The crackle of the fire was the only sound in the room—until Kalemon's eyes snapped open.
The air had changed.
She turned—and saw Allora beside her, limbs shaking violently beneath the blankets. At first, it looked like shivering… but then her entire body began to seize, legs kicking, arms jerking, a low, strangled sound crawling from her throat.
"Allora!" Kalemon shouted, throwing the covers off.
She was on her knees in an instant, grabbing Allora's flailing limbs, trying to stabilize her. Her eyes rolled back. Foam gathered at the edge of her mouth.
"No, no—stay with me, girl—"
Across the room, Leira shot to her feet, no longer amused, no longer detached. She was in front of the bed in seconds, her tone razor-sharp.
"Is this normal?! Is this a Canariae thing?!"
"No!" Kalemon barked, keeping her voice steady while panic cracked at her edges. "It's not. This isn't a pregnancy thing—it's something else—her withdrawals—"
Leira's brow furrowed. "Withdrawals? From what?"
Kalemon didn't have time to explain. She shouted:
"Get a wooden fork—or something—now! I need to keep her from biting her tongue!"
Leira spun toward the hearth, saw the pile of firewood, and without hesitation, snapped a thick branch with a clean crack. She was back at the bed in moments, shoving the piece into Kalemon's hand.
Kalemon pried Allora's mouth open and wedged the wood between her teeth as gently as she could.
The seizing slowed.
Then stopped.
Allora lay still—sweat pouring from her, her face pale and lips cracked. Her chest rose and fell in fast, shallow bursts. But she was breathing.
Kalemon slumped back with a gasp, hands shaking as she wiped her brow.
Leira didn't speak. Her eyes were locked on Allora's body, studying it—not cruelly, but analytically. Sharply. Intensely.
"Tell me everything," she said. "Now."
Kalemon sat back on her heels. "There were transfusions. Direct blood transfusions. From Malec. Two, maybe more. Not diluted like the vials they gave infected Canariae. This was raw."
Leira stiffened, eyes widening slightly.
Kalemon continued. "Her body didn't reject it. It's doing something… something we haven't seen before. Her vitals are shifting. Her hormones, her muscle fibers, her skin tone—she's evolving."
A beat.
Leira's gaze fell slowly back to Allora.
Everything clicked.
"So that's why," she whispered.
She paced once, her jaw clenched. "No wonder Malec's obsessed. No wonder Kirelle wants a child. No wonder everyone's sniffing at her heels like wolves."
She looked back at Kalemon, her voice lower now.
"She's not just some pretty rebellion story. She's not just his plaything."
Her tan eyes narrowed.
"She's a solution. Maybe the solution."
Kalemon didn't answer. She was busy checking Allora's pulse, wiping her brow, whispering to her softly.
But Leira had already moved beyond the bedside.
Her mind was racing. Cold. Focused.
The game had changed.
"I didn't understand before," she murmured to herself. "But now? Now I do."
She turned toward the door, then back to Allora with something like resolve hardening in her face.
"Tell your girl to rest. Because she's not just running from Malec anymore."
She met Kalemon's eyes.
"She's running from a future that's going to try and put her in a glass cage—and worship her while cutting her open."
Kalemon looked up, face pale.
"And what are you going to do?"
Leira's smile was gone. Her voice was deadly calm.
"Intervene."
Kalemon had just finished cleaning the sweat from Allora's brow when she turned to grab another cloth—only to hear the unmistakable hiss of steel unsheathing behind her.
"What the fuck are you doing—?!"
She turned, too late.
Leira stood over the bed, eyes alight with chilling clarity, her dagger already drawn and gleaming. She poured a splash of alcohol over the blade, her movements disturbingly calm.
Before Kalemon could grab her—too fast—Leira sliced a clean line across her own palm, red blooming like a rose across her skin.
"She needs it," Leira murmured.
"No!" Kalemon lunged.
But Leira struck first.
A swift jab to Kalemon's throat—a blow precise enough to stun, not kill—sent the healer stumbling back, gasping and collapsing against the wall in a dizzy heap.
"You absolute bitch—!"
But Leira didn't hear her. She was already cutting a smaller incision across Allora's palm, swift and practiced, like she'd done this before.
Kalemon struggled to sit up.
"You have no idea what that'll do—!"
