The fire cracked softly in the hearth. Shadows danced across the thick stone walls of the private chamber, the room heavy with the scent of lavender oil and warm linen.
Allora slept.
Her breathing was deep and even, a softness Malec hadn't heard in months. He had bathed her himself—reverently. As though cleansing not just her body but his sins. He had brushed her hair free of blood and sweat, dressed her in fresh linen, wrapped her in furs, and placed her beneath thick blankets near the fire he'd stoked with his own hands.
The others had fawned over the child.
But he had slipped away.
His emotions had raged, clashing like waves on jagged cliffs. Anger. Awe. Shame. Wonder. Guilt. Love. Each one a blade slicing through him, none of them leaving him whole.
He hadn't even asked the child's sex. It hadn't mattered.
He'd been too stunned by the truth.
He was a father.
A father to a child he had almost murdered.
A child Allora had carried—alone—through pain, fear, and exile. While he had cursed her name and raged at phantoms.
His mother, Leira, would answer for her interference. For allowing this to unfold in silence. For convincing him that he and Allora could never have a child.
And yet… here they were.
A miracle breathing just down the hall.
Malec laid himself on the bed beside her, on top of the blankets, unwilling to disturb her healing body. He draped his arm over her shoulders lightly, slid close enough to feel her heartbeat against his chest.
He buried his face in the crown of her hair.
And for the first time in what felt like eternity—Malec closed his eyes.
And slept.
The dream was soft.
No fire. No blood. Just light wind and quiet humming.
He was walking—black boots sinking into thick moss. His silver fox tunic fluttered in the breeze. His sword was not at his side. The woods were familiar but surreal, lit with a pearly blue glow that kissed the trees and hung mist over the leaves.
He heard it.
Humming.
A sweet, low sound. Ancient. Innocent.
He followed it, parting low-hanging branches until he stepped into a clearing.
There, under the shade of a wide flowering tree, sat a young Awyan boy—no more than four or five winters old.
He was cradling Allora's head in his lap, tiny fingers brushing her thick curls in soft, rhythmic motions.
Malec stopped, breath catching in his throat.
The boy looked up.
Bright tan eyes.
But they weren't purely his. They shimmered with silver flecks—burning like starlight in warm tea.
His eyes.
And hers.
Malec moved slowly into the clearing.
The boy's emotional energy flared like fire.
"Stay away."
Not words—but sensation. A wave of raw, instinctual defense. Protective. Fierce. Ancient.
Malec's hand rose in peace.
"I'm not here to hurt her," he whispered.
The boy didn't speak, but the feeling sharpened. Distrust. Fear. Defiance.
Malec knelt down, letting the weight of the moment settle into his bones.
"I didn't know," he said softly. "I didn't know you were mine."
The boy blinked.
Malec stared into his eyes and smiled, tired and true.
"I swear to you—I will never let harm come to either of you again."
The energy shifted slightly. Cautious. Curious.
Then the boy asked—not in words, but through the haze of dream logic:
"What is family?"
Malec's throat tightened.
He placed a hand on his own chest.
"Family… is when you belong. It's when you look out for each other. When your blood is shared, your soul too. It means no one stands alone."
He looked down at Allora, still resting peacefully in the boy's lap.
"And your mother… even though she and I weren't born kin, we share blood now. Mine runs through her veins. That makes her yours. And you mine."
The clearing shimmered with soft mist, petals drifting like feathers in a windless hush. Time did not pass here. There was no before or after—only now, only this.
Malec knelt in the warm moss, his open palm still held out toward the boy.
The child had placed his tiny hand in Malec's—tentative but firm.
The boy tilted his head again, studying him, seeing him in a way no adult ever could. No fear now. No hostility. Just something deeper. Something curious and knowing.
Malec cleared his throat and asked, softly, "Who are you?"
The boy didn't answer with words.
But Malec felt it.
