The carriage groaned as it turned off the main forest trail, Leira gripping the reins with calm precision.
To the untrained eye, the road ahead looked like a dead-end—a tangled wall of overgrown shrubs and vines. But Leira leaned forward, flicked her fingers, and gently tapped the stone near the bramble's base.
Click.
A hidden latch released, and the wall unfolded like a curtain of green.
Kalemon and Allora sat up straighter.
The horses clomped forward through the hidden gate and onto a winding, leaf-strewn path, half-paved with black stone, half-swallowed by time. The trees grew taller here, arching above the trail like ancient sentinels, their skeletal branches blotting out the sky.
And then it came into view.
A chateau.
Small, but menacing—its spires crooked like claws, its exterior black stone veined with pale streaks of marble. Ivy crawled along its walls like the fingers of something undead, and all its windows were long, narrow, and dark.
It looked like the kind of house that whispered your name in the night.
Kalemon's jaw set.
Allora blinked hard. "Nope."
Leira hopped off the driver's bench and threw open the carriage door.
Allora didn't move.
She stared at the house.
Then slowly reached up…
…and shut the door again.
"Nope. Uh-uh. I am not staying in there. I don't do ghosts."
Outside, Leira burst into laughter—rich, loud, unapologetic.
The door flew open again and in one swift motion, Leira grabbed Allora by the wrist, yanked her forward—
And scooped her up bridal-style like a victorious pirate.
"Leira, no! NO!" Allora shrieked. "Put me down! I don't do haunted! I don't do possession! I watch horror movies—I know how this ends!"
"Relax," Leira grinned. "If anything in there haunts us, I'll marry it."
"I'm serious! If a ghost touches me, I will piss on your floors!"
"Duly noted."
Kalemon, stone-faced and exhausted, stood at the foot of the carriage with a mountain of bags in her arms.
She glanced at the chateau, then at the drama unfolding.
"I hate both of you," she muttered, and trudged forward.
Leira kicked open the grand oak doors with her heel and swept into the vast foyer, dropping Allora onto a polished obsidian floor with a graceful plop.
Allora stood up, scowling, ready to protest—
But then she looked around.
Her words died.
The walls were deep black brushed with royal purple accents, veins of silver nickel glimmered in the moldings. Tall windows were shrouded in velvet curtains. The furniture was rich and gothic—ornate blackwood carved with serpents, ravens, moons.
Above them hung a chandelier of twisting iron bones, draped in black chains and crystal skulls that caught the low candlelight like tiny constellations.
Kalemon dropped the bags beside her and slowly tilted her head back to look.
"This is… a villain's lair."
Allora stood up slowly, mouth parted.
"We just walked into a serial killer's house."
"Yup," Kalemon said. "Ten outta ten."
They turned in unison—
And saw Leira standing by the massive fireplace wearing a black silk gown and opera gloves she had somehow changed into in the last two minutes. She now held a massive wine goblet filled to the brim, her pinky raised, elegantly sipping like she was entertaining royalty.
"I redecorated last season," Leira said, voice dripping with sarcasm. "Death-decor is in."
Allora narrowed her eyes.
"...Did you drug us?"
"Not yet."
Leira glided ahead like a queen in mourning, her long black gown flowing behind her as if the shadows themselves were holding the hem.
"Now that you've had your dramatic entrance, let me show you around."
Allora and Kalemon followed reluctantly, their boots echoing across the glossy obsidian floor.
As they passed through towering archways and velvet-curtained corridors, Leira narrated with eerie casualness:
"This is the Grand Study—not to be confused with the Lesser Study, which is really just a library for unimportant books. Over there is the Black Garden, don't go there alone after dark unless you want to get lost in your own nightmares. And this is the corridor where my second husband died of boredom."
She turned to wink. Allora didn't laugh.
Kalemon whispered, "...Was that a joke?"
Allora whispered back, "Do you want to ask and find out?"
They continued on until Leira came to a large black door with silver detailing. She opened it with theatrical flair, and inside stood—
A Canariae man.
Or rather, the remains of one.
He was hunched, gaunt, with leathery skin the color of old wood. His hands shook slightly as he stood near the edge of a table, a faded gray tunic hanging from his bony frame. His eyes, though cloudy, watched them with sharp intelligence.
He looked ancient.
Like he had been born in the time before light.
Allora and Kalemon froze.
"This is…?" Allora asked carefully.
Leira took a delicate sip from her wine and replied with absolute dryness:
"My aesthetic."
"I—what?" Kalemon asked.
"He goes with the decor," Leira said simply. "And he doesn't complain."
Allora turned to the man, voice uncertain. "What's… your name?"
Before he could answer, Leira casually waved her hand.
"I call him whatever I feel like at the time. Last week he was Dustpan. This morning I called him Regret. Today? Let's go with Thing."
The old man straightened just a little.
In a raspy voice, low and wheezing but proud, he said:
"My name is Authur. I was a scribe, once. In the Age of—"
"Thing," Leira interrupted, swirling her goblet. "Take their bags to the White Room."
Authur paused, then bowed, joints creaking audibly as he bent. He began to collect the bags with trembling hands.
