Book 2: Great. It's The Hoes

Allora had put up walls. Thick, high, fortified by silence and subtle glares. And though Malec never said a word against it, never crossed the invisible lines she drew in the halls they shared, his presence clung to the air like smoke—inescapable, smoldering.

He had moved to another guest room, uninvited but obedient. She hadn't asked. He just… knew. And though the space between them grew with each passing day, Malec didn't leave the house. He would sleep alone, eat alone, pace the halls like a ghost. But he stayed.

He was unraveling, even if he wore his stillness like armor.

Surian, of course, felt the shift too. The tension between them bled into every meal, every meeting. Allora's withdrawal had become a quiet wedge, even between the siblings. And for all her efforts to play peacemaker, Surian was beginning to tire of dancing around Allora's moods.

So when Allora finally—finally—looked up from her notebooks and microscopes and said, "Want to go for a walk?", Surian nearly tripped over her own feet in delight.

"Gods, yes," she said with a smile that didn't even try to hide the relief. "You're going to wear holes in the carpet if you don't get out of that lab."

Malec wasn't around—likely buried in Council scrolls or tormenting himself at the palace. But Surian knew without asking that he would allow it. As long as Allora was with her, the leash remained intact.

So they left, two women in a glossy black carriage, the city alive under the early afternoon sun, rays glinting off polished stone, children laughing as they chased breeze-lifted feathers and glowing trinkets through cobbled streets.

The carriage slowed to a gentle stop in front of an opulent green space—rolling hills, trimmed hedges, and glistening fountains inlaid with pearl and obsidian. It was a park, but not one for the common class. This was wealth on display. Children with silk ribbons in their hair played with bouncing spheres and miniature enchanted boats that skimmed across the surface of a mirrored pond. Couples in pressed finery strolled with leisure, parasols open against the soft glare of the sun.

Allora stepped out cautiously, her boots sinking into the manicured grass. Her eyes swept the scene, head tilting slightly in disbelief.

"I feel like I walked into a period drama," she muttered, lips twitching. "This is weird."

Surian laughed, her shoulders finally relaxing. "It's surreal, I know. But... refreshing. No war talk. No politics. Just people pretending they're not part of a dying empire."

They began to walk slowly beneath the shade of blueleaf trees, where light filtered through in soft dapples. Surian breathed in deeply. She hadn't realized how long it had been since she'd felt she could exhale around anyone.

Then Allora spoke, her voice casual but loaded with quiet weight. "Why did you leave the table last night?"

Surian hesitated, then sighed. "Because I hated watching him toy with you."

Allora stopped. Her expression didn't harden, but something deepened in her eyes. She reached out and took Surian's hand gently, like it mattered. Then leaned her head on her shoulder.

Surian stilled. Her heart ached in that strange, beautiful way closeness could bring.

"Thank you," Allora said softly. "For caring."

Surian smiled faintly, holding back the sting in her eyes. "My hands may be tied by fate, but I would never do anything to harm you. Not willingly. Not ever."

Allora said nothing. She didn't need to.

The two women strolled in silence, letting the world move around them, letting their bond speak in the stillness. For a brief moment, they existed outside of conflict. Just two sisters of circumstance. Of survival.

Until Allora stopped walking.

Surian felt the sudden tension ripple through her body and looked up at her friend's face.

Allora's eyes were fixed ahead, cold and sharp. Her body stiffened, her grip on Surian's hand tightening slightly.

Surian turned her head to follow the direction of Allora's gaze—and immediately felt her stomach twist.

Two women, dressed in finely embroidered gowns, were walking toward them with quick, purposeful strides. They were the same ones from the dress shop—the ones who had spat their venom with elegance and cruelty.

Allora's grip on her hand tightened.

And then, under her breath, voice flat and dry as desert stone, she muttered,

"Great. It's the hoes."

Surian blinked, then bit her lip to hide the flicker of a smile—nerves tangled with affection. Trust Allora to lace a storm with wit.

"Should we…?" Surian began, unsure.

But Allora's silence said enough.

Surian's heart thudded uneasily. Malec wasn't here. There was no leash, no silent hand to hold back the fire.

And the fire was staring.

The two women approaching weren't the ringleader from the dress shop—they were the ones who had lounged idly by, laughing and cheering her on like loyal pets.

So what did they want now?

Allora straightened, squaring her shoulders, chin tilting up. Her chest rose slightly as if to say: I'm not prey. Try me.

They glided toward her and Surian, their smiles too polished, too porcelain. And then—shockingly—they greeted Surian with exaggerated politeness... and addressed Allora.

Surian blinked, eyes wide, then looked to Allora, whose gaze had narrowed into suspicious slits. Like a blade being unsheathed.

