Page 50 of King of Flames and Shadows

I drift into a dream, the familiar scents of earth and greenery wrapping around me like a comforting blanket. I’m back in our herb garden, the sun warm on my skin, the vibrant colors of plants bursting forth in a riot of life.

I’m no older than six or seven, kneeling in the dirt, my hands gripping the stems of the little herbs I planted days ago.

“Grow,” I whisper, my voice a fragile plea against the gentle rustle of leaves. I squeeze my eyes shut, willing the tiny plants to sprout faster, to leap from the earth as if they can hear my desperate wish. I stretch out my fingers, willing the magic to flow through me, to pour into the ground and quicken the roots.

But nothing happens. Frustration bubbles up inside me like a storm, and I huff out a breath, kicking the dirt in exasperation. “Why won’t you work?” I mutter to the herbs, as if they can hear me, as if they care.

A soft chuckle breaks through my frustration, and I glance up to see my grandmother standing beside me, her silver hair glinting in the sunlight like spun gold. She wears her usual warm smile, her eyes crinkling at the corners, and I can’t help but feel a flicker of warmth at her presence.

“Ah, my little Calliope,” she says, kneeling down beside me, her hands brushing against the tender leaves. “Trying to rush nature again, are we?”

I pout, crossing my arms. “I just want them to grow faster! It’s taking forever, and I want to use them for the stew tonight.”

She laughs softly, a sound like the chiming of delicate bells, and I feel my irritation begin to fade. “Magic is a fickle mistress, my dear. It only comes when it knows it’s needed. You can’t force it. You have to be patient.”

I huff, my childish defiance flaring back up. “But why? It’s not fair! What if I need it now?” I can’t help but frown, the memory of my mother flitting across my mind like a shadow. “Mom had magic, but she still … she still …” I can’t finish the sentence.

My grandmother’s smile falters, just for a moment, before she masks the pain behind a gentle expression. “Magic will protect you, my sweet girl. It’s wise, and it knows when to show itself. It won’t let you get hurt.”

“But she got hurt,” I retort, my voice rising, tinged with childish anger. “She died. And she was supposed to be special! If she was one of us, why did she die? We can’t be magical if the magic let her die, Grandma.”

I say it like it’s so obvious. I am a tempestuous child, ruled by my certainty that I am always right.

The laughter in my grandmother’s eyes dims, replaced by something deeper, something that stings the air between us. “Magic is not everything, Calliope. It can be unpredictable, just like life. Sometimes we don’t understand why things happen, but you must trust that magic is always watching over you.”

I look away, unable to hold her gaze, anger and confusion swirling inside me. “I don’t want to trust it!” I exclaim, the words sharper than I intend. “I just want to make things better!”

She reaches out, placing a comforting hand on my shoulder. “And one day, you will. But not today. For now, let’s tend to these herbs together. You may not see it yet, but the magic is there, waiting.”

As her hand rests on me, I feel a warmth spread through me, calming my frustration. I allow myself to breathe, letting the soft sounds of the garden fill the air around us. The vibrant greens and the delicate fragrance of the herbs surround me, and despite my earlier outburst, a flicker of understanding begins to settle in the corners of my mind.

I lean into her touch, finding solace in her presence as we tend to the plants together, planting the seeds of patience, the promise of growth. But even as the sunlight bathes us in warmth, I can’t shake the feeling that perhaps I don’t trust magic. Perhaps I never will.

Chapter 23 - Arvoren

Dinner is silent, but the air is nonetheless tight with unspoken words, Calliope seated across from me, gaze fixed on the small, half-eaten plate before her. The faint clink of her fork occasionally scrapes against the edge of the plate, echoing loud in the cavernous hall. I catch myself watching her fingers tense around the handle, watching her pause between bites as if weighing each morsel. She doesn't look at me. I suspect that’s on purpose. Her training this morning was grueling, perhaps even more than I’d intended. And yet, she met each of my commands without a single word of surrender.

In another life, Calliope would have made a fantastic war-mage, I think.

It strikes me, not for the first time, how her presence has upended things I’ve long taken for granted—obedience, for one; silence, for another.

My mind flickers briefly to this morning, her raw power pulsing like a living thing beneath her skin, fierce and untamed. She was formidably beautiful. That potential is more than I’d anticipated. I take a small sip of wine, steeling myself. The dark liquid has already stained her lips. I wonder what it would taste like to kiss her, then curse myself.

The doors at the end of the hall creak open, breaking through my thoughts. A tall, thin figure, clad in dark robes, sweeps forward, boots echoing on the cold stone. It’s Ridley, one of my eldest courtiers, a man with keen eyes that see further than my comfort abides.

Ridley bows deeply and with purpose, a careful, almost reverent deference. I nod to him, gesturing for him to approach.His face is stony. His gaze flicks to Calliope for only a second before he turns his attention back to me.

"My lord,” Ridley intones, lowering his voice. “Reports from the underchamber.”

“Speak,” I reply, setting my cup down, meeting his gaze. Ridley doesn’t flinch.

“Reports of beasts entering the city have begun to reach the Crownsguard. They have been spotted in the lower districts. The houses have received word of unrest here, with suspicions that Millrath is, in fact, under attack. The coalition grows—only House Sturmsen and House Caddel have refrained from joining the attempt to dethrone you. They seek to instate a king who is less … objectionable to the majority.”

Calliope raises her head, her expression shifting slightly—she’s listening intently. I wonder, not for the first time, how much she has heard since she arrived here. Her eyes meet mine briefly, a silent question in them, but I keep my gaze fixed on Ridley.

“Objectionable.” I grit my teeth. The man’s dry diplomacy doesn’t soften the words, nor does it hide the insult behind them. A coalition of rabble, vying for a throne they have no right to claim. The same grasping, sniveling, thieving wretches whose forefathers murdered my parents—and yet, none could secure the throne, too weak to rule.

They think this time will be different. They’re sorely mistaken.

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