A wash of images. Fractured, incomplete. The glimmer of lifetimes past. A thousand unspoken truths strung together like pearls on a string, pulled from the ocean of memory.
"I am an old soul."
The emotion came gently, solemnly, as if the boy were still grasping the meaning himself.
"I don't remember much. But I know… I came to her. I followed her."
The boy's fingers ghosted across Allora's hair, the motion instinctive, ritualistic.
"To protect her."
Malec's brow furrowed. "So you knew her? From before?"
The child's energy hesitated. Not uncertainty—just... struggle. Language wasn't built for this.
"We were… family? Not recent. Before-before."
Malec blinked slowly. That strange weight in his chest pressed deeper.
"You came into this world… just for her?"
The boy nodded.
Malec sat back on his heels, lips parted in awe. His voice was hoarse with reverence.
"Can I protect her with you?"
The boy's face softened—just a touch. A tiny smile curled on his lips.
Then Malec felt it: a wave of warmth, trust, acceptance. Like a child wrapping their arms around his chest from the inside out. The boy didn't just agree—he was pleased.
"Yes."
The boy's eyes drifted upward, watching the strange sky of the dream realm as though he could see stars no one else could.
"I am too small. Too young. I can't help her yet."
"You have to."
Malec looked down at him with a softened jaw, his voice lower now.
"I will. Until you're grown. Until you can protect her yourself."
He leaned forward, one hand resting gently on Allora's sleeping form.
"But even when you do… even when you tower over me…"
He looked the boy directly in the eye.
"She is mine. She is my love, my life, my duty. I will always protect her. That will never change."
The boy blinked slowly, his lashes long and silver in the dreamlight. Then he looked up again, his head tilting—studying Malec not just as a figure, but as a soul.
"Come hold me… Father."
Malec froze.
It wasn't just a word.
It was a blessing. A declaration. A thread tied tight between two hearts across time and flesh.
His breath caught.
Father.
Something in him broke open like a cracked gem under moonlight.
Malec smiled—not arrogantly, not seductively, but with something fragile and full of awe. Something true.
"I will," he said, voice steady despite the tremble in his chest. "As soon as I'm sure your mother is safe."
The boy nodded solemnly. Then looked down at Allora again. He rested one hand on her chest—right over her heart.
The petals in the clearing swirled gently, stirred by something deeper than wind.
Malec watched them both—his mate and his son.
And for the first time in his long, battle-worn life, he understood what it meant to belong.
____________________________________________________________________________
The chateau was alive with hushed excitement and sharpened nerves.
In the early blush of morning, firelight still danced across ancient stone walls. Outside, the storm had finally broken, leaving the air thick with dew and the scent of moss and spring.
Inside—there was only one subject on everyone's lips:
The child.
An Awyan-Canariae child, born in secret, now sleeping in swaddled silence.
The Silver Fox had not yet emerged from the bedchamber. Not one soul dared knock, much less cross the threshold where he lay beside the woman who had defied nature to give him an heir.
But the halls were filled with tension: servants, medical personnel, and soldiers stood in quiet clusters, waiting for word, for permission, for movement.
In the dining hall, a different war was unfolding.
"I should be feeding the baby," Leira snapped, pacing like a frustrated lioness in a velvet gown. "I am his grandmother. It's my right."
"You held him for two hours," Luko said mildly, seated with a ceramic bowl in front of him, carefully mixing goat's milk with a bit of sweet root syrup to simulate colostrum. "You've had your turn."
"It wasn't enough. You held him longer."
"That's because you were treating him like a doll," Surian muttered under her breath.
Leira whirled. "I was bonding!"
"Not with all that pinching," Luko added without looking up.
"I was testing his elasticity!"
"He's not dough."
In the corner, Surian cradled the baby, wrapped in soft cloth dyed in warm amber and gold tones. His little body was curled into her chest, his breath light, his tiny mouth fussing just slightly as she tried to guide the milk-soaked cloth to his lips.
