The decanter clinked hard against the glass table, amber liquid sloshing over the rim. Malec barely noticed. He sat near the fire, silver hair damp with sweat, fingers tight around the glass. The alcohol dulled nothing—not the sound of her screams, not the sight of the portal collapsing, not the image of her eyes burning with hatred.
Across the room, the King loomed in his golden robes, posture stiff with performative power. He paced like a caged beast, but his gaze flickered with something behind the anger—fear.
"You're going to tell me what happened," the King said coldly, stepping away from the gilded window. "You were sent to secure the portal, not obliterate it. And yet here you are—with her."
Malec didn't flinch. He sipped the drink slowly, savoring the burn in his throat. "She's mine," he said, voice rough. "That's all that matters."
The King's nostrils flared, but he didn't approach. Not yet.
"She is not yours. She is ours. The key to ending this infestation. That portal was our only chance to drive the humans out—to rid our lands of their filth once and for all. And you—" his voice sharpened, barely masking the tremor beneath it, "—you destroyed it for a woman who would gut you if given the chance."
Malec didn't look at him. He stared into the fire, jaw rigid.
"She's not just some human," he muttered, more to himself than the King.
The King pressed on, voice rising. "You think you've saved her, but you've damned us all. Without the portal, they are trapped here—and so are we, with them. Their filth, their chaos, their rebellion—permanent. And you did this for her."
Malec stood abruptly, and the King instinctively took a step back. He hated himself for it, but the fear curled in his gut all the same. Malec was no longer a cousin to him—he was a storm barely contained, and the King knew all too well his power wasn't given by the crown, but earned on blood-soaked fields.
"You don't understand," Malec said, turning his icy gaze on him. "They were never going back. Not her. Not while I breathe."
The King swallowed, masking his fear with disdain. "Then you've condemned us all to rot with them."
Malec's voice dropped, dangerously soft. "Then rot we shall."
Malec reached for the decanter, hands rough and impatient. He didn't bother with the glass this time—just tipped the vessel back and drank straight from it, throat working as the amber liquid spilled past his lips and dripped onto his collar. The firelight glinted off the decanter's carved edges, casting fractured shadows across his face.
King Surion watched him with thinly veiled contempt, shaking his head slowly. "Look at you," he muttered. "You're falling apart, she's destroying you."
Malec lowered the bottle, eyes bloodshot but bright with something unhinged—a spark of dark amusement. He smirked, lips curled in a grin too sharp to be sane.
"I don't mind," he rasped. "Not if she's the one to destroy me. I'd let her burn me to ash, so long as it's her flame."
Surion's expression soured, disgust and unease warring across his face. Malec stumbled away from the fire, the weight of drink and guilt heavy in his step.
"I'll be in your chambers tonight," Malec called over his shoulder, voice slurred but intentional. "She needs space, and your bed is bigger."
He paused at the doorway, glancing back with a crooked grin. "Try not to miss me too much, Your Majesty."
The King's jaw tensed, but he didn't move. His voice followed Malec like a blade. "Sleep in my bed if you like, Malec. Just remember—you're not King. You're just a lovesick fool pretending you don't want the crown."
Malec laughed—low, bitter, broken—and disappeared into the corridor.
____________________________________________________________________________
Malec collapsed onto the bed, the silken sheets unfamiliar beneath his armor. He didn't bother removing it. He lay there, staring at the ceiling, the room spinning with the weight of alcohol and memory.
Her eyes. Her voice. That final moment at the portal.
The fury. The betrayal.
She had looked at him as if he were death itself—and maybe he was. Maybe that's all he could ever be to her now. Her prison. Her curse.
His hand curled into the sheets, knuckles white.
I destroyed her escape. I destroyed her hope. And now she'll never forgive me.
Malec sighed, the sound heavy in the vast stillness of the King's chamber. The golden canopy above the bed blurred in his vision, the liquor humming through his veins like fire and ash. Slowly, he let his eyes close, chasing the memory that refused to leave him in peace.
She was so still.
When he carried her from the wreckage of the portal, her body limp in his arms, her strength drained from crying and fighting him until there was nothing left. He hadn't tried to stop her rage, hadn't uttered a word when her fists pounded against his chest and her voice shattered in a thousand sobs.
