The snow crunched beneath her boots, shallow but biting.
Allora wrapped her heavy cloak tighter around her shoulders, the wind threading its cold fingers through the frayed edges of her scarf. Her breath fogged in front of her lips, slow and steady, as she trudged along the narrow country road flanked by bare-limbed trees and frost-covered stone fences.
The weight of the army duffle on her back had grown heavier in recent days—not because of its contents, but because her body was betraying her again.
She slowed, one hand pressing to her lower back.
Another pang—sharp, unexpected. A dull ache had been building in her spine and pelvis, radiating outward like a slow poison. Her boots sank into the soft snow as she stopped, panting slightly.
Her hands trembled.
Her skin, once ashy from detox, now felt too warm beneath her layers. She was gaining weight, inexplicably. And despite barely eating more than bread and broth, her midsection had softened.
And then there was the other thing—her period was gone.
Vanished without warning.
Allora sat on a rock near the side of the road, snow hissing beneath her. She pulled off one glove with her teeth, her fingers shaking as she touched her abdomen—then pulled her hand away quickly, as if burned.
What's happening to me?
She closed her eyes.
She couldn't think it.
Couldn't name the one possibility that whispered in the back of her mind like a secret she wasn't ready to carry.
I'm not ready for this.
Not here.
Not in this world.
Not with his blood inside her.
She forced herself to her feet.
Keep moving.
There was a name. A hope. A rumor passed from worker to beggar to servant—
Healer Kalemon.
A Canariae.
One of the few.
One of the last who might understand what she was becoming.
The town came into view as the sun began its slow descent behind the hills, casting long shadows over the clustered rooftops.
Snow draped every surface—roofs, lanterns, awnings—with a thin, glimmering layer. The town was small, but bustling. Smoke curled from chimneys. People moved in thick cloaks through winding alleys, bartering and laughing and calling out to one another with familiar ease.
Allora pulled her scarf higher, concealing her face as best she could.
Even here, especially here, her dark skin made her stand out.
A few heads turned. She kept moving.
She ducked into a narrow street that curved toward the center of town, where a row of shops and low houses stood huddled together like old friends.
She approached a fruit vendor with a soft, cautious tone.
"Excuse me… have you heard of someone named Kalemon? A healer."
The vendor—a middle-aged Awyan man—looked at her with mild suspicion. But seeing her covered and unarmed, he merely nodded toward the southern edge of town.
"Old house by the hollow tree. Past the baker. Can't miss it."
Allora nodded in thanks, her heart thudding faster now.
She adjusted her bag, pulled her hood lower, and walked briskly through the crowd—her pulse chasing the name like a lifeline.
Kalemon.
Please be what they say you are.
____________________________________________________________________________
Unbeknownst to Allora, eyes were on her.
From across the town square, perched just beyond the bustle of vendors and passersby, a cloaked figure sat astride a tall, black horse. The beast's breath fogged the air like smoke from a forge, muscles coiled beneath its skin, but it stood still—alert. Silent.
The figure didn't move.
Didn't need to.
They watched.
Hidden beneath a dark blue velvet cloak, the fabric shimmered faintly beneath the sunlight filtering through snow-heavy clouds. Stitched into the fabric were delicate constellations in thread-of-gold—symbols of the stars, of ancient maps, of farseeing things.
The hood was drawn low, but beneath it: a mask.
Smooth, obsidian black, expressionless.
People passed without notice. The horse was regal but still. The cloak extravagant, but not suspicious in a city where nobility wandered frequently and foreigners sometimes came through for trade.
Still, no one looked too long.
But the figure's head tilted slightly, tracking Allora's every move.
Following her as she slipped around a corner. As she adjusted her bag. As she asked for the name Kalemon in a whisper.
Their gloved fingers tightened on the reins.
Then loosened.
No pursuit yet.
Only observation.
Snowflakes clung to the cloak like stars fallen from the sky.
The horse exhaled once.
Then turned away—headed slowly, subtly, around the back alleys of the southern road.
The road that led to the hollow tree.
___________________________________________________________________________
The bell above the door gave a soft, rusty chime as Allora stepped inside the narrow shop. Her boots sank into a thick rug, dulled with use, and the scent of clove, dried citrus, and old wood smoke clung to the air like memory.
It was dim inside—light filtered through frosted windows, casting soft shadows over the cluttered room.
Bundles of herbs hung from the rafters.
Jars lined the walls—each filled with strange powders, floating roots, and things Allora couldn't name. Dried oranges. Labeled corked bottles. Animal bones bound in twine.
There was a spirit to this place. Old. Earthbound.
And then there was her.
An older woman stood near the back, sweeping with a worn straw broom.
