat, and at first, she'd thought the silver-covered dish of soup would help.

It usually smelled rich, savory—full of spice and bone broth. But today…

She had barely lifted the lid before her stomach turned.

It hit her like a punch.

The smell was overwhelming—rancid, metallic, like old blood and rotting meat. She reeled back, gagging lightly, blinking at the dish like it had betrayed her.

The fruit still tasted fine. The cheese, untouched. Her body didn't feel sick, but something was off. Her senses were sharp, almost too sharp.

She considered asking for some pan-fried meat or cheese—anything with real protein. She needed it. But before she could call for anyone, Surian entered the room, her cloak draped casually over one shoulder.

Surian's face lit up when she saw Allora already seated. "Oh, good! You're awake."

Allora glanced up, her voice trailing. "Morning."

Surian caught it instantly—that tone. The way Allora's shoulders slumped, the listless poke of her fork.

"You're not eating." Surian sat down across from her, reaching for a fresh napkin. "Here—this is your favorite," she said, picking up the soup bowl and bringing it closer.

Allora gently pushed it back. "Smell it."

Surian blinked. "What?"

"Please," Allora said. "Smell it. Tell me it doesn't reek like something crawled in and died."

Surian leaned forward, humoring her. She sniffed the soup. Then again. "It smells fine, Allora. Just like it always does."

Allora made a face. "Well, to me it smells like death in a pot."

Surian gave her a longer look now—concern creeping behind her eyes—but she didn't push.

Allora let out a slow breath, leaning back into the chair. Her hands rested over her stomach, and a strange, distant dizziness bloomed behind her eyes. Not overwhelming. Not sharp. Just... wrong.

She reached for her cup of water instead. "Where's the beast?"

Surian snorted. "Summoned to the palace for official duties."

"Of course he was," Allora muttered.

"He left early," Surian added. "Before even the sun had properly risen. You were still tangled in the covers like a drowned cat."

Allora rolled her eyes. "For once, I was happy to wake up without being bear-hugged."

That got a grin from Surian.

Allora pushed her plate back with a sigh. "Let's go out today. Just us."

Surian's smile faltered. "I wish we could. But there's a mandatory banquet in a few days, and the entire city's getting ready. Every noble house is in prep mode."

Allora slumped farther in her seat. "You people don't live, do you?"

Surian lifted a brow.

Allora gestured vaguely to the lavish table, the decorative walls, the sheer quiet emptiness. "All you do is host dinners, plan meetings, have parties about meetings, talk about how tired you are from parties. Like—does anyone have jobs? Or hobbies? Or actual joy?"

Surian chuckled. "We're very busy being rich and important, Allora. You wouldn't understand."

Allora made a gagging noise and slid lower in her chair, hands over her eyes. "I miss dirt. I miss sweat. I miss people who didn't own five forks for one meal."

But behind the sarcasm, a dull throb pulsed in her temples.

Something in her body still felt… off.

After eating, Surian had dismissed her with a wave of her hand and a distracted command: "Go make yourself useful, Allora. I've a mountain of things to do, and you'd only slow me down."

Fine by her. She didn't need her company—or anyone's.

She returned to her room, locking the door behind her like a ritual, a small comfort in a world where privacy was a myth. The chamber was still, moonlight spilling across polished stone, but her true sanctuary waited inside the armoire. Stuffed in the back, nearly forgotten by the servants who dared not touch the strange Earth objects, was her duffle bag.

She returned to her room, locking the door behind her like a ritual, a small comfort in a world where privacy was a myth. The chamber was still, moonlight spilling across polished stone, but her true sanctuary waited inside the armoire. Stuffed in the back, nearly forgotten by the servants who dared not touch the strange Earth objects, was her duffle bag.

Allora dragged it out and opened it with reverence. Inside was her salvation—science, sanity, control.

She pulled out her portable microscope, lovingly dubbed "Helper," and the sample box she'd managed to preserve all this time. One by one, she prepped the slides, recording soft, clinical notes into her voice recorder, her tone steady, her hands practiced. The microscope hummed softly, obedient. This was the world that made sense—cells, anomalies, patterns.

Hours passed in a hush of focus, the world outside melting away. Eventually, boredom and curiosity got the better of her. She pricked her finger and slid a drop of her own blood beneath the lens. Just a comparison, she told herself. Just something to pass the time.

But what she saw made her breath catch in her throat.