He let her. Let her scream, let her curse him. Let her tear through her fury like a storm tearing across the sea—because he knew she needed to get it out, to burn through it.
Her dark eyes—black as a starless night—had been glassy with tears, her lashes thick and wet. The sight had made his chest tighten, his gut twist with heat and guilt and something he refused to name.
He had held her tightly as they rode back through the ruined forest paths, her breath hot against his chest, short and trembling. Her soft lips, usually pressed into a warrior's scowl or curved in sharp retorts, had sagged into a miserable, broken frown.
And she'd whispered for them. Her family. Their names—he didn't know them, but he hated them for existing where he never could. For being her home, her hope.
Every time she cried out for them, it was another knife in his side. And still, he held her. Still, he never let go.
I wanted to comfort her. Gods, I wanted to take her pain away.
But she didn't want comfort from him. Only revenge.
His hand curled into a fist against the silk sheets.
What if she never smiles again?
That thought haunted him. Her smile—rare, radiant, a flare of light in his dark world—what if he'd killed it? Killed that part of her?
No.
Canariae were fickle, fragile things. Time would soften her grief, dim the fire in her soul. They forgot quickly, healed quickly, adapted. She would forget. Eventually.
He had all the time in the world. She had no choice.
A few weeks. That's all he'd give her. Time to mourn her old life, to rage and cry and hate him with every breath. Then he'd take her back to his lands—his home—and there, they would be united. As one.
Malec exhaled slowly, letting sleep edge closer, the memory of her soft breath against his skin the last thing he clung to.
She'll forget. Sooner or later, she'll forget.
They always forget.
____________________________________________________________________________
Morning came too quickly.
Allora lay in a bed far too soft beneath a canopy of sheer blue silk, the delicate fabric fluttering with the breeze drifting through iron-barred windows. The room was immaculate, adorned with tapestries in shades of sapphire and gold, polished silver fixtures, and fresh blooms in crystal vases. It was the kind of place made for royalty—a princess's room in a gilded palace.
But Allora was no princess.
And she didn't feel royal.
She felt trapped.
A bird in a gilded cage, her wings clipped, her spirit simmering beneath layers of silk and luxury meant to disguise the truth. This wasn't kindness. It was control. Designed to make him—Malec—feel better about keeping her here. A beautiful prison was still a prison.
Her eyes narrowed as she stared at the bars framing the morning sun. I need a plan.
Crying was over. Mourning was over. If she wanted out, she needed to think. Escape, yes—but then what? Where could she go? The portal was gone, Earth unreachable. Her family lost to her.
Her heart clenched, but she shoved the feeling down. Now was not the time.
She was about to rise when voices drifted through the heavy wooden door.
Familiar. Sharp. Female.
Her head snapped up. She bolted to the door, pressing her ear against it.
"…I am his sister, and I have the right to see her," the voice snapped—impatient and forceful. "You're guards, not lords. Open the door."
Surian.
Allora's breath caught. Malec's sister. The only other familiar face in this alien nightmare.
One of the guards answered, hesitant. "Commander Malec gave orders—no one in or out, Lady Surian. Only him."
Allora's fingers curled around the handle. She cracked the door open, just enough for her voice to carry.
"Let her in," she said firmly, meeting the guards' startled eyes. "I'm not going anywhere. There's no way out of here, and you know it. Leave the door open, watch us, chain me to the bed if it makes you feel better—I just need to see a familiar face."
The guards exchanged uneasy glances, unsure. One finally nodded. "We'll be right here," he warned.
Allora stepped back, her pulse quickening—not with fear, but a strange flicker of hope. A thread. A chance.
Surian stepped in, regal and composed, but Allora could see the tension in her shoulders, the flicker of concern in her eyes. The door remained wide open, the guards glaring in, hands on their weapons.
Surian stepped cautiously into the room, her gaze drifting over the lavish furnishings, the silks, the gold, the floral arrangements—all of it too much. Her eyes finally settled on Allora, standing by the open door like a sentinel, fists clenched, jaw taut.
There was a strange pause between them, silence brimming with unspoken things.
Surian's lips parted, hesitant. "I wasn't sure if… if you hated me," she began, voice low. "After everything, I didn't know if—"
Allora didn't let her finish.
