The snow had started again—soft at first, like a breath through lace. But now it fell heavy, clinging to the leather saddles and the shoulders of cloaks, dulling the clatter of hooves to a muffled heartbeat.
Malec rode ahead of his guard, silent, cloaked in white fur and carved from tension. His dapple-gray horse stepped through the slush without hesitation.
The wind was colder here, sharper—as though the land itself knew something had happened. Something wrong.
As he reached the way-station, the horse slowed to a stop without command.
The building stood quiet. Deserted. Smothered in frost. The small outpost inn had its shutters drawn, fire long dead. It was the kind of place built for passing caravans and fleeing ghosts.
The kind of place you never wanted to stay in for long.
Malec dismounted slowly.
His boots hit the snow like hammers.
Luko arrived behind him but said nothing. He'd learned not to speak when Malec was like this. Not unless spoken to. Not when Malec had that look in his eyes.
Because today, those eyes—pale tan and storm-swept—looked like they had stared directly into the abyss.
Malec stepped toward the door. He pushed it open with no ceremony. It groaned loudly, as though even the hinges were reluctant to let him in.
And then he felt it.
The second he stepped inside.
Something clung to the walls here. A pressure. A weight. A memory of pain.
The air smelled like iron and smoke and sweat.
He moved through the abandoned common room slowly, his sharp boots echoing. The tables were still dusted with breadcrumbs. The hearth was cold. But there, near the old cot shoved in the corner—
Malec stopped.
Kneeling, he reached out with one gloved hand and touched the dark stain on the floorboards.
Blood.
Still faintly fresh. Still recent.
And not just any blood.
He knew it.
He knew it like a wolf knows its mate's scent.
"Allora…" he breathed.
Behind him, Luko stepped inside, frowning.
"She was here."
"Yes."
Malec's fingers curled into fists as he stared at the blood.
He could see it—her collapsing, body twisting, breath ragged. He could imagine her lying here, eyes wide with fear. He'd seen her like that once before.
When she was dying the first time.That night had burned into his memory like a brand.And now… she was sick again.
And he wasn't there. Malec stood slowly.
His eyes burned but not with tears.
With fury.
"She needs it," he said quietly.
Luko blinked. "What?"
"My blood." His voice had lost its edge—it was hollow now.
"She's rejecting her new form. Without more… she'll get worse. Maybe…" He exhaled.
"Yes."
Malec's fingers curled into fists as he stared at the blood.
He could see it—her collapsing, body twisting, breath ragged.
He could imagine her lying here, eyes wide with fear. He'd seen her like that once before.
When she was dying the first time.
That night had burned into his memory like a brand.
And now… she was sick again.
And he wasn't there.
Malec stood slowly. His eyes burned but not with tears. With fury.
"She needs it," he said quietly.
Luko blinked. "What?"
"My blood." His voice had lost its edge—it was hollow now. "She's rejecting her new form.
Without more… she'll get worse. Maybe…" He exhaled. "Maybe it will kill her."
Luko's face tightened. "You don't know that."
"I do." Malec turned sharply. "I've felt it. I knew something was wrong the moment we left the capitol."
His voice grew darker.
"She's out there, freezing. Sick. Weak. And she still ran. She still would rather die than be near me."
He stared back down at the blood, brow furrowed, voice softening:
"Why?"
Silence.
uko hesitated.
"Because she doesn't trust you."
Malec didn't move.
"Because she's scared," Luko added. "You love her like she's yours, but you took away her freedom. Again and again. You tell yourself it's for her own good."
He paused.
"But love… real love doesn't chain the bird to the perch."
Malec's jaw tightened. He didn't answer.
He couldn't.
Because somewhere deep inside, he knew Luko was right.
But he wasn't ready to let her go.
He'd never be ready to let her go.
He stepped outside. Snow spiraled from the sky like it was trying to bury the world in
silence.
Malec looked out toward the hills.
And for the first time since this started…
He felt uneasy.
Not angry. Not righteous. Not vengeful.
Just… unsettled.
Because something was wrong.
And it wasn't just her absence.
It was something else.
Something he couldn't see yet.
The snow whispered down from the pale sky like ash from a smothered fire. Malec's white
fur cloak, spotted like a snow leopard's pelt, dragged faint lines behind him as he
dismounted, boots landing heavy in the wet slush. He didn't need to speak.