Kalemon instinctively stepped forward. "We can carry our own—"
"DON'T." Leira's voice cracked like a whip.
Both women stiffened.
"He's being punished," she said smoothly. "Let him earn his sleep."
Allora and Kalemon looked at each other with wide eyes, gulping quietly.
Leira turned without waiting for a response, her voice light again as she walked down the hall.
"Now, follow me. I'll show you to your rooms. Mind the staircase—it bites."
They turned the final corner and stood before a tall, arched doorway painted the color of milkbone. Leira pushed it open with one gloved hand.
What waited beyond made both Allora and Kalemon stop in their tracks.
It was, quite literally, a white room.
The walls were pale ivory stone, delicately marbled. The floors were washed birchwood, bleached and polished to a silver shine. The bedding—a mountain of furs, silks, and down—rippled in soft shades of pearl, cream, and light gray. Sheer curtains flowed from the gothic-arched windows, which soared upward and glowed with soft moonlight.
Black wrought-iron chandeliers and candle sconces served as elegant contrast, and in one corner, a white vanity with silver trim shimmered under a low-hanging crystal lamp.
It was gorgeous. Opulent. Soft. Ethereal.
Like the kind of room a ghost might weep in.
Allora blinked slowly, eyes moving from the bed to the windows to the hand-carved detailing in the frame.
"Okay," she muttered. "What the hell."
Still stunned and running on pure autopilot, she turned to Leira, eyes narrowing just slightly.
"So. Real question."
Leira, standing near the door sipping her wine, tilted her head.
"Yes, dear?"
Allora's tone was slow, suspicious. "Are you planning to feed us until we get fat and then eat us?"
For a second—just one—the silence hung in the air like a held breath.
Then Leira burst into laughter. A deep, wicked, belly-shaking laugh.
It was so genuine and unguarded, it made Kalemon blink.
"Gods, I needed that," Leira wheezed, wiping her eye. "Honestly, if I were that sort, I'd pick a more seasoned vintage. You're both still too tough and under-marinated."
She smirked at them over the rim of her goblet.
"But worry not. I only devour Canariae when they truly bore me."
She turned, gave them a final wink, and strolled toward the door. Just before she exited, she paused, sipped her wine again, and added with a sly smile:
"And you two? You're far too fun to kill."
Then she was gone.
Allora and Kalemon stood in stunned silence for a few heartbeats.
Kalemon finally broke it by elbowing Allora in the ribs.
"You idiot," she muttered. "Never tip a predator off. Also—I get the right side."
Allora scoffed. "You don't even snore on the left side."
"I definitely do. And I'll make it worse if you keep talking."
Before Allora could retort, there was a loud clank behind them.
They turned to see poor Thing—no, Authur?—kneeling near the foot of the bed, having just dropped one of the heavier bags. He was wheezing, arms shaking, trying not to collapse entirely.
The metal buckles on Allora's army duffle had clattered against the floor.
He looked up, lips parched and trembling.
"Forgive… me, mistress…"
Allora flinched.
She opened her mouth, but nothing came out.
Kalemon just gave her a wide-eyed look that said: Don't you dare.
As the old man bent again to lift the last bag with the weight of centuries in his bones, Allora muttered under her breath:
"This shit is depressing. If Leira doesn't kill us in our sleep… waking up to this mummy every morning will definitely do it."
Kalemon snorted softly, biting the inside of her cheek.
"Shut up and pick your side of the bed."
__________________________________________________________________________
The fire crackled low in the hearth, casting long shadows on the rich velvet curtains and glinting off silver-framed portraits.
Surian paced.
Barefoot, her hair half-fallen from its braid, she moved like a ghost in her own house. Her fingers fidgeted with the hem of her robe, and her lips trembled as she sniffled, breath catching in her throat.
The parlor was warm—but she felt cold.
Her eyes, already red-rimmed from weeks of lost sleep, filled again as she moved past the fireplace.
"Always Malec," she whispered under her breath. "It's always Malec…"
Her eyes landed on a heavy silver candleholder on the mantel.
She didn't think—she just moved.
With a swift, shaking arm, she grabbed it and hurled it across the room. It clattered hard against the hearthstone, ringing like a sword dropped in battle.
A maid rushed in instantly.
"Mistress—!"
Surian turned, eyes wide like a startled animal. She straightened herself quickly, voice clipped and brittle:
"Clean it. Then leave."
The maid obeyed without question.
Moments later, her father appeared from the adjacent room. Lord Surin, still dressed in his stately house robes, looked at her calmly over his glasses.
"What happened now?" he asked, voice low and unjudging.
Surian didn't answer.
She just ran into his arms like she was a child again.
He caught her, exhaling softly as she sobbed into his chest. He brought one hand up to the back of her head, holding her steady as her body shook.
"There now," he murmured. "There now, my bright girl. You've been crying for weeks. This must stop."
"I can't," she choked. "I can't—I feel sick. I betrayed her."
Surin sighed and kissed the crown of her platinum head.
"She was my only true friend," Surian whispered. "I wasn't afraid of Allora… I was afraid of him. Of Malec. That's all it ever is."
She pulled away and threw her hands up in frustration.