She didn't look up. Didn't pause.
Her voice was low and firm. "The shop's closed."
Allora hesitated in the doorway. She looked around.
No sign.
No obvious insignia.
Just the scent of old magic and the quiet hum of power in the walls.
"Maybe I have the wrong place," she murmured to herself.
She took a step forward.
Another.
The woman still didn't look up, but her tone sharpened. "Did you not hear me, girl?"
Allora blinked, startled.
She took a slow breath and called out, louder this time.
"I'm looking for Kalemon. The Healer."
That stopped the sweeping.
The woman straightened.
She was tall—hoss, built like she could bench a mule, but wrapped in a simple green and brown dress, a tan apron, and strength that needed no decoration.
Her skin was golden tan, but her eyes—gods, her eyes—were dull gray, like storm clouds that had seen too many winters. Her wild curls were piled in a high bun, a carved hairpin stabbed through to hold the chaos together.
She turned toward Allora now.
"Who's asking?"
Allora hesitated.
Her heart thumped.
Slowly, she raised her hands, undid her scarf, and let it fall.
Then the hood.
Her dark skin, flushed from cold, caught the fading light like polished bronze. Her hair was tucked beneath a head wrap, but her face was unmistakable.
A rarity.
A warning.
A story whispered in every border town for miles.
"I need help," she said softly. "I need to understand what's happening to my body."
The woman didn't speak. She just watched her.
Allora continued, hesitant. "I've changed. I'm changing. I can't explain it. And I can't tell anyone what's wrong without risking everything."
The woman's eyes narrowed.
"You've got the Silver Fox's blood in you," she said flatly.
Allora's mouth went dry.
The woman didn't wait for confirmation.
She turned back to her broom, swept once more, then leaned it against the wall and walked toward Allora with slow, deliberate steps.
"Do you know how many posters I've seen in the past two weeks with that face of yours sketched half-wrong?" she muttered. "That warlord of yours is burning a hole through the world looking for you."
"I didn't ask him to," Allora whispered.
"No. You didn't." The woman stopped a few feet away. Her presence was heavy—not unkind, but immovable. "You got a name?"
"Allora."
"Mm."
She nodded once, then jerked her head toward the curtain behind the counter.
"Come on, then. Let's see what you've done to yourself."
Allora's heart slammed against her ribs.
She stepped forward—and for the first time in weeks, her hands stopped shaking.
Allora followed the broad-shouldered woman into the back room, her boots thudding softly against the wooden floor. The curtain swayed behind her, sealing them into a space even more cluttered than the shop.
Jars of dried roots, bundles of string, glass boxes filled with stones and odd little bones. A work table lay in the middle of the room, half-covered in parchment, vials, and what looked like the beginnings of a dissected hawk.
That's when the realization hit her like a slow blink.
"…Wait," Allora said, staring at the woman's back. "Are you… Kalemon?"
The woman turned slightly, one gray brow raised in bemused offense.
"You were expecting someone paler?"
Allora paused, embarrassed. "I don't know. Maybe older. Or, I don't know—less likely to snap a man in half."
The woman snorted. "Well, surprise, baby girl. I'm Kalemon. You're standing in my space, dripping snow on my rugs, and bringing me a mess to deal with."
Allora muttered under her breath, half a chuckle escaping her lips. "Great. I'm a damn bigot now."
Kalemon didn't catch it—or didn't care.
She gestured to a low stool beside the hearth. "Sit. And stay wrapped up unless you're tryna glow like a lighthouse. That skin of yours makes you a target in these parts."
Allora sat, lowering her hood again. "I'm not staying. I'm not looking to stir trouble."
Kalemon snorted, busy lighting a thick resin stick in a copper bowl. "You've already stirred the whole damn continent. Trouble is wearing your name like perfume."
"I just want to be examined," Allora added quickly. "Figure out what's happening to me. I have coin."
That made Kalemon pause.
Her eyes—those stormy, unimpressed eyes—narrowed at her skeptically. "Sure you do."
Allora rolled her eyes, reached into her belt pouch, and slapped five gleaming gold coins into Kalemon's hand.
The silence that followed was brief.
Then Kalemon's expression completely changed.
"…Oh," she said, tucking the coins away into her apron like they were sacred relics. "Well, why didn't you say that earlier, Highness?"
She clapped her hands once, loud and sharp. "Let's get to work."
Allora smirked, folding her arms. "I see coin speaks loudest."
Kalemon pulled out a worn leather roll of tools and instruments, unspooling it on the table. "Sweetheart, coin speaks in chorus. Now get undressed and tell me everything. Start with the bleeding—or lack of it."
Allora's smile faded.
