---
"What are you doing?" she asked in child-like wonder as she watched Awin cup her face and inch closer.
"Science... don't worry, you'll like it," he muttered, his breath mingling with hers as his lips moved to meet her—
Wham!
A fist crashed into Awin's face, knocking him off Mahalia.
"How dare you?" Awin roared, clutching his bruised cheek. But his assailant—Zachary—wasn't finished. He sent another punch to Awin's jaw and one to his stomach, making Awin keel over.
"Who let you in?" Awin wheezed, though the fury in his eyes was still fresh and burning.
Zachary ignored him, turning to Mahalia, who looked dazed, confused—still trying to understand what was happening.
"How dare you come between me and my wife?!"
"Your wife? Your wife?!" Zachary echoed louder the second time. "What husband does this to his wife? Count your blessings or I'd put you six feet under, right here."
Still on the floor, Awin spat, "You wouldn't dare."
"You clearly don't know me well enough," Zachary said, voice low and brimming with lethal intent.
He swept Mahalia into his arms and made to leave. Awin scrambled to block their path.
"You have no right!"
"I have more right than you...KingAwin."
---
Mahalia's Room
The light screamed. The walls wobbled.
Mahalia blinked awake and tried to sit up, but her body felt foreign—like it didn't belong to her.
"Be careful," Zachary murmured, helping her up and propping her against a pillow.
"Zachary?" Her voice was thick with confusion. Was it the residue of the drug, or was he truly here?
Awin?
She muttered the name, hoarse and cracked. No one answered. She put the pieces together on her own.
"Thank you," she finally said.
But Zachary scowled.
"What is that face?" she asked, new energy stirring from heaven-knows-where.
"I'm leaving," he muttered, avoiding her eyes.
"No, you're not." She swung her legs off the bed and staggered toward him.
"I don't know what I expected when I saw you again, but... it wasn't this." She hated how hurt she sounded.
"We're not having this discussion."
"What discussion? I'm confused!"
"Exactly. You're not well. And I won't say what's on my mind when you're in this state."
"What—?" Mahalia let out an incredulous laugh. "What state?! I'm perfectly fine. Just tell me!"
"No."
"Tell me."
"No—"
"Just tell me!"
"Fine! Heavens. You want me to talk? I'll talk. How are you so incredibly irresponsible? It's like you have no sense of self-preservation. Some dodo bird you are."
"Excuse me?!" Mahalia blinked, offended.
"No—you wanted me to talk. Do you hate Awin that much that you'd risk your own life?! You ingested poison! And now—" He broke off, breathing hard. "My God, do you know how worried I was? Then and even now. He could have... he could have hurt you. But you don't seem to care about that, do you?"
The room fell silent except for Zachary's ragged breathing.
"Zachary, I—"
"No, I should apologize. I shouldn't have said all that."
Mahalia chuckled softly. "Let me talk. I'm sorry for making you worry. I really am. I thought I was in control. Maybe I let these recent wins go to my head. But I never meant to hurt you."
"I know. I just wish... I wish you'd worry more about yourself. You've been through too much. You deserve all the world's happiness."
Mahalia nodded, eyes wet. They stared at each other for a long moment—full of words they didn't know how to say.
Finally, Zachary broke the silence. "I should go."
Mahalia nodded wordlessly, gratitude shining in her eyes.
Before he left, he glanced back. "Take care of yourself."
He wasn't just saying goodbye. He meant it.
---
The Charmale Mansion
Melinda stepped in from the balcony into her room.
Five hours. That's how long she'd waited after sending Awin an invitation.
So he was serious about that being our last meeting?
She didn't like that. She didn't like any of this—how Awin kept choosing other girls. How disposable she felt.
She hadn't betrayed her family just to end up unloved.
Ordinary girls might take the hint and let go. But Melinda was not an ordinary girl. She knew trying to forget Awin was futile. She had better odds removing the obstacle.
And that was what she intended to do.
"Just wait and see, Mahalia. You'll regret taking my place."
The door creaked. Melinda turned to find a startled Zarela.
"What are you doing here?" she asked, alarmed.