"It's always Malec. Everyone bows. Everyone bends. Even me."
She turned toward the fire again, as if it could burn the guilt off her.
"And now she's gone. What if she's dead? Or sold? Or hurt—"
"Surian." Surin chuckled softly behind her. "It's Allora."
Surian blinked, looking over her shoulder.
"If anyone got captured, they'd be the one doing the capturing ten minutes later," he said dryly. "Did you already forget what that woman did to the entire kingdom?"
Surian cracked a tear-soaked laugh. "She weaponized a fitting room."
Surin smiled. "Exactly."
She turned fully now, her eyes shining.
"But I betrayed her. I let it happen. I told myself it would be worse if I didn't play along but—what if she hates me now? What if I never see her again?"
Surin straightened, his face shifting from humor to something more serious, more… fatherly.
"Of course she'll hate you. You betrayed her."
Surian flinched.
"But," he added with a gentler voice, "you did what you had to. Helping her would've doomed you both. Malec would've locked her away. You know that."
She looked down, guilty.
"It's better he trusts you, even if Allora doesn't anymore. Trust buys you protection, power, influence. Allora's adoration, while sweet, wouldn't have saved her—or you."
He stepped closer, placing a hand on her shoulder.
"Allora's doing what she must to survive. So are you."
"If it were a different world… a better one…" Surian whispered.
"Then yes," Surin finished, "maybe you could have been true friends. But in this world… nothing survives untouched by betrayal."
Surian stood still, tears still on her cheeks—but quiet now.
She nodded, slowly.
"Still," she whispered, "I hope I see her again."
"You might," Surin said. "And when you do… pray she remembers that you loved her. Even when you didn't choose her."
____________________________________________________________________________
The gardens were in bloom.
Late spring had finally arrived, brushing the eastern countryside in soft pastels and bursts of green. The air was rich with the perfume of earth and new life, birds nesting in the limbs of thick silver trees that lined the winding paths behind the estate.
And Allora was waddling, sweat slicking the back of her neck beneath her headwrap.
She had tried to jog earlier in the season, tried to stay fit, tried to push through the sluggishness that seemed to clutch her bones every time the baby kicked or twisted—but now, nearing eight months, even walking was a chore.
The stone path crunched beneath her boots as she made slow, determined steps, one hand constantly on the swell of her stomach. Her shirt had long since stopped fitting. She now wore a modified tunic Kalemon had stitched for her, tied under her breasts with a thin leather cord.
She paused under an old willow, breathing hard.
"Ugh," she muttered to herself. "If I don't start floating soon like one of those Awyan, I'm gonna lose my damn mind."
Then—
Pain.
A sharp jolt bloomed through her lower abdomen like someone had yanked something inside her.
Allora cried out, bending over slightly, her breath hitching.
"Shit—! Not now, not yet…"
She gritted her teeth, one hand on her back, the other gripping the nearest tree.
It passed—slowly, painfully. But it passed.
She breathed. Waited.
Then kept walking.
By the time she returned to the estate, she was drenched in sweat, limping slightly. Kalemon wasn't inside the front room, but the scent of tea and herbs lingered in the air. The place had become a strange sort of haven… a womb within a tomb.
It was beautiful here. Too beautiful. Quiet in a way that didn't feel peaceful—but staged. Like a set. Like a lull before something broke.
And at the center of it all was her.
Leira.
The matriarch of mystery. A woman with long straight brown hair, flawless posture, and that irritating, all-knowing glimmer in her tan eyes that made Allora want to scream or laugh or run.
Allora had grown used to her teasing. The veiled threats, the philosophical riddles disguised as small talk.
Leira was like a silver blade that pretended to be a fan.
She was unpredictable. Amused by Allora. Protective, maybe—but also curious. Too curious.
She doesn't know, Allora reminded herself. She can't.
If Leira found out the truth—that the child inside Allora was Malec's—it would change everything.
The laughter would stop. The hospitality would curdle. The clever banter might become manipulation. Or worse—ownership.
Allora walked through the hallway quietly, feeling the baby shift again. The pressure of it sat in her ribs, crowding her lungs, like it was already taking space that belonged to her.
She rubbed her belly, whispering softly.
"You better come out smart. Real smart. Because I'm out of tricks."
She wondered—should she leave? Try to get farther. Cross the sea. Find a village where no one knew the Silver Fox. No one would whisper about the dark-skinned Canariae carrying the warlord's phantom child.
But could she even survive that journey? Alone? This late in the pregnancy?
And would Leira even let her go?
A chill crept over her skin at the thought.
Allora looked up at the stairs where she last saw Leira, sipping wine and reading a book upside down.
"Maybe I should ask her something," she murmured. "Start poking at the truth… see if she knows more than she lets on."
But her gut warned her: Poke the bear, get mauled.
Still… she couldn't shake the thought.
How the hell have I made it this long without Malec catching me?
Even with all her cunning, her paranoia, her skill—someone was running interference.
And that someone was too dangerous to trust.
Allora leaned against the railing, closed her eyes, and exhaled.
She didn't know how much longer she could carry the baby.
Or the secrets.
Or herself.