Foreign cells. Unfamiliar.

She leaned closer, heart pounding. The dye clung to them differently, highlighting the irregularities. Where normal red blood cells gave off a muted crimson glow under the microscope, these shimmered orange—faint, almost ember-like. Alive. Wrong.

She blinked, adjusted the focus. Still there. These cells weren't hers. At least… they hadn't been.

Her voice shook slightly as she recorded the next note. "Subject: Self. Blood sample reveals presence of foreign cells. Characteristics… not viral, not bacterial. Possibly synthetic? Unlikely. There's a glow—bioluminescent? No… some kind of bio-energy discharge. Unstable."

A shiver ran through her.

What had they done to her?

She slid another sample under the scope, this time isolating just the orange-glowing cells. Her fingers trembled—just slightly—as she calibrated the microscope to max resolution, heart ticking like a metronome of dread in her chest.

"Magnification… increased. Cellular structure irregular. Membrane density higher than normal. Nucleus... split?" Her voice was barely a whisper now, more thought than speech. "Divided like it's housing two distinct strands of genetic code."

She pulled back, blinking hard.

That wasn't human.

And it wasn't like anything she'd seen in Awyan blood either—not from the times she'd snuck a sample, not from the wounded soldiers she'd secretly treated, not even from Malec, whose blood had always shimmered with silvery perfection.

These cells were hybrids.

Her blood was becoming something else.

She opened a new comparison file, overlaying the glowing cells with every blood type she had stored: human, Awyan, Cotard-virus infected, even samples of Surian's own plasma—stolen once, a long time ago, in one of her braver moments.

Each comparison ended the same way: No match. No match. No match.

But the closer she looked, the more her gut twisted. The foreign cells weren't invaders. They weren't fighting her immune system. They were integrating. Grafting themselves onto her biology like ivy creeping up stone, fusing with her red blood cells at the genetic level.

She leaned back in her chair, eyes wide, mouth dry.

"No rejection markers," she whispered. "They're... bonding with me."

A horrifying thought slithered into her mind.

What if this wasn't an infection at all?

What if it was intentional?

Her gaze drifted to the corner of the room, where a servant had once said something offhand—something she hadn't paid attention to at the time.

"You're glowing, miss. I thought it was just the light."

What if it wasn't the light?

Allora turned back to the microscope, eyes sharp now, vengeful.

What did they put in me?

What am I becoming?

Allora's fingers trembled slightly as she loaded a new slide. She told herself it was the chill in the room, but deep down, she knew it was fear.

She wasn't afraid of blood. She wasn't afraid of strange cells. She was afraid of not knowing. Of what this might mean.

She pulled another sample from her box—one she'd smuggled from the infirmary weeks ago. An Awyan soldier's tissue sample. Just skin, nothing invasive. She'd taken it mostly out of spite, back when she was being shuffled around like a useful pet, and no one thought her capable of anything more.

She slid it under the microscope next to hers. Adjusted the dual lens overlay.

And then…

Her heart sank.

The orange glow returned. Subtle, but identical. The shape of the cell membrane, the unusual electric pulses around the edges—they weren't just similar. They were the same.

The foreign cells in her blood matched the Awyan sample.

"No," she whispered, recoiling from the microscope as if it had bitten her. Her voice recorder fell with a clatter, still capturing every breath, every whisper.

She forced herself to look again, to think. These weren't just Awyan cells. They were alive in her. Merged. Not rejected, not attacking—coexisting.

She opened an old file—her Earth blood sample, scanned and saved from when she first arrived. Back when she was still just Melodie Jaxxon, before Malec, before the Capitol, before the world twisted into chains.

Overlaying the images, she saw it clearly.

She wasn't fully human anymore.

Somehow, somewhere along the way, they had changed her.

No, he had.

Malec.

She backed away from the table, knees hitting the edge of the bed. Her pulse thundered in her ears. Was it during the transfusions? The treatments? Had he infected her with this? Or was it the virus itself—Cotard's Curse—leaving a mark even after she'd cured it?

"God," she whispered. "What am I becoming?

——————————————————————

Evening cloaked the Capitol in hues of silver and shadow by the time Malec arrived. He didn't knock. He never did. The townhouse might have been gifted to Surian, but in his mind, it was merely a temporary vessel for the one thing that belonged to him.

