Book 2: The Canary Out Foxes The Fox

The breakfast table was set in the glass atrium, sunlight streaking through enchanted windows, reflecting off crystal and silver. The servants moved like shadows, setting out pastries, roasted fruits, soft cheeses, and golden bread still steaming from the oven.

Allora entered the room first, already dressed in a soft gown of lavender and gray—simple, unthreatening. A picture of recovery.

Her steps were measured. Calm. Her expression neutral.

Malec stood at the far end of the table.

The second he saw her, everything in him softened.

His posture straightened, his expression eased, and his hand instinctively reached for her chair before she even arrived.

"You're awake," he said, his voice low, warm, almost relieved.

"I am," she said simply.

He pulled the chair out for her. "I didn't think you'd join us. This is… a gift."

Allora nodded politely and sat.

Surian looked up from her place across the table, face perfectly composed, but her eyes lingered—searching Allora's, looking for cracks. She gave a small, supportive smile and said nothing.

Luko entered a few moments later, rubbing his neck with one hand, the other holding a half-folded note. He didn't meet Allora's eyes but took the seat beside her.

They all looked at her like she was something precious finally returned.

Like she was made of glass.

Malec poured her a glass of water personally, brushing his fingers against hers as he passed it.

"You look rested," he murmured, his pale tan eyes studying her. "Stronger."

Allora's smile didn't reach her eyes. "I'm trying."

Then he reached for the carafe of juice, pouring some into his own glass. "You should drink something. You haven't had much these last few days."

He offered the juice toward her.

Her stomach twisted—but her hand was steady as she accepted the cup.

She did not drink.

Not yet.

She watched them instead.

Surian tried her best to keep the air light, chatting about the upcoming seasonal migration of the sky swans, a favorite Awyan spectacle. Luko nodded politely, offering bits of trivia, as always.

Malec ignored them.

His eyes were only on Allora.

He laughed too loudly at her smallest reaction. Offered her pastries she didn't want. Touched her hand as often as possible. He was desperate to draw her out—to make her laugh. To see a spark. Something.

But she remained quiet. Measured.

Docile.

It made him try harder.

She could see the tension building beneath his skin.

A man starved of her attention, high on the illusion of peace.

She sipped her water slowly.

Malec had already finished most of his wine. Surian had taken the juice. Luko nursed a small glass of each.

Time blurred.

Then—

A soft yawn.

From Luko.

He adjusted his glasses, blinked slowly. His posture slouched just a little more.

It's starting.

Allora glanced to Surian—who was sipping tea with stiff elegance, her smile a touch too still. Her eyes half-lidded.

Good.

She needed them to fall asleep naturally—without alarm. If she bolted while they were standing, talking, thinking, they'd know something was wrong.

She had to play the dove.

The tired little dove.

She yawned, delicately, rubbing at her eyes with the back of her hand.

Malec noticed instantly.

"Are you alright?" he asked, his voice already softening into that gentle, protective lilt.

She nodded. "Just… tired again. I thought I had more strength than I did."

He stepped forward instantly. "Do you want to lie down? I can take you."

She paused.

Then nodded, slow and submissive.

"Yes. But… would you carry me?"

She looked at him through her lashes. "I feel weak."

His eyes lit like fire catching dry wood.

"Of course," he whispered.

As he lifted her into his arms, cradling her like something holy, Allora rested her head against his chest, her fingers curling in the fabric of his tunic.

She could feel his heartbeat. Fast. Full of hope.

He thought she was coming back to him.

Good.

Let him think so.

She'd be gone before he ever woke up.

As Malec carried her up the stairs, Allora kept her face pressed to his shoulder, her arms looped lazily around his neck. Her heart was steady—too steady. But inside, she was calculating.

One floor passed.

Then another.

She glanced down—just once—and caught it.

Luko.

He leaned slightly against the parlor wall, blinking slower now, his fingers fumbling over a page of his notes. His head lolled once before he straightened, shaking it off.

Almost gone.