They had been here.
This small, forgotten waystation—more a cracked rib of a building than a town—was silent now.
But Malec could feel the ghosts humming behind its walls.
Ghosts that carried her shape.
He stormed through the empty common room, pushing past a broken table and a snuffed-out hearth. He ignored the remains of a long-dead fire and half-eaten bread.
"She wouldn't have stayed out here," he muttered, more to himself than Luko. "Not when she was sick."
He stopped before a wooden side door. The handle was worn. The frame, slightly cracked.
It wasn't locked.
Malec pushed it open.
Inside, the private room was small, warm-seeming—once. Now it smelled like dried herbs, cold sweat, and something faintly metallic.
The cot was slightly disheveled.
And in the corner, near a low wooden table, pooled across the boards—
Blood.
Dark.
Nearly dry.
But unmistakable.
His legs carried him forward before his mind caught up.
He knelt, gloved fingers hovering over it.
There was no mistaking it.
"Allora."
Her name fell from his lips like a prayer. A curse. A broken oath.
Behind him, Luko entered quietly, glancing around the small room. There were cloths scattered near the basin. An overturned pitcher. Herbal residue.
Signs of healing. Of something going very, very wrong.
"She seized here," Luko whispered. "Didn't she?"
Malec didn't answer right away. He touched the bloodstain. Pressed his fingers into it gently. He could almost hear her crying out. Feel the tremor of her limbs in his own bones.
"She's getting sicker."
Luko hesitated. "You don't know that—"
"I do." Malec stood, slow and unsteady. "I felt it when we left the capitol. Something shifted. Like… like a bond unraveling. She's pulling away from my blood. And now, it's taking her with it."
His voice lowered.
"She needs more."
Luko folded his arms. "Even if that's true, she clearly doesn't want it."
"It's not about want anymore," Malec hissed, spinning to face him. "It's about life."
He stalked toward the window and looked out toward the frost-wrapped trees.
"I gave her everything. My blood. My protection. My home. She still ran."
He paused. A breath caught in his throat.
"I didn't know she was this sick…"
Luko stepped closer, quieter now.
"You still don't know how sick she is."
That gave Malec pause.
He looked back at the blood on the floor. It was such a small thing.
But it was hers.
And to him, it might as well have been his own lifeblood spilled.
"We're too close," he muttered. "We're closing in. I can feel it."
But something pulled at him. Deep inside. A shadow of a thought.
Something wasn't right.
It wasn't just that she was sick.
It wasn't just that she was hiding.
Something else was at play.
Something bigger than him. Than her.
And it unsettled him in a way nothing else had.
Malec stood at the window, jaw tight, eyes scanning the snowy horizon beyond the treeline. His white-fur cloak hung heavy off his shoulders, unmoving except for the occasional twitch of tension rippling down his spine.
Behind him, Luko lingered.
The room still held the faint scent of Allora's blood. But now, another heaviness had fallen over them—thicker than grief.
It was guilt.
And Luko was tired of carrying all of it alone.
"You're not hearing me," Luko finally said, stepping forward, arms crossed. "You keep saying she needs you. That she's sick because she's away from your blood. But maybe—just maybe—she's sick because of it."
Malec didn't move.
"You can't keep forcing your version of love on her and expecting her to survive it."
Still silence.
Luko's voice hardened.
"She's not a bird in a cage, Malec. You don't get to clip her wings and call it care."
At that, Malec turned.
Slowly.
His eyes were bloodshot from lack of sleep. The pale tan irises, so rare and calculating, looked hollow now—haunted, not by loss, but by the echo of what he might've done wrong.
But his voice remained quiet.
"You think I don't know that?"
Luko blinked. Surprised.
"You think I don't hate myself for it?" Malec went on. "Every night, I wonder what would've happened if I let her go the first time. If I hadn't pulled her back. If I hadn't taken what I thought I had a right to."
His hand curled into a fist against the windowpane.
"But she's still mine. Even if she hates me. Even if she curses my name until her last breath—she is still mine."
Luko sighed and turned away. "You're never going to save her with that kind of love."
Malec didn't answer.
But something else twisted inside him then.
A sensation. Small at first. Barely more than a ripple under his ribs.