In a blur of motion, she crossed the space and grabbed Surian, arms wrapping tightly around her. Surian stiffened in surprise, eyes wide as Allora buried her face in her shoulder, her body trembling.
"Melodie…" Surian whispered, uncertain, but her arms slowly, awkwardly came up to hold her in return. Allora's shoulders shook, and though her sobs were quiet, they tore through the silence like thunder.
She cried—not with the desperation of before, but with the exhaustion of someone who had nothing left to give but this. A raw, wordless grief.
After long minutes, Allora pulled back, wiping her eyes roughly with her sleeve, as if ashamed of the tears.
Surian looked at her, troubled. "I think Malec knows I helped you at the portal," she said, voice tight. "He hasn't said anything, but I can feel it. I may have to leave the Capitol. I don't trust him. He could—he might…" She hesitated, voice faltering. "He might try to kill me."
Allora shook her head slowly, gaze distant. "He knows. He didn't need me to tell him—he just… knew. He said something, vague, about being betrayed. That his sister and father had chosen to stand against him."
Surian's eyes widened. "And he wasn't angry?"
Allora shrugged, almost numb. "Not like I expected. No shouting, no threats. He just looked at me—like I'd gutted him. Like knowing you helped me hurt him more than it enraged him."
Surian's lips parted, unsure what to make of that.
"He won't hurt you," Allora said softly, more to convince herself than Surian. "Not because of this. Not now. Not when he's… like this. Everything's about me now. Keeping me here. Keeping me his. He knows if he touches you, it'll push me further away. He won't risk it."
Surian frowned, arms crossed tight. "You're sure of that?"
Allora looked at her—worn, raw, but determined. "As sure as I can be. He's lost everything else. He won't lose you too, even if he doesn't admit it."
Silence stretched between them, thick with tension and unspoken fear.
"…Stay," Allora said again, voice quiet. "Please. I need someone real. Someone I can trust."
Surian's eyes darted to the guards, then back. "I'll think about it."
And beneath the shimmering silks and the watchful eyes, they stood together—two women grasping at fragments of power in a kingdom ruled by obsession.
Surian glanced toward the guards again, then stepped closer, lowering her voice. "What are you going to do next?"
Allora took a breath, her gaze hardening. "First," she said, "call me Allora. Melodie… doesn't exist here anymore."
Surian's brows lifted slightly, but she nodded. "Allora."
Allora crossed to the window, fingers gripping the iron bars as her eyes traced the horizon beyond the Capitol walls. Her voice was quiet, sharp as glass. "Malec is on edge. He's unraveling—holding it together just enough to pretend this is all under control. If I push too hard, if I fight too openly, he'll snap. And the next time I wake up, it won't be in a gilded cage."
Her jaw clenched. "It'll be a tower. In the middle of some frozen wasteland. Alone. With a crazed beast who believes he owns me."
Surian swallowed hard, the image all too believable.
"That's why I need to be smart," Allora continued. "I can't be locked away where no one can see me. No one to hold him accountable. I need leverage. People. You."
Surian tilted her head, considering her. "If I stay… if I put myself at risk… I want something in return."
Allora turned from the window, eyes narrowing. "What?"
Surian's gaze didn't waver. "Broker a truce. Between me and Malec. I won't challenge him, I won't speak against him—but I won't be hunted like prey either. If he lets me be, I'll stay by your side. For as long as I can."
Allora hesitated, then nodded. "I'll try. He listens to me—when he's not too far gone."
Surian stepped closer, her voice dropping further. "Good. But know this, Allora. I won't get between you and him. If it comes to that—if he thinks I'm interfering, threatening whatever twisted thing he has for you—I won't survive it."
Allora's heart panged, but she held Surian's gaze.
"He's treading carefully now," Surian continued, "but Malec's still Malec. He's a killer. A tactician. If he feels anything, anyone, could take you from him… he will eliminate it."
Allora nodded slowly, jaw tense.
"I know," she said. "And that's why we can't make any mistakes."
Surian hesitated, then added, voice tight, "People think he's crazy, Allora. The way he acts now—restless, erratic, obsessed. But he's not insane."
Allora frowned. "Could've fooled me."
"No," Surian said, serious now. "He's not mad. He's a genius. Borderline psychopath, maybe, but he's always been in control. Cold, detached, precise. This…" She gestured around them, at the ornate room, the guards watching from the door, the entire surreal scenario. "This is the first time since we were children that I've seen him care about what another being feels."