He strode through the door with an imperial arrogance only he could carry—shoulders tense, jaw set, silver-gray cloak trailing behind him like a blade of dusk.

Surian intercepted him at the entrance, arms crossed as servants rushed about finalizing the meal. Her lips curled with a smirk.

"You look weary, Commander," she said with mock concern. "Or is that just withdrawal from not seeing your precious Allora for an entire day?"

He didn't even blink at her words. "Where is she?" he asked, his voice gravel and wind, the edge of a storm barely restrained.

Surian huffed, waving a hand in mock surrender. "Don't worry about me or the dinner I've slaved to prepare. She's in her room, doing something no one but her understands. Just—bring her down, will you?"

He was already moving before she finished, boots silent on the marble as he ascended the stairs. With every step, his composure unraveled slightly, anticipation burning beneath his skin. He hadn't seen her since morning, hadn't touchedher, hadn't heard her voice—and the absence gnawed at him like hunger.

He paused at her door, heart pacing with the rare vulnerability of not knowing what awaited him.

He knocked. No answer.

Frowning, he opened the door slowly.

And stopped.

She was there—curled over her desk, asleep among her strange Earth-made machines. The little helper device blinked softly, her notes scrawled in that fluid, foreign tongue, a language he still hadn't deciphered. Diagrams of cells, threads of thought, fragments of her brilliant, alien mind scattered around her like stardust.

And in the center of it all… her.

Head nestled in the crook of her arm, hair a wild halo, breath slow and soft.

A reverent silence fell over him.

She was a storm—violent, untamable, filled with fury and purpose—but in sleep, she was vulnerable. Exquisite. And still somehow strong enough to rob him of air.

He crossed the room with silent grace, kneeling beside her, one gloved hand rising to gently brush the strands of hair from her face. He touched her like one might touch fire—aware it might burn, but needing the warmth nonetheless.

"Allora," he murmured, his voice lowered to something only she would ever hear. "Little ember. Wake up."

She stirred, a soft groan escaping her lips. "Mmm…"

He smiled despite himself.

Her head lifted slowly, lips parted, the edge of sleep still clinging to her features. She wiped a smear of drool from the corner of her mouth with the back of her hand, muttering something incoherent.

Malec's heart clenched.

"Malec…" she whispered drowsily, her eyes blinking open to meet his.

His blood surged. Hearing his name on her lips—even half-asleep, even without intention—was like worship.

"You need to eat," he said, gently taking her hand. "Come. Before Surian sends the entire guard up here."

He helped her to her feet, but she swayed—too slow, too sluggish. Concern creased his brow as he pressed his palm to her forehead. She wasn't feverish… but something was off.

Her body sagged against him, and she didn't fight it.

That was all the permission he needed.

Without another word, he swept her into his arms, holding her as if she were made of glass and fire. She didn't protest. Her head fell against his chest. Her fingers curled slightly in the fabric near his collar.

Heaven help him, he thought, she'll be the death of me.

And he would welcome it.

He carried her down the stairs like something sacred, all while Surian looked on with narrowed eyes and a frown that said she was not amused.

Malec didn't care. Allora was in his arms. 

—————————————————————

The dining room was warm and glowing with soft lantern light, the table set in elegant perfection. Silver trays steamed with Awyan delicacies, fragrant and intricate. Surian had clearly pulled out every stop, and yet… her efforts were instantly overshadowed the moment Malec entered, Allora cradled in his arms like a precious relic.

Surian's jaw clenched. She watched as he strode past her without so much as a glance, lowering Allora gently into one of the cushioned chairs at the table, like he was placing a goddess on a throne.

"You know," Surian began coolly, folding her arms, "she has legs. I've seen her use them quite effectively to kick half your guard across the training yard."

Malec didn't look up. He was busy tucking a blanket around Allora's shoulders, brushing a thumb along the side of her neck as he studied her face for any signs of distress.

"She was too tired to walk," he murmured. "I won't apologize for caring for what's mine."

Allora blinked slowly, still emerging from the fog of sleep, the words barely registering—but the possessiveness in his tone stirred something deep in her stomach. She didn't have the strength to fight him yet. Not when her mind was still reeling from what she had seen in her blood.

What they had done to her.

Surian sat down across from them with an exaggerated sigh, signaling for the wine to be poured. "Well, I'm just thrilledthe great Commander has finally deigned to grace us with his presence. I'd say it's nice to have a guest, but clearly, I'm the one intruding in my own home."