Right. No more humor. Just truth.
She stood and began to unbutton her coat.
The air in the back room was warm with the low hiss of burning resin and the sharp scent of thyme and clove.
Allora lay back on the worn wooden table, shirt removed, pants folded over the stool beside her, a light wool blanket covering her legs for modesty. Her dark skin, though hidden for weeks under layers, looked flushed and warmer than usual. Kalemon moved with a practiced hand, placing the old medieval stethoscope against her chest and listening.
"Heart's a bit fast," Kalemon muttered.
"Probably because I just walked through snow with a duffle that could kill a man."
Kalemon cracked a smirk, then nodded. "Fair."
She moved lower, pressing gently along Allora's abdomen with warm, calloused fingers.
"Talk to me. When did the symptoms start?"
Allora closed her eyes. "A few weeks ago. It started like last time—withdrawals, shakes. But I wasn't craving anything. Just… exhausted. Then my period didn't come. And I started gaining weight. Even though I barely eat."
Kalemon hummed again, noncommittal.
Allora hesitated—then added, "Also… I had a direct blood transfusion."
That made the older woman pause.
She straightened slightly, meeting Allora's gaze. "How direct?"
"He cut his hand. He cut mine. He pressed them together."
Kalemon's expression didn't shift to shock—only to worry.
"I see."
"You're not surprised?"
"No. Not exactly."
Allora blinked. "You knew something like this was possible?"
Kalemon moved to her tools again, unwrapping a small kit from a waxed canvas pouch. "Many Canariaes have had to be cured using blood vials. Awyan-made antidotes based on select bloodlines. Not direct transfusions—but close."
Allora frowned. "And… the side effects?"
Kalemon shrugged. "Varied. Some get stronger immune systems. Others experience hormonal changes. Heightened strength. Heightened libido."
Allora made a face. "Of course."
"But—no physical changes. Not like what you're describing. That's… new." Her voice dropped. "A direct transfusion? That's never been recorded. Could be triggering something deeper in your biology."
A chill swept over Allora.
Kalemon looked at her. "Take the blanket off. I want to do a cervical check."
Allora nodded, trying not to tense.
She laid back as Kalemon grabbed gloves and a small, metal speculum worn from time but sterilized carefully. A few rudimentary tools, some soft cloths, and the flick of her practiced hands.
The world went quiet for a few moments.
Allora stared up at the ceiling, discomfort crawling across her body, her fingers gripping the table edges.
Kalemon worked silently. Carefully.
Then she stilled.
Allora noticed the pause and shifted slightly, alarmed. "What is it?"
Kalemon blinked—then looked up at her with a brow raised.
"Congratulations."
Allora's head shot up.
"…Say what now?"
Kalemon stepped back, removing the gloves. Her voice was matter-of-fact, tinged with a knowing grimace.
"You're pregnant."
Allora jerked upright, eyes wide. "What?!"
Kalemon gave her a long look. "Six, maybe seven weeks in. The signs are all there. I'm guessing the father is Canariae. You're running to protect it, right? Afraid of what your Awyan master'll do when he finds out you've been touched by one of your own?"
She didn't say it unkindly—just like someone used to expecting the worst in this world.
Allora blinked. Hard.
"What—no," she rasped. "It's not… it's not a Canariae."
Kalemon paused, her eyes narrowing slightly. "Don't play games with me, girl."
"I'm not."
"Then who?"
Allora looked down, hands trembling on the edge of the table.
Her voice cracked.
"…Malec."
Silence.
Kalemon stared at her.
She squinted. "Malec as in… the Silver Fox?"
Allora nodded, barely able to get air into her lungs. "I've only… been with him. No one else."
A pause.
Kalemon scoffed. "No. That's not possible. That's never happened. You must've—"
"I haven't," Allora snapped, louder than she meant to. "I've never been with anyone else."
The words echoed through the room like the aftershock of a storm.
Kalemon's face shifted. From disbelief—to irritation—to curiosity.
And then to something much quieter.
She stepped closer. Really looked at her now.
Allora's hands trembled. Her mouth moved silently, like she was trying to piece together the rules of a world she no longer understood.
"I didn't want this," she whispered. "I didn't even know it could happen."
Kalemon sat on the edge of the table, rubbing a hand over her mouth. Her gray eyes studied the woman in front of her—not just as a runaway—but as something else.
Something… impossible.
"You're not lying," she said at last. Slowly. Carefully.
Allora shook her head. "No."
Kalemon let out a slow breath.
"Then gods help us all," she whispered.
Because if it was true… if Malec's blood hadn't just saved Allora—but altered her…
Then this child growing inside her wasn't just a miracle.
It was a revolution.