Next, she saw Surian, seated with a teacup resting forgotten in her hand, her expression too still. Her posture too loose. The elegance that once defined her now dulled under the drug's heavy curtain.

Allora smiled.

Good.

No guilt. Not anymore.

They'd held her down. They'd whispered comfort while slicing open her will. Their silence had cost her everything.

They deserved sleep.

She turned her eyes back to Malec, who hadn't noticed. His focus was entirely on her. As always.

"You feel tense," she said, her voice low, soft, childlike.

He looked down at her, surprised. "Do I?"

"You're tired," she murmured, resting her cheek closer to his chest. "You haven't slept in days, have you?"

A breath—deep, exhausted. His jaw unclenched.

"No," he admitted. "Not since that night. Those three gods-forsaken days… I thought I was losing you."

He opened the bedroom door and stepped into the space he now thought of as theirs.

The air inside was cool. Quiet.

He laid her down gently on the bed, brushing stray strands of hair away from her face. She looked up at him with eyes that betrayed none of her plan.

He kissed her forehead.

His lips lingered there—remembering the last time. How it had ignited her, made her grab him, bite him, devour him.

But this time…

This time was still.

She didn't move.

Didn't reach for him.

And yet—she didn't push him away.

That was enough.

"Are you alright?" he asked, voice hoarse. "Truly?"

She blinked up at him. Let her eyes soften. Let her mouth part just slightly, as if the words hurt.

"I was just… lonely."

The way his expression cracked—like someone had whispered salvation into his ears—almost made her feel something.

Almost.

"Then stay with me," she said. "Just for a little while."

He didn't hesitate.

He shrugged off his jacket. Pulled his shirt over his head. Undid the clasps on his belt and dropped it onto the floor with a muted clink.

Everything in his movements was eager, but reverent. This wasn't about lust.

It was about belonging.

He climbed into bed beside her, the mattress shifting beneath his weight, and immediately curled his arm around her waist, drawing her close.

She let him.

She let his breath settle against her neck. Let his warmth wrap around her like a silk noose.

And then—

Slowly.

She felt his grip loosen.

His breathing deepen.

His body grow heavy.

The powder was taking hold.

She didn't move yet.

Not until his hand slid limply from her side.

Not until the low sigh escaped him, long and peaceful, as if he had finally found his way home.

Allora stared at the ceiling.

Heaven, he thought.

But she wasn't an angel.

She was the storm.

And by the time he woke…

She would be long, long gone.

____________________________________________________________________________

Two days later.

The world was a blur of heat and muffled sound. Malec lay tangled in damp sheets, the scent of rosewater and her skin still clinging to the pillow beside him. His chest ached, but not from pain—from absence.

Something was missing.

Allora?

A soft thud echoed beyond the door. Then another.

Footsteps.

A voice, far off, urgent and breaking.

The door slammed open.

Then the world exploded.

Hands gripped his shoulders—tight—and a voice cracked through the fog.

"Malec!"

His brow furrowed, barely able to lift his head.

Then—a slap.

Hard.

His head jerked to the side.

The sting snapped through the haze.

Before he could react, another strike landed—across his chest this time—then fingers gripped his face and shook him.

"Wake up! Gods damn you, Malec, WAKE UP!"

It was Surian.

Her pale hair was tangled, her eyes red and streaming. Tears slid freely down her cheeks. She looked wild—barefoot, robe half-fallen from her shoulders, voice ragged from screaming.

"Wake up, please, please—wake up," she begged, shaking him harder. "She's gone, Malec—she's gone and you've been asleep for TWO DAMN DAYS!"

Another slap.

"Get UP!"

He gasped, breath ragged.

"Wha—"

"You fool," she choked out, sobbing now. "You let her close—let her smile and play your devoted little dove—and she poisoned you."

His hand reached for the edge of the bed, trying to anchor himself.

"She's GONE," Surian sobbed. "And I let it happen. I helped her. I let her in."

Malec blinked slowly. The room wavered. Her words cut through the mud in his brain, but didn't yet make sense.

