Allora lifted her head from his chest slowly, her eyes bloodshot, jaw trembling, but her voice—when it came—was clear.
Sharp.
Deadly.
Her fingers curled into the fabric of his tunic, gripping the perfect silver with the fox sigil emblazoned on his chest. Her knuckles whitened with the force of it, but she didn't look down. She looked up. Directly into his pale tan eyes.
"If I'm sold off," she said, voice low but unwavering, "or used like some walking womb for noble brats—if I'm passed around like cattle, like some relic of war—"
She leaned in closer, so close he could feel the heat of her breath against his mouth.
"I will end it. I'll end me. That is my right. My body is mine. It's the one thing no one has ever truly let me own."
Malec gasped—a sound torn from him, not breathed.
His entire body locked.
He didn't move. Couldn't. As if something vital inside him had fractured.
It wasn't a threat.
It wasn't a plea.
It was a vow.
And for a moment—just a breath—he saw her not as a firebrand or a prisoner or even the mother of his child. He saw her as a creature who had spent her entire life being taken. By kingdoms, by elfkin, by gods, by him.
And she was done.
His hands trembled at her back. He opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again.
But the words wouldn't come.
Not yet.
Because he finally understood—
If he caged her again… if he let them take her…
She would choose death over captivity.
And he would lose her for good.
Malec's heart was thunder in his ears.
Her words echoed in his skull like the toll of a death bell—louder than battle drums, sharper than any blade. I'll end me. That wasn't defiance. It wasn't drama. That was truth. Cold, deliberate truth carved into the air between them like a dagger pressed to the throat of his sanity.
His breath caught, his lungs struggling to decide whether they should draw air or scream.
Her hands were still fisted in his tunic, her grip iron-clad as if daring him to ignore what she'd just said. But Malec didn't move. Couldn't.
He stared at her—really stared—and saw the exhausted resolve in her face. Saw the cracks, the fight, the absolute conviction.
"You would," he whispered, more to himself than to her. "You really would."
The words came slow. Fragile. Like something dangerous was uncoiling inside his chest.
She didn't blink.
"I won't be your pawn," she said, lower now. "Not yours. Not your cousin's. Not your mother's. Not this kingdom's. If you can't promise me that I belong to myself, then there's nothing left for me here."
Malec's mouth parted—then shut.
His arms wrapped around her, tighter this time, as if instinct had taken over. As if his body could shield her from what his power couldn't.
"No," he murmured, his voice hoarse, foreign in his throat. "No… no, you don't get to say that. You don't get to think about leaving this world like that—not again. Not after everything we've been through."
She tensed in his grip, but didn't pull away.
"I swear to you," he said, voice breaking its tight edge. "No one will take you from me. No one. I don't care if it's the King himself—I'll bury him if he tries. I'll burn down the Capitol and every fool in it."
His hand slid up to cup her cheek again, trembling now, his thumb brushing another tear off her skin.
"You are not property. You are not a breeder. You are not some pretty cure to our bloodlines. You are Allora. Mine. And I'll tear the realm in half before I let them put chains on you again."
She didn't speak. Her eyes glistened. Her breath hitched.
Malec leaned his forehead against hers, trembling with restraint and rage and grief all bundled into one.
"I was wrong to cage you," he whispered. "I was wrong to drug you. To silence you. But if I have to choose between losing you or losing the world…"
He pulled her closer, pressed his lips to her brow.
"I'll choose you. Every. Damn. Time."
And in that moment, every soldier downstairs, every seal and scroll and imperial decree—they became enemies.
Because no one touches a fox's mate and lives.
____________________________________________________________________________
Downstairs, the chateau's grand foyer was a battlefield waiting for permission.
Luko stood at the center of it all, sweat slicking his palms as he tried to hold his smile steady, despite the tension crackling through his limbs. His eyes danced from soldier to soldier, quietly counting—six by the main arch, two flanking the stairwell, another three pretending to admire the painted fresco along the wall. More outside, no doubt. Maybe two dozen total. All in pristine imperial black with polished gauntlets, blades strapped and ready.
And at their head stood the emissary.
A quiet, thin-lipped elder elf with brown sandy hair streaked with pale white age. His ceremonial sash bore the red crescent of Surion's court, and his eyes—though dulled with years—gleamed like a crow's: shrewd, patient, and void of mercy.