Taking the cue, Surian stepped slightly forward, preparing to intervene if things turned ugly.

"Lady Maren, Lady Teyel," Surian introduced. "This is—"

"I know," Lady Maren interrupted softly. "Allora."

Lady Teyel, with stunning rose-gold hair, offered a polite nod. The other, predictably blonde, with eyes so blue they bordered unnatural, smiled with something slippery behind it. Arrogance, yes—but something else. Not hostility. Something… bureaucratic.

"Forgive us for the other day," Lady Teyel said smoothly, her voice cultured and sweet. "It wasn't very diplomatic. But you must understand… Kirelle is just like that."

Allora's eyebrow arched. "You are who you hang around."

The comment hit its mark. Both women flinched slightly, though their smiles barely wavered. Surian nudged Allora in the ribs with a warning glance.

Allora didn't flinch. "Let's not play politics," she said flatly. "Tell me what you really want. And be honest."

Lady Maren's eye twitched. She recovered with a laugh far too rehearsed. "Your Canariae is so… spirited," she said to Surian, deliberately ignoring Allora again.

Allora smiled thinly. "I'm standing right here. You can talk to my face."

Lady Maren gave a curtsy, the kind one might give a lower creature that had unexpectedly spoken. "It's… unusual for us to acknowledge a Canariae who doesn't belong to us directly. It's considered…"

"Lowly?" Allora finished, her voice low, warning. "Well, get over it. I'm not an ordinary Canariae."

Lady Teyel giggled into her hand, eyes twinkling. "Oh, we can see that." She tilted her head, assessing. "Honestly, I like it. It's refreshing. Most Awyans are busy playing mind games—at least with you, we know where we stand."

She glanced at Maren, then added, "I thought the dressing room incident was rather fascinating, personally."

"And exhausting," Maren muttered. "Kirelle gets everything she wants. Even her brother bends to her."

"So why befriend her?" Allora asked plainly.

Lady Teyel sighed. "Because it's how you survive here. Who you know is everything."

Allora's expression softened just a little. "Understandable." She glanced between the two. "If that's the game you want to play, I won't get in your way."

Lady Maren giggled, clearly relieved by the olive branch. "You're a breath of fresh air, Allora. I'd love to get to know both of you better."

"Because it's political?" Allora asked, her voice still dry.

Neither woman denied it.

After a beat, Lady Teyel admitted, "Our families heard about the… Malec incident. They urged us to broker peace. For the sake of stability."

"We don't want the Silver Fox looking in our direction," Maren added. "Ever."

Allora let out a slow breath. "Understandable."

Then her tone changed—clever, calm, and commanding.

"Here's a better idea: how about we spend time together. See if we actually get along. No pretending. No politics. Just three Awyans and one Canariae getting to know one another."

The two noblewomen exchanged a glance. They didn't fully understand what she meant… but they nodded.

Surian blinked, trying to take it all in. "That's… new."

Allora smiled faintly and said, "Let's go get some grub."

The two noblewomen blinked in confusion. Lady Maren leaned in toward Surian and whispered, "Grub? Is that… a kind of insect?"

Surian, suppressing a laugh, turned to Allora. "They think you mean literal bugs."

Allora blinked, then let out a soft, amused groan. "Right. Right—figure of speech. It means food. Regular food. No wings."

Lady Teyel giggled. "That's a relief. I thought perhaps it was a Canariae delicacy."

"You people are weird," Allora muttered with a playful shake of her head.

But she was smiling.

____________________________________________________________________________

Luko's steps heavy on the palace stairs. His hair was slightly disheveled, the edges of his tunic wrinkled from travel and sleepless nights. Dust clung to his boots. He looked every bit the exhausted researcher—resilient, but worn.

The guards recognized him immediately and offered the bare minimum of courtesy. Nothing unusual. Inside, courtiers and politicians threw him their usual glances—half-mocking, half-dismissive. Whispered muttering trailed behind him like a shadow.

He sighed.

He was used to it.

But it still hurt.

He wanted to be respected. Who didn't?

Maybe that's why he stayed close to Malec. That proximity gave him a certain shield. People treated him with more care when he stood in the Silver Fox's orbit. And maybe that's why he liked being around Allora. Because with her, there was no veil of pretend. She was treated like he was—low, overlooked. But she walked through it like she owned the shame they tried to put on her. Bold. Unapologetic.

He wanted to learn how to be like that.

The Capitol was vibrant, yes, and cleaner than the camps… but lonely. Especially without her.

Stepping into the grand meeting hall, he immediately spotted the group of officers leaving the central chamber. Malec stood near the colonnade, speaking with a highly decorated general and a stern-looking administrator. Luko hesitated. He felt out of place—too tired, too small in a room made for giants.