"No," he rasped. "No, she was—she asked me to… stay. She—"

Surian shoved him back, furious. "She lied to you! And you believed it because it was easier than facing what you've become. A prisoner trying to chain his own obsession to the bed."

He stared at her, stunned, breathing ragged.

Below them, the estate was in chaos. Guards shouting. Horses being saddled. Doors slamming. Servants scrambling with cold fear in their eyes.

Malec tried to move again, his limbs sluggish. "Where…"

"She's been gone for two days."

He stopped breathing.

"She's gone, Malec."

His pulse roared in his ears.

The room fell away.

And all he could feel was the empty space where she had once laid beside him, curled like something soft and safe. His arms still remembered the shape of her.

His lips remembered her lies.

He let out a broken sound—somewhere between a gasp and a growl—and shoved off the sheets.

Surian stepped back, wiping her face with the back of her hand, guilt etched in every movement.

"Where is she?" he asked hoarsely.

Surian didn't answer.

Because neither of them knew.

Malec rose like something ancient and cursed.

The moment clarity hit, it was like being pulled through ice.

His mind snapped awake.

The drug was still in his blood, a ghost of it pulsing through his veins, but he forced his body to move.

He tore off the blankets, the sweat-slicked sheets twisting around his legs as he stumbled from the bed.

Surian reached for him. "You're still weak—Malec—"

"Don't touch me," he growled.

His voice was low. Hoarse. Deadly.

He staggered toward the window and threw the curtains open, letting blinding light flood in. The sun burned against his eyes—but he welcomed the pain.

Because she was gone.

And he hadn't even noticed.

He turned back to Surian, and his voice cracked through the room like a blade.

"Where did she go?"

"I don't know."

"You helped her."

"I didn't—" Surian hesitated, guilt twisting her features. "Not knowingly. I thought… I thought she was healing. She was so calm."

"She tricked us all," Malec spat, fists clenched. "She poisoned our blood and smiled while we drank."

The door slammed open again.

Two guards rushed in, breathless. "Commander—search parties have returned from the market square and the eastern wall. No sign. The watch says she hasn't been seen since before the storm two nights ago."

Malec's face twisted into something inhuman.

"She's not hiding," he hissed. "She's running. And she thinks she can outrun me."

He strode past the guards, shirtless, barefoot, fury rippling in every line of his frame.

"Get the hounds," he ordered. "Get the trackers. Wake the Capitol. Lock down every gate, search every tavern, every sewer, every ship scheduled to leave this city."

He stopped at the doorway, eyes burning like cold flame.

"No one leaves the capital until my Canariae is found."

The guards saluted and vanished in a storm of boots and shouts.

Malec turned back to Surian, who stood trembling by the window.

His voice dropped. Cold. Quiet.

"You let her get close to Kirelle, didn't you?"

Surian's mouth opened, but no words came.

He didn't need her answer.

"She was never supposed to win over the court," he whispered. "But you let her in. You watched it happen."

"Malec—"

"I'll find her."

His eyes were distant now. Far away. Already walking streets soaked in rain and blood and memory.

"When I do," he said, "I don't care if she hates me. I don't care if she screams. She won't get away again."

He turned and walked out, barefoot, leaving behind a cold trail of fury and sweat.

____________________________________________________________________________

The sun hadn't reached its peak before Malec's fury echoed through the streets of the Capitol.

The moment he arrived at the palace gates, the guards snapped to attention. Every officer, every minister, every noble in passing felt the shift in the air—

like lightning building in the bones of the earth.

Malec strode through the marble halls in his blue and white Capitol officer's uniform, the high collar sharp against his throat, gold buttons glinting with each furious step. His knee-high black boots struck the floor with military precision, echoing like war drums in the quiet corridors.

His platinum hair, usually wild in times of rage, was slicked back into a tight low ponytail—a sign not of calm, but of calculated wrath.

At his side: his sword, polished and ceremonial in appearance, but unmistakably real.

Behind him trailed Luko, still pale and unsteady from the drug, clutching a tablet of notes he couldn't read. His breathing came shallow, heart pounding—not from the pace, but from fear.