Malec lifted a brow. "Then perhaps you should leave."

"Malec," Allora rasped, her voice dry, still rough with sleep and disuse. The way she said his name—half annoyed, half pleading—was enough to make him stop. His eyes softened instantly, refocusing entirely on her.

He poured her a glass of water himself and handed it to her. "Drink."

She obeyed, but her eyes were sharp now, searching his face with something unreadable flickering behind them. Her fingers trembled slightly on the glass.

Food was served—plates of spiced meats, roasted root-vegetables in tangy sauces, and delicate bowls of a golden soup that shimmered faintly under the light. Allora picked at hers, stomach uneasy.

"I found something today," she said, voice quiet.

Malec looked up, alert. "What kind of something?"

She tilted her head, studying his reaction. Her lips curled slightly. "A surprise."

He smiled faintly, leaning back, but she could see the tension coiling in his shoulders. "You do have a talent for those."

"I was comparing blood samples. From the infirmary. From… a few of your soldiers." Her tone was casual, but her eyes were knives. "And mine."

Surian stopped eating. Malec stilled.

Allora's fork hovered above her plate as she continued, "Funny thing. Their blood glows orange under my Earth microscope. So does mine now."

The silence that followed was thick and charged.

Malec said nothing at first, his expression unreadable—but his hand slowly curled into a fist on the table.

"You've been experimenting on yourself?" he said carefully.

"You've been changing me," she shot back, her voice low, fierce. "Or maybe not you. Maybe it's just something that happens when a human is exposed to your virus, your medicine, your planet. Or maybe it's your blood."

Surian looked between them, her brow furrowing.

"Allora—" Malec's voice was soft now, almost pleading. "You're not sick. You're evolving. Becoming stronger. Your body is adapting—merging with something greater. This doesn't have to be frightening."

"I didn't choose this," she said, her voice shaking now. "You didn't even tell me. You just let it happen."

His eyes gleamed with something dangerous and reverent all at once. "I didn't want to lose you. If I had told you what was happening, you would have fought it. Left. Destroyed it. You would have chosen death over becoming one of us."

Her stomach turned. "Maybe I still will."

They sat in silence for a moment, the only sound the quiet clinking of Surian setting down her fork.

Malec reached across the table, gently taking her hand. "You're becoming more. Not less. Don't fear that. Please."

Allora looked at his hand on hers. Then into his eyes. And something cold and furious and brilliant sparked behind her lashes.

"You didn't save me, Malec," she said quietly. "You built a weapon."

She let it hang, soft and final—no drama, no heat. Just truth, sharpened like a blade.

"One day," she continued, eyes steady, "it'll turn around and aim at you."

The silence that followed was not hollow. It was full—of meaning, of history, of everything unspoken between them.

Malec's hand stilled on hers, his breath caught. But he didn't pull away. His expression—no longer a mask of control—flickered with something raw.

"Then let it be me," he murmured. "If that's what you choose in the end. Let it be me."

She didn't reply.

She didn't have to.

Her silence was a wound he'd willingly wear.

He watched her for a moment longer, but the light in her eyes had shifted. She wasn't with him anymore—at least, not in spirit. She had drifted into thought, into strategy, into fury… somewhere he could no longer follow. Not yet.

And so, with quiet resignation, he rose from his chair. He adjusted the fold of his cloak with mechanical precision, as if going through the motions might hide the storm beneath his ribs.

He walked to the far end of the room, his boots echoing on the cold stone floor, and stopped at the wide-paneled window overlooking the Capitol. The city glowed beneath the night sky, a sea of golden lights and flickering life, but it felt distant. Irrelevant.

He pressed a gloved hand to the glass.

She's slipping away again, he thought. And this time, she'll do more than run.

This time, she might destroy him.

And gods help him, a part of him wanted her to.

His reflection stared back at him—silver hair unruly, jaw clenched, eyes darker than he remembered them being. He didn't look like a commander. He looked like a man who'd made a thousand wrong decisions for the right reasons… and now stood at the edge of a consequence he would welcome like a lover.

He whispered her name to the window, voice hoarse. "Allora."

Behind him, he could hear the faint clink of cutlery as she pushed her plate away. He didn't turn. He didn't need to. He felt her presence like a ghost already haunting him.

He had given her power.

And she would decide what to do with it.