Page 77 of King of Flames and Shadows

“Come on,” she says, her voice filled with that bright, unbreakable confidence I wish I could hold onto. “Those idiots don’t know anything. Let’s go to the river—I found a whole bunch of frogs hiding in the reeds."

And just like that, she slips her hand into mine, pulling me away from the square. Her laughter is bright and warm, wrapping around me like a shield, making the world feel safe, even if just for this moment.

I don’t know how long I sit there, holding her body. I press my forehead against hers, whispering promises that she’ll never hear, vowing vengeance against the man who took her life. Vengeance for all the world has taken from us—from me.

When her warmth finally fades in my arms, something inside me snaps.

How I manage to stand, I’m not certain. The world is fuzzy with pain, my body alight with it with every movement. Nonetheless, I make it to my feet and begin my trek toward the underchamber. I stagger through the dark, empty maw of its entryway—the entryway through which I was first formallypresented to the king. It feels like lifetimes ago now, though I know it has barely been a season.

Somehow, the entire world seems to have taken on a new quality since I got to this place. I am not the same person I was before I was taken.

Around me, the cavernous chamber is broad and silent. Empty now. The councilmen are probably hiding, fleeing with their families. The commanders may all be dead by now. I try not to think of Darian as I stumble forward, stumbling over shattered stone and charred wood. Ascending the stairs takes almost all the strength I have left. As I rise, the air around me thickens with smoke, embers swirling around my feet, stinging my eyes and filling my lungs. Every breath feels like a struggle, my body heavy with grief and yet blazing with rage.

I keep moving even when it feels like I will keel over, every step fueled by Lyra’s last words, by the memory of her bloodied smile.

The throne is empty. Awaiting its king, or its conqueror. I see my husband’s face in shadowed statues, torn paintings. My vision swims as I rise to the upper floors, a ruin of collapsed walls, shattered columns, and bodies strewn across the floor. The remnants of our fight lay scattered here, broken as if all life has been drained from the stones themselves. Those still battling are in the sky high above the castle now.

I force myself to keep going, ignoring the stabbing pain that flares through my abdomen with each step. I surely have at least a few cracked ribs. Every instinct, every breath, pulls me toward the farthest, darkest wing of the castle. It’s as if something inside me knows the way, knows that this final thread of my life has led here.

The air grows colder as I pass through shadowed halls, through rooms once grand and glittering that now lay twisted with ruin. Torn drapes billow weakly in the corners, and the flicker of far-off flames casts shifting shadows that stretch like claws over the walls. I pass the faces of past kings etched into the cracked stone, their eyes lifeless and hollow, their visages crumbling under the weight of shattered history. This place—the place where oaths were sworn and legacies burned—seems to bleed the memory of all it has lost.

A noise reaches me, barely audible over the rumbling explosions from the skies and the crumbling stones around me. It’s a low, rhythmic chanting, mingling with sharp, cruel laughter.

I freeze, listening, letting the sounds guide me forward, past marble pillars and overturned statues.

Continuing on is the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do, but at the same time, I cannot stop myself, cannot halt the dogged march of my feet onward. Perhaps I really am a dutiful wife. I press my hand against the wall to steady myself, pushing through the pain, my vision spinning as I press on, moving toward the growing sound of voices. The chanting grows louder, words I can’t quite make out but that hum with an ancient malice, like some dark hymn sung to invoke terror.

Finally, I reach a vast, open hall where the ceiling has collapsed, its stones crumbling into the darkness below. Through the shadows, I glimpse movement—a flicker of firelight illuminating twisted forms, the glint of armor and the sheen of sweat on faces twisted in devotion to some dark command.

And there, in the center of it all, stands the man I know must be Ulric, his gaze fixed on Arvoren, who kneels bound in chains, his head bowed.

Arvoren’s brother is smaller than him, though no less intimidating. Ulric stands tall and lean, his golden hair falling in waves that catch the flickering light, glinting like molten metal. His eyes, a shade darker than Arvoren’s, are filled with a calculating gleam that matches the arrogant smile curling at the edges of his mouth. He wears dark armor traced with gold, polished to a deadly gleam, his stance relaxed as he stands over his brother, yet coiled with a readiness that speaks of his draconic strength. There’s an unsettling calm to him, a predator’s poise. He thinks he’s already won.

The sight rips the air from my lungs. Arvoren’s fierce gaze is dimmed, flickering like a flame struggling for its last breath. He looks defeated, desperate, wretched with grief. Ulric, holding a sword aloft, stands poised to strike, his blade glinting in the firelight.

“Stop!”

My voice breaks from me in a raw scream, desperate and furious.

Ulric turns slowly, as if he’s almost amused. He raises a brow, his mouth twisting into a smirk that reeks of disdain. “Well, look who managed to crawl up from the depths. Quite a surprise—though you never did know when to give up, did you, Calliope?”

Arvoren’s head snaps up, his gaze locking on me. I watch as a storm of emotions surges across his face—raw shock that widens his eyes, freezing him in place as if he can’t believe I’m standing there, alive; then relief, so powerful it steals his breath, softening the rigid lines of his face for the briefest moment. But in an instant, his relief darkens, shadowed by a fierce, protective rage as his gaze drifts over the cuts, bruises, and blood on myskin, taking in every mark and injury as though each one has been carved into his own body.

When his eyes meet mine, the distance between us vanishes. In that single heartbeat, a fierce understanding flows between us—unbreakable, undeniable, a silent promise that we’re not finished yet.

I turn my eyes back to Ulric. I have no sword, no strength left in my body. But I know I must stop him. I just know.

“Where is he?” I demand. “Linus. He was working for you. I’m going to kill him.”

Ulric stares at me for a single moment. Then, he laughs, a startled, vicious sound.

“Gods,” he chortles, as if I’ve told the funniest joke. “I knew you weren’t the sharpest tool, Calliope, but this is just sad.”

He flicks his hand in the direction of one of the mages surrounding my husband. Her hand rises from her cloak, moving in an intricate pattern through the air. A faint glimmer of magic surrounds us—and I see Ulric’s visage transform. His long, well-groomed golden hair shortens, shrinking back to his chin, becoming unkempt and mussed, as if with stress and lack of sleep. His face narrows, body growing shorter and slighter, fine armor shifting into a long, dark coat. His silver eyes gleam a pale, unnatural blue.

Before me stands Linus Caddell—my tenuous ally, the man I trusted might offer me a sheer, slight hope of freedom.

But, of course, he never existed at all.

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