"Oh, but I do," Leira whispered.
She pressed their hands together—her blood mixing with Allora's, palm to palm, pulse to pulse. It soaked into the skin, a communion of obsessions and bloodlines, like something sacred and blasphemous at once.
For a heartbeat, nothing.
Then—
Allora's body shuddered.
Her back arched. Her lips parted in a gasping breath, but the spasms were gone. Her heartbeat, once erratic, began to settle. Her skin warmed. Her chest rose, fell, rose again.
Steady.
Leira exhaled slowly.
"There she is."
Kalemon had staggered to her knees, one hand on her throat, coughing—but she froze mid-crawl as she saw Allora's vitals stabilize.
Her mouth opened, furious.
But then it closed.
Because the bastard woman was right.
"What did you do?" Kalemon hissed.
Leira peeled their hands apart and cleaned the wounds. Her voice was steel.
"I gave her what she needed. A compatible transfusion. Same as Malec."
She raised an eyebrow, wiping blood from her fingertips with the corner of her cloak.
"Didn't you wonder where he got that rare blood type from?"
Kalemon's lips thinned.
Leira turned her eyes back to the sleeping Allora—soft now, calm, like a storm had passed through her and left behind a gentle wind.
"She's stronger now," Leira murmured. "Because of him. Because of me."
A beat.
"Now she'll live."
Kalemon stood slowly, the fury still in her—but smothered beneath reluctant awe.
"You're a monster," she said.
Leira smiled faintly.
"I know. But I'm a useful one."
An hour passed before Allora stirred.
Her face scrunched up as if her soul had been hit by a freight train. She groaned low into the pillow.
"I feel like dog shit."
Kalemon—already dressed and packing herbs into a satchel—looked up from across the room and smirked.
"Good. That means you're still alive."
Allora peeled her eyes open slowly, blinking at the wooden beams above. Her hand went instinctively to her belly. Still there. Bigger. Heavier.
She glanced around. Empty room. Faint scent of burning sage. The room was oddly... peaceful.
"Where's that she-demon?" she muttered, her voice rough with sleep.
Kalemon chuckled. "Out. Getting supplies."
Allora turned her head slowly, brow arching. "She's still around?"
"You had a seizure," Kalemon said, walking over. "She acted fast. Cut her hand. Cut yours. Forced a transfusion."
Allora blinked. "She what?"
"Yeah. Like mother, like son."
Allora groaned. "Great."
Kalemon sat on the edge of the bed. "Look, I didn't have a say in it. Neither did you. You were out cold. She saved your life, though. And I wasn't about to claw her face off once I saw it worked."
A long silence.
Allora sighed. "Yeah... okay. I guess I should say thank you."
"No, let's just go back to pretending we hate her," Kalemon offered.
Allora laughed softly and rolled onto her side, holding her stomach. "Every day I feel more tired," she whispered. "Tired of running. Tired of hiding. Tired of... everything."
She looked down at her growing belly and added, "I even miss that damn bed in Surian's house."
Kalemon raised a brow. "Girl, you need therapy."
"I need tequila," Allora muttered.
—
After washing up and getting dressed, the two women made their way outside.
Only to freeze.
Because in front of the inn, pulling into the snowy courtyard like it was a royal ball, was a massive covered carriage—rich maroon fabric, thick wooden wheels, and two monstrous black horses breathing clouds into the morning air. Luggage was strapped to the top.
And at the reins, looking like she was born on a battlefield and bred for bullshit—
Leira.
Draped in black and gold, cloak flaring in the wind, a faint smirk tugging at her lips.
Allora gawked. "What the actual hell is that?"
Kalemon stared. "She brought a stagecoach to a manhunt."
Leira's eyes gleamed as she called down, "Get in."
"That's the opposite of stealth!" Kalemon barked.
Leira shrugged. "Hiding in plain sight. While everyone's scouring the woods for a rat in rags, we'll be gliding down the merchant roads like nobility. No one suspects a luxury traveler."
Allora crossed her arms. "You said they're expecting us to hide. Who's us?"
Leira leaned back casually, boots resting on the footplate.
"Her. You.Me. Us. You're not special anymore, darling. We're in this together."
Allora rolled her eyes. "God help me."
Leira smiled wider. "No gods here, only me."