Luko could feel it. One wrong word, one wrong breath, and the whole place would ignite.
He'd seen Malec fight before. Seen him cut through enemies like wheat through scythes. But when he fought for something—no, someone—he believed was his?
It wasn't war. It was annihilation.
And right now, that was a chance Luko was praying they wouldn't test.
"My lord emissary," Luko began, clearing his throat and lifting both hands in a calming gesture, "the Lady Allora is still recovering. Perhaps we could—"
The emissary didn't even turn to look at him.
His gaze was fixed on the upper landing, his breath caught.
Because descending the stairs was Surian.
Her robe was half-wrapped, her face still flushed from the chaos upstairs, but in her arms—
The child.
Wrapped in soft linens, a tuft of pale silver hair curling over his brow, his tiny fists balled and trembling as he let out high, exhausted cries.
And just like that—everything stopped.
The guards turned. One by one. Their postures straightened. Their eyes widened. One of them muttered something in disbelief.
Luko saw it—the shift.
That sudden, collective moment of realization.
The hybrid was real.
The Silver Fox had bred a child with the Canariae.
And it was alive.
Surian, halfway down the stairs, faltered at the attention. Her grip on the child tightened instinctively, and her eyes narrowed.
A pair of guards began to step forward, slowly, as if drawn by something divine.
Surian's stance changed in a blink.
She shifted, turning sideways, cradling the baby against her shoulder and lifting one hand behind her, ready to strike. Her eyes flashed a sharp warning—do not come closer.
"Back off," she snapped. "You touch him, you die."
The guards froze.
But the emissary took one step forward, his expression unreadable.
"In the name of the imperial court," he said, "I require visual confirmation of the child."
"You require nothing," Surian hissed, baring her teeth. "He's not yours to see."
"I do not need to possess the child," the emissary said coldly. "Only confirm what's been claimed."
Luko stepped in again, panic rising like bile in his throat. "Please, let's all remain calm—"
Surian turned slightly, angling her body to shield Vaeril further. His cries had quieted to little hiccups now, though his fists still trembled against her.
The emissary's jaw ticked.
"I will not ask again."
And just then, like a rising storm—
A bootstep echoed from the hall above.
Deliberate. Measured.
And Luko didn't need to turn to know that Malec had arrived.
The air dropped ten degrees.
Every guard stiffened.
And the foyer, for a breath, became a tomb.
Malec descended the staircase like a storm subdued only by ritual.
At his side, tethered by his hand, was Allora.
She wore the old cloak he'd given her long ago—deep blue, embroidered in delicate gold constellations, suns and moons from a sky that did not belong to this world. He had braided her hair himself, his large hands oddly skilled in the delicate task. Her curls were pulled back tight against her skull, small wisps escaping near her ears. She looked regal, strange, otherworldly.
And utterly drained.
Her skin, though glowing with health, had lost its fire. Her chin was tucked, eyes fixed on the stone at her feet, her steps light and unfocused. She did not speak. She did not look up.
Surian, standing near the bottom, immediately moved forward to meet them.
She took Allora's hand from Malec's and held it firmly, as if she could keep her upright through touch alone.
Malec leaned down and pressed a kiss to the crown of Allora's head—soft, fleeting, reverent—and then stepped away, gently removing Vaeril from Surian's arms.
The baby stirred once in his sleep, but didn't cry. Malec adjusted the linen blanket around his tiny form and made his way down the last few steps toward the emissary.
He didn't speak. Didn't need to.
Every breath in the foyer had turned shallow.
He stopped only a few paces from the emissary and slowly turned Vaeril in his arms, peeling back the blanket just enough for the child to be seen.
Gasps filled the chamber.
Even the Capitol guards, stoic and trained to resist awe, surged forward with wide eyes, desperate to catch a glimpse of the living miracle.
And there he was.
Vaeril, son of the Silver Fox and the Canariae rebel.
Eyes open now—sharp and unblinking. Those pale tan irises, edged in silver light, stared back at the world with an eerie calm. The shape of them—slanted, foxlike, unmistakable—left no room for denial.
His hair curled tight like his mother's but shimmered with the moonlight sheen of Malec's silver.
His skin glowed golden-bronze, a shade no Awyan child had ever carried.