Allora, still healing, had yet to produce milk. And no one was foolish enough to try to wake her—not with the monster of an elf male draped around her like a protective beast, eyes ready to slit throats at the slightest shift in her breathing.
So, Luko, ever the calm heart in chaos, had procured goat's milk from the estate stables and boiled it gently, mimicking the warmth of a mother's chest.
"Try again," Luko murmured, standing beside Surian and guiding her hand. "Lift his head a touch."
The baby latched, suckling sleepily.
Surian gasped. "He's drinking!"
Her whole face lit up, like a thousand candles behind her eyes. Her smile bloomed—pure, bright, tender.
"You're going to be a wonderful aunt," Luko said softly.
She blinked, then her mouth opened into a quiet oh of realization.
"Aunt…" she whispered. "I'm an aunt."
Joy fluttered across her features, then stuck—just a little—at the edges.
Because the joy was real… but the shadows in her chest lingered.
Would Allora forgive her?
Just then, Surin entered.
The tall elder elf moved with his usual slow grace, dark robes trailing behind him like mist. He looked tired. Quietly thrilled. And quietly rejected.
Leira scowled the moment she saw him.
"Oh bugger off, old man," she said, waving a hand dismissively. "You're crowding the room."
Surin paused, unbothered. "I was merely hoping to see my grandson."
"Well, I was hoping to nap in silence but life's a battlefield," Leira muttered.
Surin glanced at Luko, then Surian—his eyes hopeful, even in their calm.
Surian looked at her father.
She saw the gentleness in his face. The quiet patience. The sadness.
And in that moment, she acted.
"Here," she said, adjusting her hold and lifting the swaddled child. "You can hold him."
Surin's lips parted. "Are you sure?"
Surian smiled and passed the child into his arms.
Leira stormed over like a thundercloud. "He was fine where he was—he just drank, and you'll disturb his digestion—"
They all ignored her.
Surin cradled the baby carefully. Reverently.
The room fell into a hush again. The old man stood in the firelight, looking down at the sleeping child whose existence would reshape the realm.
And for a long moment, he just breathed.
Luko leaned on the table, arms folded, watching the soft exchange.
He broke the silence.
"What shall we call him?"
Everyone stilled.
Leira blinked. "What?"
"The child," Luko repeated. "He's still unnamed. Do we wait for the parents, or…?"
"I think they'll want to name him," Surian said quickly.
But Surin gave a thoughtful hum.
"I wouldn't mind," he offered carefully, "if they wanted a name drawn from ours. Perhaps something gentle. Suri, or Suric, maybe."
Leira snorted—then laughed.
"Aye, if they want him to grow up strange and socially stunted."
Surin raised an eyebrow. "Coming from you, that's a compliment."
Leira looked personally attacked. "Are you implying—"
"No," Luko said quickly, hands up. "No insults. This is a sacred morning."
He turned toward the sleeping child.
"The firstborn of our generation," he whispered. "The joining of worlds. We'll be telling this tale for a thousand years."
He looked at Surian.
"At the heart of it, a Canariae woman who proved stronger than blood, stronger than tradition, stronger than death."
Surian looked down. A soft, conflicted smile crossed her lips.
"She always was."
And in another room, sealed off by thick walls and heavier silence, Allora slept, blanketed in fire-warmed furs.
And Malec, father of the boy now nestled in the arms of strangers, still laid beside her—his arm wrapped around her gently, his breath matching hers. He had not moved. Not stirred.
____________________________________________________________________________
The sun hung low in the sky, bleeding amber through the lead-glass windows of the chateau. The hour was late, and still… Allora slept.
The thick furs around her remained undisturbed. Her breathing, soft and even, puffed against the pillow. Her curls fanned across the silk like waves of shadowed ink. The fire at her bedside had dimmed, though Malec had fed it before rising.
He had awoken not long before—body heavy, but mind sharper than it had been in months.
