Page 23 of King of Flames and Shadows

I wander the dim passageways. Cold leeches through the soles of my boots. The runes inscribed along the walls—magical sigils placed centuries ago to reinforce the castle’s defenses—hum faintly, as they always do, their faint glow an omnipresent reminder of power held at bay.

Yet tonight, their light is uneven, flickering erratically, as though reacting to some unseen disturbance.

I stop and lay my palm against the cold stone, feeling the vibrations that ripple beneath the surface like a heartbeat. The magic is agitated. It thrums with a new, barely contained energy. The runes seem to pulse as if possessing a life of their own. Those ancient symbols warp and twist in ways they should not be able to, ways I have never seen.

Something, or someone, is stirring them. Something that shouldn’t be able to.

My jaw tightens. There have been strange disturbances in Millrath before, but never within the walls of my own home. Magical disturbances and flares are commonplace in the slums, where wild magic runs rampant and criminals sell spellwork to the highest bidder. But I am the absolute ruler here. This palace is mine. Everything within it is mine. The very thought that some malevolent force might breach my stronghold floods me with a dark, simmering fury.

I think of every soul in my castle, each of them lurking in the dark recesses. My servants, my guards, my soldiers, my priestesses. The prisoners locked in the furthest depths of thecatacombs, rotting far from the daylight. The witch in the tower whose fear betrays her.

As if in answer, a shiver runs through the wall beneath my fingers, a low, trembling vibration that seems to resonate deep in my bones.

The runes flare, bright enough to blind, before guttering back down to a dim, sickly glow.

I step back, breathing heightened, and stare.

Enough. Whatever has taken hold of this home of mine, this home of my ancient family, I will demolish it completely.

Turning sharply on my heel, I head for the lower halls, where the priestesses reside outside of their rituals. I need to speak with Varya. If anyone can decipher this … anomaly, it’s her.

The hallways stretch before me, narrowing as I descend deeper into the bowels of the castle. The light changes here, becomes muted, almost red, as if filtered through blood.

Priestesses and priests of the Gods are prevented from speaking from their moment of birth, taught language but forbidden from using it. Only upon ascending to leading figures of their respective cults are they permitted to use their voices.

Varya is a High Priestess, but there are dozens of cults represented in this city and this castle. Their work in my domain is to protect the city and throne from outsiders who would seek to intrude and from the tempestuous Gods’ fickle rage alike.

When I reach Varya’s quarters, the door swings open before I can knock. The priestess is already awake, her face cast in eerie half-light from the small brazier burning at her side, standing near the door, hovering like a bird of prey on a line.

Her eyes, dark and sharp as a hawk’s, regard me steadily. She doesn’t look surprised.

“Your Majesty,” she murmurs, bowing her head slightly. “I felt you coming.”

Beyond her narrow window, against which she is silhouetted, all is still and deserted. No soul dares approach this late, for fear of being shot by the guards stationed along the parapets.

“Something’s wrong,” I say bluntly, the words harsh in the stillness. “The runes … they’re behaving strangely. Distorted. Twisted.”

Varya’s gaze sharpens, her brow furrowing. “Show me.”

We move quickly, our steps echoing off the stone walls. As we reach the corridor where I felt the worst of it, I see her tense, her hands clutching the small, fang-shaped talisman at her throat. The runes flicker again, flaring with a sickly, unnatural light that makes my skin crawl.

“By the Gods …” Varya breathes, fingers brushing over the closest sigil.

She closes her eyes, murmuring under her breath, and I watch as the rune briefly stabilizes before twisting back into its chaotic state.

“It’s His doing,” she whispers, stepping back as if burned. “Iepehin’s influence.”

I thought as much, though I did not want to believe it. “God of Beasts,” I reiterate. “Patron of this city. What quarrel could He have with me?”

Varya’s gaze is far away, unfocused. “He must be trying to warn us. My God seldom intervenes directly, but … when He does …” She trails off, shaking her head as if trying to clear it. “Itmeans there’s something coming. Something violent. Perhaps another wave of insurgent activity in the outer settlements. The omens—”

“Are irrelevant to me.” I cut her off sharply. “What is relevant is how to stop this interference. This is my castle, Varya. Iepehin or not, I will not have it corrupted by anyone. Even a God.”

And—though I would not say it to her—I suspect Varya is wrong about the doings of her God, or there is something she is failing to tell me. Iepehin does not trouble Himself with the squabbling of mortal, human men, violent or otherwise. He is the God of Beasts, God of Dragons, God of the Hunt. His is the cult of unfettered, mindless, instinctual violence. The cult of my people, my House, my city.

Whatever has stirred him is more than a revolt, more than even a war.

She blinks, seeming to come back to herself. “His will is … difficult to interpret. Be cautious, your Majesty. Gods have long memories. And they do not take kindly to defiance. Remember what I told you. They are displeased by her presence—”

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