Page 32 of King of Flames and Shadows

“Good morning, Calliope,” he says softly, his voice a low, velvet murmur that somehow cuts through the silence like a blade. “Did you sleep well?”

A murmur of laughter ripples through the court. I grit my teeth so hard I taste copper.

I should ignore him, bite back my defiance, but his taunt burrows deep under my skin.

“Perfectly, Your Majesty,” I answer stiffly, lifting my chin. “Like a princess in a tower.”

His smile widens. The laughter grows louder, more raucous. I force myself not to flinch under the weight of their collective gaze.

“Good. Then you’ll be refreshed and ready to fulfill your duties today.”

A wave of confusion crashes over me. My duties? What duties? As far as I know, he hasn’t assigned me anything beyond being his prisoner.

The king claps his hands twice, the sharp sound echoing through the hall, and a servant appears, a wide wooden tray balanced in his hands. He kneels before the dais, holding the tray out toward me.

I stare at it, and my confusion turns to shock, and then a slow, simmering rage.

On the tray is a porcelain bowl, filled to the brim with … rice. Tiny, round, white grains of rice. Beside it is an empty glass jar.

No.No. He wouldn’t—

“Today, you will count,” Arvoren announces, his voice carrying easily over the hall. “Count every grain of rice in that bowl, and place them one by one into the jar. You will not stop until every single grain has been accounted for.”

For a moment, the words don’t register. I just stare blankly at him, at the mocking smile on his lips, at the way the gathered lords and ladies watch us with rapt attention. Then, like a punch to the gut, the reality of what he’s asking hits me.

“You want me to … count grains of rice?” I whisper, incredulous. It’s absurd. It’s insulting. It’s—

“It is a task fitting your station, is it not?” Arvoren asks, his voice dripping with mock sympathy. “Something to keep you busy. To keep your mind occupied. Perhaps it will teach you patience, and give you time to reflect on the consequences of rash actions.”

“Why?” I breathe, unable to keep the raw bitterness out of my voice. “Why make me do this?”

His gaze sharpens, and for a moment, something like anger flashes in his eyes.

“Because I can,” he murmurs. “And because you need to understand that defiance will not win you freedom here. It will only win you … this.” He gestures to the tray, the tiny, pathetic bowl of rice that somehow seems overflowing, like it will take me days to get through.

My stomach twists. I want to scream, to throw the bowl at his feet and shout until my voice breaks.

But I can’t. I can’t give him that satisfaction.

Slowly, deliberately, I lower myself to my knees beside the tray, before his feet.

The marble floor is cold and unyielding beneath my legs, the sound of the court resuming its murmuring a distant, awful blur around me. I reach out, pick up a single grain of rice, and drop it into the jar with a tiny, pathetic plink.

One.

Another grain. Plink.

Two.

Rage makes its presence known, hot and bright inside me. I have to fight to keep my hands steady. To keep from crushing the grains in my fists. This is what he wants. He wants to humiliate me. To reduce me to mere spectacle, something to be jeered at and pitied. I will not give him the satisfaction of seeing me break.

Slowly, grain by grain, I adjust to the mind-numbing task. I don’t look up, don’t acknowledge the whispers and murmurs that surround me. I let my fingers work mechanically, focusing on the texture of each grain, the delicate weight of it, the tiny plink as it falls into the glass jar.

He can’t do this to me forever. He can’t break me like this. I won’t let him.

But as the minutes drag on, the strain begins to set in. My back aches from the awkward position, my knees throb from the hard floor, and my fingers feel numb and clumsy. Still, I don’t stop. I keep counting, keep working. The sound of the court’svoices washes over me, a meaningless, jumbled mess of words and phrases. My vision blurs, my thoughts grow sluggish.

When, once, I dare glance up, my neck beginning to cramp from its uncomfortable position, I catch a flicker of movement ahead of me. Light hair, a dark coat. Less finery than the other nobility here.

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