Kalemon stepped forward, arms crossed. "We didn't agree to go east. You're not in charge."
Leira didn't even blink.
"The border to the south is being watched. Anyone with half a brain knows we're heading that way. That's why we won't. We go east. To my vacation home. Secluded. Protected. Quiet."
She raised a brow, voice calm but irrefutable.
"No one would ever suspect Malec's mother of harboring the one thing he wants most. It's... poetic."
Allora and Kalemon looked at each other.
She wasn't wrong.
They hated it.
But she wasn't wrong.
"So we just... let her happen to us?" Allora muttered.
"We just let her happen to us," Kalemon sighed.
Leira beamed. "Lovely. Climb aboard."
____________________________________________________________________________
The oversized carriage groaned as it climbed the winding forest road, its wheels crunching over packed snow and scattered ice. The scent of pine lingered in the crisp air, while flurries drifted lazily from a sky slowly sealing itself in gray.
At the front, Leira drove the horses herself, wrapped in a thick, dark riding cloak lined with fur. Her hands gripped the reins confidently, her back straight, posture regal even in the cold. The wind tugged at the strands of hair that had escaped her hood, and her gaze flicked constantly between the road ahead and the silent woods on either side.
Inside the carriage, it was warmer, but no less tense.
Allora was curled beneath thick woolen throws, her limbs aching and her stomach firm beneath her coat. She shifted uncomfortably with every jolt of the road, her hand resting against her belly like it could keep everything inside her from cracking.
Across from her, Kalemon sat bundled in a drab green cloak, boots muddy and expression stone. Her elbow rested against the narrow window ledge, head leaning on her palm. The silence between them had stretched long and uncomfortable, a quiet hum of exhaustion and unspoken fear.
"So…" Allora muttered eventually, not even lifting her head. "We just let that psychopath cart us around now?"
Kalemon snorted without humor. "Did you want to argue with her?"
Allora thought for a moment.
"No."
They bumped over a root in the road. Allora winced and sat up straighter.
"For fuck's sake," she groaned. "I feel like my organs are rearranging themselves."
"They probably are."
Allora blinked at her. "So comforting."
Kalemon offered the faintest smirk. "Always."
The carriage shifted as the path began to curve upward, trees thinning, the snowy hills rising around them. Through the window, Allora could just make out Leira's silhouette at the front—imperious and perfectly still, like she belonged to the road.
"Where the hell are we even going?" Allora asked.
"Some noble's vacation home," Kalemon muttered.
"Leira's?"
"Apparently. Says it's high up, secure, and no one would ever suspect her of hiding you there."
Allora leaned her head against the pane of glass. It was cold and oddly soothing.
"Makes sense," she admitted. "I hate that it makes sense."
"That's her specialty," Kalemon murmured. "Making madness sound like strategy."
They sat quietly for a while.
Then Allora closed her eyes and whispered:
"I miss quiet that doesn't feel like waiting to die."
Kalemon froze at that.
The words weren't said for pity.
They weren't even meant to be heard.
But they hung in the carriage, heavy and unflinching, like truth always does when it's finally let out of its cage.
Kalemon turned her head slowly. Her eyes, tired and knowing, fell on the girl—no, the woman—curled in that corner like a wilted flame still trying to burn.
Allora didn't look back. She kept her eyes closed. Her hand rested over her belly, thumb drawing small circles over the fabric.
She looked older today.
Not because of time.
Because of weight.
The kind that settles into your soul and never leaves.
Kalemon didn't say anything at first.
What could she say?
She'd seen this look before. On dying soldiers. On mothers losing children. On men with missing limbs, still trying to walk home.
But seeing it on Allora, the firebrand, the defiant one, the storm in a dress—
That made something deep in Kalemon ache.
She reached forward, resting her hand gently over Allora's.
Allora flinched—then didn't move.
They stayed like that for a while.
The only sound was the steady rumble of the wheels turning over frozen earth, and the soft whine of the wind through the trees.
Then Kalemon whispered back:
"You're not waiting to die."
Allora's eyes opened, heavy-lidded and glassy.
Kalemon squeezed her hand once.
"You're surviving. That's different."
A breath hitched in Allora's chest.
She nodded once, like her heart had tried to speak but couldn't find the words.
She didn't say thank you.
She didn't need to.