And the ears—
Small, delicate, but pointed.
Awyan ears.
Undeniably.
The emissary let out a trembling breath and reached for his handkerchief, pressing it over his mouth.
"By the stars," he murmured, eyes glassy. "By the moon and sun. It's real."
Vaeril stared at him with the unnerving calm of a creature already deciding the worth of what he saw.
The emissary's hands slowly extended forward, reverent, shaking.
"May I…?"
But Malec pulled the child back, wrapping the blanket once more and turning away.
"You've confirmed him," he said sharply. "Now leave him be."
The emissary blinked, caught off guard by the sudden finality. He lowered his hands.
Malec turned his head. "Surian."
She stepped forward instantly.
"Take him upstairs," Malec ordered. "Get him out of their eyes."
Surian's gaze flicked to Allora—swaying still, blinking too slowly—and she hesitated.
"Malec, I—"
"I said now."
Still unsure, Surian cradled Vaeril back into her arms and called out into the chateau, her voice echoing faintly.
"Father?"
There was no answer.
"Father!"
Still nothing.
She grit her teeth and descended another step.
"Luko!"
Luko, already at the edge of the crowd, turned on a heel. "I'll help."
He rushed after her.
Allora—forgotten for a moment in the tension—took one step forward. Her knees buckled.
Luko caught her as he passed, arms wrapping under her shoulders just in time.
Malec was there in a heartbeat.
He pushed through the guards and took her from Luko like a wolf reclaiming its mate.
"Go," he told the healer. "Help Surian. Find Leira."
Luko nodded and ran.
Malec held Allora close, one arm beneath her knees, the other across her back, his face buried against her shoulder as she leaned into him with barely a breath.
He looked up at the emissary from over her shoulder.
And if the elder had any doubt before—he didn't now.
This wasn't just a child.
This wasn't just a mate.
This was war waiting for a reason.
And the Silver Fox had already chosen his line in the sand.
Malec straightened, holding Allora in his arms as though she weighed nothing—and everything.
The hush in the grand foyer had returned, thicker than ever. Even the fire in the hearth seemed to flicker more cautiously.
He turned fully to face the emissary and the guards flanking him. The gleaming black armor, the crimson sash of imperial command—they meant nothing here. Not with Malec standing between them and what he considered his.
He shifted Allora slightly in his grasp, enough to let her rest her head against his shoulder, and then lifted his chin.
"I will accompany her to the Capitol," he said, voice low and composed but slicing through the air like steel. "But only under one condition."
Every soldier in the room tensed. The emissary's lips parted to respond, but Malec spoke first—louder now, the edge of command unmistakable.
"She is not to be treated as a prisoner. Not as an emissary. Not as a resource for this empire's dying bloodline."
He looked down at the woman in his arms.
His voice, somehow, grew even harder.
"She is to be treated as my intended."
Gasps rippled through the room like a rolling wind.
Even some of the guards—those who had fought beside Malec in the war, who had bled for his cause, who'd seen firsthand what he was capable of—exchanged wide-eyed glances.
A court-sanctioned union between the Silver Fox and a Canariae?
That wasn't just bold. It was revolutionary.
It wasn't a challenge to the King—but it was a dare.
The emissary's composure cracked just slightly. His mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.
Malec kept going.
"I am petitioning for a court-bound union," he said. "A full binding. Awyan law. She will be recognized as my equal. My mate."
He paused—then added, without blinking:
"My wife."
More whispers.
More fear.
Some of the younger soldiers looked openly shocked. Others—older ones, veterans—nodded subtly. Not because they approved, but because they understood: Malec wasn't making demands.
He was drawing battle lines.
Everyone in the room knew it: most of them owed their lives or their training to the Silver Fox. They wouldn't lift a blade against him, not without regret.
But they also knew the truth.
Allora was not just a mate now.
She was leverage.
The only living being proven to produce hybrid heirs.
She was, without exaggeration, the key to Awyan survival.
And Malec—unbending, unshaken—had just made her untouchable.
So what now?
If the King said no… it would be war.
If the King said yes… it would be chaos.
And in the middle of it all, resting against Malec's shoulder with half-lidded eyes and sedatives still clinging to her blood, was a woman who wanted nothing more than to disappear from all of it.