He'd slept. Really slept.
And all it had taken was wrapping himself around the woman who had made him insane.
He leaned over her now, resting his arm beside her head. His pale tan eyes scanned her face, memorizing the gentle line of her nose, the small twitches of dream beneath her lashes.
She was still his Allora.
Even if she had run. Even if she had lied.
He would have that conversation later. And it would not be gentle.
But not now.
He pressed a kiss to her temple and whispered something in the old tongue—a blessing, a vow, a warning.
Then he rose, tugging on his same mud-streaked tunic and dusty black trousers, the very clothes he'd ridden across half the kingdom in.
He had no others.
He hadn't stopped to pack. He hadn't stopped to breathe.
He looked once more at her still form.
Then called in a maidservant—a pale girl with shaking fingers and wide eyes who could barely meet his gaze.
"You," Malec said, "watch her. The moment she stirs—blinks—you send for me."
The girl nodded fast enough to blur.
Then Malec swept from the room, boots echoing against the marble.
The Grand Parlor had been converted into something close to a holy site.
Guards stood in quiet lines along the walls. Servants, nobles, housekeepers—all had gathered not out of order but desire. The child was in their arms now, passed gently from one careful embrace to the next. Some wept. Others laughed in awe. Most simply stared, reverent and silent.
This child was not just blood. He was prophecy.
And when Malec walked in, everything stopped.
A hush swept the space, and all heads turned.
The room parted like water as he strode in, the weight of his presence silencing even the whispers. Mud on his boots, sweat dried along his jaw, eyes bright and unreadable.
The Silver Fox had arrived.
A young maid, already tearful from having held the baby, stepped forward and gently offered the child to him.
Malec's arms opened slowly.
He took the child as though cradling a living star.
The baby didn't cry. Didn't squirm.
He nestled into Malec's arms as though he'd always belonged there.
Malec stared down.
He smelled of milk and warmth and something brand new.
A tremble passed through Malec's lips. And then, quietly:
"We finally meet."
The child blinked—but his eyes were still sealed shut, unopened since birth.
Yet in that moment, Malec felt it.
A rustle in his mind.
Like leaves moving in a wind that wasn't real.
A touch of thought.
A flash of emotion.
A psychic nudge.
Malec's brow arched.
"…Of course," he murmured with a smile. "You're already speaking."
The baby shifted slightly, pressing closer to his chest.
Luko entered the parlor just then, sleeves rolled, hair pulled back.
"Surin's been trying to name him," he offered, voice laced with amusement.
Malec glanced up.
He sighed. "Of course he has."
Luko chuckled. "Suggested Suric, I think."
Malec looked back down at the bundle in his arms.
"I'll ask him what he wants to be called."
There was a soft scoff around the room.
"Ask him?" Luko teased. "You expecting a response?"
Malec didn't even blink.
"I already met him," he said plainly. "In the dreamscape. He's… not like other newborns."
The room went very still.
"He's an old soul," Malec continued. "Doesn't remember all his past lives, but enough. Enough to follow her—Allora. He came here on purpose to protect her."
Luko and Surian exchanged a glance.
Whispers began to circulate.
Of course the child of Malec would be powerful.
Of course he speaks to spirits.
Of course the dream realm itself would open to them.
Malec ignored it all.
He looked down again.
"You came to her… to protect her," he murmured. "And I nearly destroyed you."
The baby stirred.
No answer in words. But there it was again.
That brush of emotion.
Forgiveness.
Malec turned toward the gathered servants.
"Warm soup," he said. "For Allora. Light, nourishing. Nothing fatty."
They all nodded and scattered like wind-tossed leaves.
"And I need clean clothes," he added, lifting one boot to show a crack thick with dried mud. "Fit for someone who's no longer chasing death."
They vanished before he even finished the sentence.
He bent low, brushing his lips over his son's silver hair.