"Oops. You caught me." Zarela grinned, slipping back into her lunacy—a sight that made Melinda visibly recoil.
"Yet another headache. What does Awin take me for—keeping this lunatic here? He'll make me anything but his wife."
She didn't know why, but Zarela's presence infuriated her more than usual. Maybe it was the resemblance to Awin. Or the knowledge that he'd rather grieve over her than choose Melinda.
She grabbed the nearest object—a wooden hairbrush—and hurled it at Zarela.
But the woman didn't just dodge it. She redirected it—straight into Melinda's ankle.
"I'm so sorry," Zarela laughed, sprinting out.
Being insane wasn't so bad after all.
---
Pure Children's Home
The gothic mammoth of a building loomed on the city's outskirts.
Kafka noted the unfamiliar carriage they'd taken—one she'd never seen before. It seemed built for secrecy. She mustered her most innocent voice:
"Where are you taking me, madam?"
Mirabel gave her a constipated glare. "Somewhere better than the dump you were in."
When they arrived, a few children came to greet them.
"Welcome, madam," a girl—perhaps late teens—curtsied. Unlike the rest, she wasn't malnourished. Her skin had colour.
Mirabel didn't seem pleased to see her. "Where's the Lord?"
Kafka wondered—her husband?
"He went hunting," the girl replied.
"Did he not receive word of my visit?"
"He did. That's why he sent me." The girl's pride was obvious.
Mirabel huffed and turned to Kafka. "This is—"
"Kafka, madam."
"Yes, yes." She waved her off. "Show her the ropes."
Then, without another word, she climbed back into the carriage.
"Madam?" Kafka called after her.
"Oh, they'll take care of you. I've done my best."
Kafka watched the carriage roll away.
The children sighed with relief and went back inside.
"Come," the girl said. "I'm Iris."
"Pleased to meet you, Iris," Kafka muttered.
"Your name... Kafka. It's interesting."
"Yes. It's Jamonian."
It was subtle, but Iris flinched. Kafka noticed.
"You know Porto Jamon?" she teased.
"Of course." But Iris's eyes flickered with unease. "You lived there?"
Kafka eyed her carefully. "Why do you want to know?"
"Did that shrew bring you from there?" Iris's tone turned suddenly sharp.
Shrew? Kafka blinked. That wasn't surprising—but to say it aloud? With such venom?
"She found me on the road, if that's what you're wondering. No need to be like that."
"I'm sorry."
"But I am curious. Why were you like that? Calling such a... kind-hearted woman a shrew?"
Iris scoffed and rolled her eyes. "You're in for a ride."
---
Pure Children's Home was crawling with children—maybe 250 of them. They buzzed like workers in a factory, and Kafka overheard snippets of conversation that no child should be having.
"What goes on here?" she asked as they climbed worn staircases.
"This week, you'll work with the Elves," Iris said flatly.
"Elves???"
"That's what we call the kids lucky enough to clean," Iris replied, eyes heavy with sadness.
They reached a room filled with children scurrying around with cleaning tools. None older than 12—but the poise in their movements rivalled adults.
A voice called Iris away—the Lord needed her. Kafka noticed the look that crossed her face.
"Who's the Lord?" she asked, accepting a rag from a girl.
"He's Madam's agent. Her eyes and ears here."
"Some say he's her husband."
"No, I heard he's her son."
They argued until someone muttered,
"One thing's for sure... he always needs Iris."
The air shifted. Kafka felt a chill.
"What do you mean?"
"Poor Iris. She's always with the Lord... helping him."
Kafka's stomach turned.
"Well, not like she minds," someone said. "While we fight over stale bread, she eats steak from the Lord's table. I guess that was the price to pay."
Kafka's stomach churned. Did these children really understand what they were implying?
Then a boy turned to Kafka. "Where did Mirabel steal you from?"
Kafka had an idea. "Jamon."
The reaction was instant—and intense.
"Jamon??"
"Is something the matter?" Kafka asked, confused.
"You can't be from Jamon," one girl insisted.
"Why?" the boy asked. "Did you meet her—Clara?"
"Clara? Who's that?"
---
To be continued...