But then it grew.
Like a tether pulling taut—as though her blood inside him shivered, reaching, crying out like a thread being stretched too far.
"She's close," he said quietly.
"South?" Luko asked.
That was the plan.
They had scoured the maps. The river valley. The logical routes toward the border. All pointed south. All signs. All witnesses.
But…
Malec frowned.
His gaze drifted slowly east.
The wrong direction.
"No," he said. "That's the thing."
Luko furrowed his brow.
Malec took a step outside into the biting wind, his boots crunching over the snow. The breeze cut through the hills, blowing in from the east, strange and warm like breath from a different season.
"It doesn't make sense," he murmured.
"What doesn't?"
Malec's voice dropped lower, almost to himself.
"I should be pulled south. I should feel her there. But I don't."
He looked toward the distant hills, still covered in fog and snowdrifts.
"It's like… I'm being pulled the other way."
"East?" Luko said, confused.
"Yes."
A long pause.
Luko looked toward the map still unrolled in his hand.
"But there's nothing east," he said.
"Just highlands and noble estates."
And silence.
Malec's eyes narrowed.
"Exactly."The wind howled.
Outside the way-station, the air snapped like ice as Malec stood before his officers, his white fur cloak rippling in the wind.
The snow leopard pattern marked him like a predator crowned, boots planted firm in the rising snow. His dapple-gray horse stomped restlessly beside him, steam curling from its nostrils.
Behind him, Luko watched warily, arms crossed, still unsure if Malec was unraveling or simply evolving into something far more dangerous.
Malec's voice rang cold and clear:"We split."The soldiers straightened."The primary force will continue south. Sweep the border towns. Scan for movement, unusual trades, any sightings of a dark-skinned Canariae. Check inns. Caravans. River ports."
A pause.
Then his eyes turned east, distant, grim.
"But I want scouts sent into the eastern highlands. Noble lands. Quiet roads. Vacation homes. Look for signs that shouldn't be there—new rations, foreign waste, hoof prints on frozen soil."
The captain tilted his head. "Do we believe she's headed east, my lord?"
"No," Malec answered. "I don't believe anything anymore."
He mounted his horse slowly, the leather reins taut in his hands.
"I feel it."
____________________________________________________________________________
The carriage creaked quietly over the snow-packed trail, the horses' steady breathing rising in clouds before them. The forest had thinned, the trees now bare fingers reaching toward a bruised gray sky. A storm hovered in the distance—but it wasn't weather that made the air feel so tight.
Leira sat on the driver's bench, her gloved hands loose on the reins, eyes scanning the woods like they always did—but her mind?
Her mind had gone still.
Then it struck her.
A pull.
Not from the road.
Not from behind.
But from within.
It wasn't pain exactly. It wasn't a memory either. It was more like—
"A tremor."
She whispered it aloud, and the word curled off her lips like a spell.
Her spine straightened. Her breath stilled.
She closed her eyes.
For a moment the wind went silent.
Then she felt it again.
A flare, low in the belly of the world.
Not her own, but foreign—wild. Screaming. Shifting. Awakening.
And familiar.
Leira exhaled slowly.
"So... it's begun."
The blood was changing.
It was communicating.
Not just spreading through Allora, not just living inside her—but calling out.
Testing boundaries.
Marking territory.
Reaching back toward its origin.
"You clever bastard," Leira muttered under her breath, picturing her son. "You didn't just bind her to you, did you? You buried yourself in her."
She turned her head slightly, eyes narrowing at the horizon.
The air had shifted.
A few hours ago, the forest had felt like a place she could control. Now, it felt like a stage. And something—someone—had taken a seat in the front row.
Leira reached behind her cloak and slowly unfastened the dagger on her belt.
Not out of fear.
Out of respect.
"You felt that too, didn't you?" she whispered to the trees. "You're awake now."
Then she called down through the small vent in the roof of the carriage.
"Kalemon."
A rustle inside.
"What?" the healer's voice mumbled groggily.
"Check the girl. Something's happening."
A pause. Then more movement.
Leira kept her eyes on the trail.
Her voice dropped to a murmur.
"I don't know what you are anymore, Canariae… but I have a feeling when you finally decide—"
"You'll choose everything or burn it all down."