But then—Malec looked up.

Their eyes met, and with a flick of his gloved hand, the commander beckoned him over.

Luko inhaled sharply, squared his shoulders, and walked toward the circle of power.

"Luko," Malec greeted, his voice smooth as ever. "General Giuere, Administrator Rourus—this is the one I mentioned. He's been instrumental in the research."

To Luko's surprise, both men nodded genuinely.

"We've heard of your work," Giuere said, offering a hand. "The impact of Commander Malec's blood on the virus… quite the breakthrough."

Luko's spine straightened. "It's been... humbling, sir. We're still studying how the virus reacts to Awyan blood. There's still a lot we don't understand."

He was careful. He didn't mention life extension. Or the genetic alterations. That was still off the record—under Malec's protection. Or control.

Admin Rourus leaned in with interest. "We'd like to hear more. Perhaps over tea, or something stronger."

The invitation made Luko glow inside. Important people cared about his work. He wasn't just a ghost in the system anymore.

He smiled. "I'd be honored."

But then—General Giuere's smile faltered. His tone shifted.

"Commander… before we part, I just wanted to ask—how is your Canariae doing? After… the dressing room incident."

Malec blinked slowly. "What incident?"

The general's lips thinned. He knew Malec was pretending, but said nothing of it. "You know exactly what I mean. My daughter, Lady Teyel, was involved. I've already had her issue a formal apology. Personally."

Even Rourus looked surprised. A personal apology from an Awyan noble to a Canariae was unheard of.

Malec tilted his head, voice velvet and danger. "I appreciate the gesture. But I'll have to consult her. It depends entirely on how she feels."

The air shifted. The general wanted more. Expected more.

But Malec offered nothing.

He let the silence grow.

Let them feel it.

Then he spoke—soft, cutting. "Perhaps your daughters should consider the company they keep. Influence can corrupt just as easily as it elevates."

The words landed like frost. A warning. A lesson.

Both men nodded, understanding the message behind the mask:

My Canariae is not yours to offend.

She is not invisible.

She is mine—and she matters in this world.

With that, Malec offered a polite bow. "Gentlemen. Good day."

He turned and walked away, Luko trailing beside him, a bit stunned by the exchange.

Behind them, the general and the administrator stood in the hollow silence of reputation and consequence, wondering what move they'd have to make next.

____________________________________________________________________________

The halls of the palace echoed softly with their steps, cloaked in polished stone and long shadows. Luko walked beside Malec, his nerves still thrumming from the encounter with the general and administrator.

Malec said nothing at first.

It was Luko who broke the silence. "Commander, if I may… why did you ask me here today? Aside from the presentation?"

Malec kept walking, hands clasped behind his back. His expression unreadable.

"I need your help," he said finally. "With Allora."

Luko's breath hitched. "Is something wrong with her?"

"She discovered something," Malec said, eyes forward. "In her blood."

Luko blinked. "Her blood?"

"She's evolving," Malec continued, voice calm, but with a strange edge—something darker curled behind the words. "Changing in ways I suspected. The virus… the cure… the exposure to my blood, to this world—I knew it would do something. But I didn't think she'd find it so soon."

"She said that?" Luko asked.

Malec nodded. "She saw the foreign cells. Glowing. Moving differently. It disturbed her."

Luko swallowed, concern furrowing his brow. "Do you think it's dangerous?"

"I don't know," Malec said softly. "But I do know it's powerful."

He paused at a window, letting sunlight cast gold along his silver-streaked hair. He looked almost ethereal then—like a statue carved from frost and shadow.

"My little dove…" he murmured. "She's not a dove at all, is she?"

He turned to Luko, the faintest smile touching his lips—bitter, reverent.

"She's a vulture in disguise. Smart. Unforgiving. Strategic. And she's learning more every day."

Luko nodded slowly. "So… you think she'll turn on you?"

Malec's eyes sharpened. "No. I think she'll do whatever it takes to win. I think she's trying to figure out whether I'm the enemy."

He began walking again, voice low. "That's why I need you, Luko. I need you to study her. Quietly. Carefully. Monitor any further changes in her blood. Watch for behavioral shifts. Anything that might suggest the transformation is affecting more than just her physiology."

Luko hesitated, but then nodded. "You want me to stay five steps ahead of her."

Malec looked over his shoulder. "Exactly."

The door loomed ahead—gold-trimmed and guarded. Their carriage was waiting beyond it, already prepared for their return to Surian's home.

"She won't be easy to track," Luko warned.

Malec's gaze grew distant. "She never was. That's why I love her."

They stepped into the sunlight.

And the game continued.