Page 14 of King of Flames and Shadows

“Your Majesty,” she murmurs, her voice a soft, velvety whisper that cuts through the silence like the edge of a knife. “What troubles you tonight?”

I stride across the chamber, stopping just short of the low altar in the center. My gaze sweeps over the array of objects laid out before her: bowls filled with dark, shimmering liquids, bundles of herbs, small vials of substances that look as if they’ve been harvested from the earth’s deepest, most forbidden places.

Varya’s sanctum is as much a place of mystery as it is of power. I long since stopped trying to untangle the line between her wisdom and her manipulation.

In the human settlements that scatter my Kingdom, they cling to their minor gods—Maerika of healing and motherhood, Sylraith of merchants, Voresh of shadows—finding comfort in deities who demand little and promise much. But here in the great cities, in places of true power, the major Gods alignthemselves with courts and bloodlines like players in an eternal game. Their machinations are near-impossible to understand. I hardly trust the words of men and beasts; I cannot trust the words of the Gods. Yet, I must accommodate their influence upon my world, and the games I, too, must play.

Once upon a time, this sanctum was the throne room of my forebears. My parents ruled from here. But I have long since relocated the focal hub of my rule to the undercity, where I hold court in the unbroken darkness. Varya was left the impossibly bright sanctum for her rituals. It’s better that way. Each draconic city has its divine patron—Nyxharra of the Forge rules in Brittletale, forever at odds with our own Iepehin over matters of trade and territory. It is a delicate balance, this dance of divine power, as fragile as the peace between houses. Perhaps that is why Varya's warnings about the Gods' displeasure with Calliope trouble me more than I care to admit.

“The Iron Masters are growing … restless,” I say at last, after a lengthy silence, my voice tight. “Not to mention the House Lords. They believe me weak. There’s been another uprising of the rabble in Brittletale.”

Varya’s eyes narrow slightly, though her expression remains serene. “And what do you intend to do, My King?”

“Crush them,” I respond instantly, teeth gritted. I hear the low rumble of my voice rattle through the space. “Send a message they can’t mistake. But … if I send troops south, I’ll have to pull them from the Grimkeepers, the only defence at the border. We can’t afford that risk. Not with the threat of beasts at our northern ridge—”

“The threat at the Fellveil has remained unchanged for decades,” Varya interrupts, her tone soft but firm. “The danger, as always, lies not at the Wall itself but in the hearts of thosewithin your realm. Your parents knew this. You know it, too. You must show strength where it matters most—within your own borders. Bolster your presence in the cities. Remind the people who rules them.”

I shake my head, frustration boiling over. “You want me to pull our forces inward? To abandon the Wall? If the creatures—”

“Those godless creatures have been held at bay for generations by far fewer men than you have now,” she says smoothly, her eyes never leaving mine. “And what good is defending your boundaries if the core of your kingdom rots from within? Your enemies are here, My King. Within your walls. Within your cities. If you do not act now, you risk losing far more than a few outposts.”

Her words coil around my thoughts, then tighten like a vice. I hate that she could be right, but I fear she probably is. I can’t afford to let the lords, or anyone else, see me falter. Not now. Not when it seems my dynasty dangles from such a delicate edge.

“I need your guidance, Varya,” I murmur, my voice low and strained. “I can’t afford to make a mistake. If you believe me to be making a mistake, you must tell me.”

Varya’s lips curve into a faint, enigmatic smile. “Trust me, My King. Send your border troops south. Quell the unrest. Remind them all what happens when they dare to challenge your reign. And when the threat is dealt with, you will do well to focus upon the other destabilizing forces closer to home.”

I know what she means without her having to say it.

“Speak,” I boom nonetheless. I will not allow my subjects to disrespect me. Not even her.

Varya’s gaze sharpens, her smile slipping to reveal a thin, unreadable line.

“There is … another matter, Majesty, and you know this,” she says, voice low and deliberate, as though she treads upon forbidden ground. “The Gods whisper, disturbed by your choice to bring the girl here. The witch. They find her presence … distasteful.”

My jaw tightens, but I keep my face still, refusing to let her see the flicker of annoyance her words ignite. She forgets herself, forgets her place.

She steps closer, undeterred by the tension in the air between us. “You are a king of unmatched power, destined to unite not just lands, but legacies. Your union should reflect that destiny. This girl is neither noble-born nor worthy of bearing your line—she lacks the blood, the rank, the virtues the Gods demand.”

I feel the familiar surge of fury swell within me, but I force myself to remain silent. I know Varya far too well to take her words at face value. The Gods had never meddled in the royal bed before. Why now? And why with such fervor? I can’t shake the sense that there's something more behind her sudden insistence. Perhaps Calliope’s defiance had unsettled her—or maybe Varya harbors ambitions I’ve yet to see.

But I hold back, my tongue burning with the urge to speak, to confront. Varya inclines her head, her expression smoothing once more, unreadable as glass. Instead of speaking, I turn, gaze sliding from her, and take a step back.

I can feel her watching me as I leave, the lingering force of her words following after me like an echo in the cold chamber.

On my way back to my chambers, the tower in which I sleep sparsely and irregularly, I approach the pass which leads toher room, spotting the guards lingering sleepily at the end of the hallway. She’s being kept not far from me, in the chambers just below my own. Easy access.

I am about to move past, the guards unmoving behind me, when a shadow shifts by her door. A shape slips silently into the corridor’s faint moonlight—a figure, slender and cloaked in shadow, edging toward the open hallway.

Calliope.

For a moment, she doesn’t see me, her focus intent on slipping through the still shadows of the castle like a wraith. I almost let her go, just to see where she dares tread. Perhaps I’ll wait until she spots me.

As she steps fully into the moonlight pooling from a high, narrow window, my gaze snags on her, unbidden. Her eyes, wide and silver in the dim light, catch the gleam of the stars outside, while her lips, parted slightly in concentration, lend her an edge of forbidden beauty, wild and unattainable. For a moment, her bold defiance sears through the haze of my frustrations.

Her gaze lifts and locks onto mine. She freezes, only a breath between us, the soft rise and fall of her chest the only sign of her shock.

The silence crackles.

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