Allora's breath caught.
"He's always been aloof. Disinterested. It's like he exists above emotion, above everyone else. Nothing mattered. No one mattered. Until you."
Surian's voice dropped to a near whisper.
"Now he's a volcano. Emotions he doesn't understand, can't control—and I'm afraid if he erupts, he'll consume all of us in the fire."
Allora looked away, heart pounding in her chest, that terrible truth settling like lead in her gut. She was the match, the fuel, and the storm all at once—and Malec was the fire.
____________________________________________________________________________
Malec stirred, a low groan leaving his lips as consciousness crept back into his body like an unwelcome intruder. Every muscle ached, tension locked in his shoulders and neck like coiled steel. He was hot—sweat clung to his skin beneath the light armor, making the fabric stick unpleasantly.
He shifted, exasperated, pulling at the clasps on his chest. Why the hell am I still wearing armor? He blinked at the unfamiliar canopy overhead before freezing at the sound—soft, steady breathing.
Snoring.
Malec sat bolt upright, ignoring the sharp protest of his sore muscles, and turned sharply—ready for anything.
Except this.
Curled up next to him, draped halfway off the bed, was his dumbass cousin, snoring blissfully, completely oblivious to the growing fury beside him.
Malec stared. What in the gods' names—
Then it hit him.
Right. The King's bedchambers. The drinking. The... everything.
He exhaled sharply and scrubbed a hand over his face, tension easing slightly as he remembered he wasn't in some stranger's bed—or worse, hers. But the moment's relief vanished as his stomach twisted, the dull ache of a hangover hitting him like a blow to the head.
Stumbling, nearly tripping over his cousin's legs, Malec groaned, clutching his temples as if his skull might split open. He collapsed back onto the bed, this time sitting on the edge, eyes half-lidded with exhaustion.
With a grunt, he pulled off his chest armor, the leather scraping against his skin, revealing deep, angry bruises along his ribs and shoulders. Dark splotches where bullets had struck, denting the armor but not penetrating. Still, the impact had left its mark.
He didn't care. He barely looked at them.
Instead, he rolled his shoulders, letting the heavy tunic fall to the floor. The heat rolled off him in waves, and without the suffocating layers, he felt lighter—almost free.
Malec tilted his head back, his long platinum hair cascading over his scarred back, damp with sweat. His body ached with more than just physical pain.
I miss her.
The thought landed like a hammer in his chest, and he clenched his fists, rage bubbling in his gut. His eyes flicked to his cousin, still asleep, and fury snapped through him like lightning.
He's one of the reasons I almost lost her.
Malec's entire body tensed, the idea clawing through his mind. If Allora had made it through that portal—if he had been just a moment too late—gone.
His kingdom? Burn it.
His legacy? Let it rot.
He would have destroyed everything to get her back. To tear apart every realm, every world, just to feel her heat, her breath, her fury again.
How did this happen?
How did she become his sun, his breath, the axis his soul spun around?
A Canariae. A being meant to serve, to submit. And yet… she ruled him.
Malec laughed under his breath, the sound low and bitter. This will be the death of me.
But then the memories came—the rare ones. Her smile, fleeting and fierce. Her laugh, sharp and wild. The way she looked at him when she wasn't filled with hate, just fire.
And her eyes—gods, those eyes—dark as the void between stars, swirling with fury and sorrow, yet glinting with something deeper, something eternal. Like the cosmos had burned into them. He could lose himself there, and sometimes, he did.
Her skin, molten and radiant, shimmered like sunlit bronze—hot to the touch, alive with energy that seemed to hum beneath her surface. Every time she moved, light seemed to bend around her, worship her. She was heat incarnate—blistering, untamed, impossible to hold.
And her hair—thick, wild, a mane of curling softness that framed her face like a storm. He'd watched it spill across her shoulders, down her back, and every time, he ached to bury his face in it, to breathe in the scent of battle and sweat and her.
Malec chuckled again, softer this time, lips curling as his heart twisted in his chest.
She's chaos. And she makes me happy.
Even if she never smiled at him again. Even if she hated him until his dying breath.
He would burn worlds for her. And smile doing it.