Because this wasn't the Malec he knew.

This was something worse.

Not chaos.

Not madness.

But control.

Cold. Methodical. And on the verge of cataclysm.

Like vengeance sewn into the seams of a uniform.

Surian and their father, Surin were already waiting, flanked by guards and courtiers who could barely meet Malec's eye.

Surin, stern and polished in deep navy armor, offered a nod of greeting.

Surian looked… broken.

But composed.

Malec didn't even glance at them.

"Where are they?" he asked, voice like thunder wrapped in silk.

"On their way," Surin said. "You called for them with urgency."

Malec turned slowly. His tan eyes gleamed with something unhinged.

"I didn't call, Surin. I summoned. If they don't come, I'll have them dragged by the hair."

Surin's jaw flexed. He gave a short nod to a nearby commander.

Luko lingered near one of the columns, clutching a tablet of notes he couldn't focus on. His limbs still felt heavy, his mind cloudy, but what haunted him most was Malec's silence.

There was no ranting.

No pacing.

No mourning.

Only cold calculation.

And the kind of focus that preceded mass destruction.

Luko took a breath and whispered to Surian when Malec's back was turned, "He shouldn't be like this."

Surian's gaze snapped to his. "Like what?"

"Untethered."

Her lips pressed into a line.

"He's not built for loss," Luko said. "It makes him… unstable."

"He was always unstable," Surian replied quietly. "Allora was the only one who ever made him hesitate."

"And now she's gone."

Surian said nothing.

They both turned to watch as Malec stood at the base of the throne platform, his body tense, fingers twitching with the desire to act—to destroy.

Then—

Footsteps echoed down the hall.

The doors opened.

Lady Teyel, Lady Maren, and Lady Kirelle were escorted in, dressed impeccably, but pale beneath their powdered cheeks.

Kirelle's eyes met Malec's instantly.

Her expression betrayed nothing.

"Commander," she said, bowing her head. "You sent for us."

Malec smiled.

It wasn't kind.

The marble throne hall was colder than usual—lit not with sunlight but the metallic sheen of fear.

Lady Teyel, Lady Maren, and Lady Kirelle stood before Malec in a line, all poised in pristine gowns, but none could hide the tension in their fingers or the slight tremble in their lashes. They had been summoned—not invited—and they all knew what that meant.

Malec stood before them, framed by pillars of dark stone and banners bearing the insignia of the royal house. Blue and white Capitol officer's uniform fitted perfectly to his tall frame. His knee-high black boots planted shoulder-width apart. Platinum hair tied back into a low, severe ponytail. His sword gleamed at his hip—not ceremonial today.

Not today.

Luko, pale and hollow-eyed, stood a step behind him, clutching notes he couldn't read, his presence more ghost than guardian.

And at Malec's side: King Surin, seated in silent judgment, and Surion, their cousin, standing still but alert beside the king's chair.

Malec's gaze raked across the women with glacial slowness.

"I called you here," he said, voice like silk over stone, "because my Canariae is missing."

None of them spoke.

He stepped closer.

"I am not here to ask if you helped her."

He let the silence hang, heavy and sharp.

"I'm here to ask…"

His eyes locked on Kirelle, and the chill in them made even Surion stiffen.

"Which of you whispered in her ear that she could outwit me?"

A shiver rippled through the room.

Lady Maren's jaw clenched. Teyel's eyes dropped slightly.

Kirelle met his gaze, unflinching—but her pulse ticked visibly at her throat.

Malec circled them slowly like a hawk above prey.

"She couldn't have done this alone. Someone fed her confidence. Gave her cover. Perhaps it was a laugh, a shared drink, a private word in a corner you thought I wouldn't notice."

He stopped behind Kirelle, his voice dropping.

"She didn't escape through force. She escaped through grace. Through trust. Through access."

Kirelle exhaled softly. "With all due respect, Commander—she fooled all of us."

Malec's lips curled, but it wasn't a smile. "No. She didn't fool me."

He stepped around her, back to face all three women.