A long, slow breath escaped him.
"I'll do better," he whispered. "For you. For her."
Across the room, Surian watched him.
Watched the way his shoulders relaxed. The way his face softened. The way his lips curled—not with command, but with peace.
Her heart warmed.
He looked happy.
Truly happy.
But the joy in her eyes faltered.
Because Allora hadn't forgiven any of them.
And Malec…
Malec was not going to make it easy to be forgiven.
____________________________________________________________________________
The fire crackled low in the chamber, casting flickering shadows along the stone walls. A faint smell of blood still clung to the air, clashing with the medicinal scent of dried herbs and crushed root. Allora stirred beneath the heavy furs, her muscles stiff, her mouth dry. Her entire body ached in slow, throbbing pulses. Her vision blurred, but when it cleared—
He was already there.
Sitting in the chair near the foot of the bed, perfectly still, perfectly silent. A carved monument in flesh and fury. His silver-blond hair fell loose around his shoulders, uncombed. His clothing was the same as when she had last seen him—dirty, sweat-stained, the collar still marked with her blood from the night before.
His pale tan eyes tracked her immediately. He didn't blink.
Allora stiffened. Her instincts screamed.
"Good," Malec said quietly. "You're awake."
His voice was calm. Too calm.
She pushed herself up on her elbows, already regretting it as her body screamed in protest.
"Don't," he said. "You're weak. You won't get far."
"I wasn't trying to—"
"I didn't ask."
Her lips tightened. Her throat burned. She looked at the bowl resting on the small tray beside her, untouched.
"Eat."
"I'm not hungry."
His gaze didn't shift. "I didn't ask."
The silence stretched between them like a rope pulled taut.
She swallowed. "What do you want?"
Malec stood.
The movement was slow. Deliberate. Like a man used to commanding legions and breaking them with a glance.
"I want you to listen."
He walked around the edge of the bed, coming to stand over her, arms crossed behind his back like a soldier delivering punishment.
"You left me," he said. "You ran. You drugged me. You abandoned your position. Your station. Your place."
Her pulse kicked up.
"You were suffocating me," she hissed. "You were controlling everything—every breath, every hour, every moment. I wasn't your lover, I was your prisoner."
"No," he said. "You were mine."
His voice wasn't angry. It wasn't loud.
But it landed like a blade pressed to her throat.
"And you still are."
Allora's stomach twisted.
"You're not a commander anymore," she spat. "You don't get to own people."
"I don't own people," he said. "I own you."
She jerked as if struck.
Malec leaned down, one hand braced beside her head. His face came closer, just enough for her to feel his breath.
"I searched for you for months. I tore this world apart looking for you. And all the while, you were carrying my child." His eyes burned into hers. "You could have died. He could have died. And for what? So you could prove something? So you could pretend you were still free?"
She turned her face away, jaw clenched.
He didn't let her escape. His hand gently—too gently—took her chin and turned her back to face him.
"You are not free, Allora," he said, low and cold. "You haven't been free since the moment you stepped through that portal. And you never will be."
Her eyes welled, not from weakness but from fury.
"You don't get to say that."
"I just did."
She shoved his hand away. "I'm not afraid of you."
"Liar," he said.
She flinched.
"You should be," he added, more softly. "Because I have no intention of letting you go again."
Malec straightened. He didn't need to loom. He was the room now.
"You're mine. My mate. The mother of my child. The only thing in this god-damned world that I ever cared about."
His pale eyes flicked over her face. Studying her. Owning her all over again.
"You will stay here. You will heal. You will raise our son. And when you're strong enough, we'll talk about what comes next."
"I'm not staying with you."
"Yes, you are."
"Or what?"
Malec straightened, looking down at her like a commander reviewing a battlefield.
"You're already in a cage. Running again just changes the size of it."
She leaned forward, eyes blazing.
"Then let's make sure the next one has sharper bars."
____________________________________________________________________________