"I knew she would run."

His eyes burned now—cutting through every defense.

"I just didn't think she'd get help from you."

He turned slightly, gaze sliding to Lady Maren.

"You said she was a breath of fresh air."

Lady Maren paled.

"To the Capitol," he continued. "Or to you?"

He moved to Lady Teyel next.

"You said she reminded you how tiresome bowing to Kirelle was."

Teyel stiffened, glancing sideways.

He turned back to Kirelle last.

"And you. The quiet one. The clever one."

His voice turned to ice.

"You brought her back down the stairs, didn't you? Smoothed her hair. Played the role. But where did you send her after that, Lady Kirelle?"

She said nothing.

So he stepped close.

"Did you give her gold? A distraction? Or was your silence the real gift?"

The room held its breath.

It was the kind of smile wolves made before tearing out a throat.

Kirelle stood alone now.

Lady Maren and Lady Teyel had long since been dismissed, their nervous glances trailing behind them like perfume. Luko remained silent, a quiet witness in the corner, and King Surin and Surion lingered in the shadows of the great hall, watching closely.

Malec faced her with the full weight of command pressed into every line of his body—blue and white officer's uniform immaculate, black knee-high boots planted, his sword gleaming like it had been waiting for war.

He circled her slowly, voice low and sharp.

"She played us all. But not without help."

Kirelle lifted her chin, unwavering.

"She didn't need help. You underestimated her."

Malec's eyes narrowed. "And you overestimated my tolerance."

She didn't flinch.

Instead, she took a step forward.

"I'll help you find her," she said.

That drew his attention. He stilled, gaze sharpening.

"In exchange," Kirelle added, tone smooth, "I want something from you."

Silence bloomed like frost between them.

Malec tilted his head. "You want something."

Kirelle nodded once, slowly. "Yes. Something simple."

She stepped closer, her copper-auburn hair catching the candlelight like molten glass.

"You know my family has been pressuring me to unite with you. Since we were children. Since the moment your blood became something they could measure and covet."

Malec's face remained unreadable.

Kirelle's voice dropped. "They've made it clear: I'm to bear your child. Whether you want me or not. Whether I want it or not. My entire existence has been reduced to that one task."

She looked him dead in the eye.

"I want to end it. End their bargaining. End the whispers. End the waiting."

She took a breath.

"Give me a child, Malec. Let me be done with this game. That's all I ask. I won't interfere with your obsession. I have no desire to be part of your drama with your Canariae. I want peace. I want out."

Malec blinked.

For a moment, he was still.

Then a slow exhale. And a cold, quiet realization.

There it is, he thought.

What they all want.

His bloodline.

His gaze darkened with something bitter.

Of course.

He looked at her—not with lust, not with empathy—but with disdain veiled in detachment.

When he finally spoke, his voice was low and deliberate.

"If you bring her back to me," he said, "and I mean truly bring her back—not her body, not a whisper of where she might be, but Allora—"

He stepped closer, and the cold in his words turned razor-sharp.

"—then I will give you a child."

Her breath caught.

"But," he continued, "after that, I want nothing more to do with you. Or it."

He saw the flicker of emotion in her face—faint, but there. And yet she nodded.

"I understand."

Malec's jaw clenched. "You'll raise it elsewhere. You'll keep it out of my sight. You will not call me father, or demand affection, or presume intimacy."

"I don't want it," she said plainly. "Not from you."

A long silence passed between them.

He nodded once.

Kirelle offered the faintest curtsy—not subservient, but respectful.

"Then we have an understanding," she said.

She turned, copper hair swinging behind her as she walked toward the doors. She didn't look back. Not once.

As the heavy doors shut behind her, the echo remained.

Malec stood in the center of the throne hall, arms folded behind his back, face carved from stone.

Luko approached cautiously.

"Is that wise?" he asked softly.

Malec didn't answer.

He stared ahead, into some distant future not yet written, then muttered under his breath:

"To lose her was my mistake."

His hand brushed the hilt of his sword.

"To lose her again will be someone else's death sentence."