Page 11 of King of Flames and Shadows

I hold his gaze, refusing to look away, refusing to let him see how deeply his words sting.

“I’ll take that as a compliment, Your Majesty,” I say, my voice steady despite the venomous current running through it. “It has often been said that my defiance is one of my principal virtues. And little else entertains.”

I gesture to the room around us, an opulent display of wealth and power. Golden candelabras burn steadily along the table’s length, casting a warm, flickering glow over the dark wood. The air is heavy with the scent of roast meats, spiced wine, and the faintest whiff of some unidentifiable incense that cloys at the back of my throat. I smell spices and herbs I’ve never smelled before. Every surface on the table gleams underthe candlelight—polished silverware, crystal goblets filled with crimson wine, dishes piled high with more food than I’ve ever seen in my life.

But I’m not fooled. This isn’t a meal; it’s a performance. Every single detail, every subtle extravagance, every bead of condensation on the fine wine glasses, has been orchestrated to demonstrate his unbroken control over me.

King Arvoren leans back in his high-backed chair, his lips curving into a bland, uncompromising smile that chills me more than any amount of open hostility could. He looks perfectly at ease. He’s enjoying this, toying with me as one might toy with an unruly hound before breaking it to heel.

“A compliment?” he murmurs softly, his eyes never leaving mine. “It seems you have a talent for twisting words, as well as stubbornness. But even songbirds must learn when to still their wings, such that they might avoid being snapped up.”

The hiss and bite of his consonants rings in the silence. I force myself not to flinch, not to look away. Instead, I reach for my goblet with a calm, deliberate hand and take a slow sip of the wine. It’s rich and heady, bursting on my tongue with layers of flavor I’ve never tasted before.

He watches me, waiting. I wonder if he expects me to be awed by something as banal as a fine vintage.

“Still my wings?” I echo, raising a brow. “Forgive me, Your Majesty, but sparrows have no business stilling their wings for anything. Their flight allows them to survive.”I will survive,I try to convey silently with my eyes.I will survive you.

Something dark flickers across his face, so brief I almost miss it. But when he speaks again, his voice is icy.

“And how long do you think you’ll survive like this, little bird? Peering up at a hawk, thinking your fluttering will keep you out of its claws?”

“I suppose we’ll see, won’t we?”

A beat of silence stretches between us, vibrating with tension. The King’s fingers drum once, twice against the edge of his goblet, the soft sound somehow as sharp as the clink of a dagger against stone. He tilts his head slightly, studying me like one might an insect caught in a jar—something small and irritating, but still deserving of some curiosity.

“You should be grateful I haven’t simply broken you in half yet,” he says, voice low and dangerous. “Grateful for my … leniency.”

“Leniency?” I can’t help the bitter laugh that escapes me. “You burned my home to the ground. You took me from everything I’ve ever known. You dragged me here in chains and clothed me like a doll for your amusement. If that’s your idea of leniency, Your Majesty, I would hate to see what your cruelty looks like.”

His eyes narrow, a flicker of heat flaring behind the cold exterior.

“Careful,” he warns softly. “Or you will.”

“What is it you want from me?” I ask, letting the words spill out in a rush. “What possible use could you have for a broken girl from the backwaters of your kingdom? What makes me worth dragging here, dressing up, feeding me this—” I gesture to the feast in front of me, to the empty platters I haven’t touched. “You may as well throw me back into the fire you pulled me from. Because I assure you, I willnevergive you what you want.”

For a long moment, he doesn’t respond. His gaze burns into me, scorching and relentless, as if he could bend me to his will through sheer force alone.

I refuse to look away. If he wants me to submit, he’ll have to beat me into the ground first. Even if I’m on my knees, I’ll still find a way to spit in his face.

Then, abruptly, he stands. The motion is swift and graceful, but his movements are taut, coiled—like a wolf about to lunge.

“You think you’re clever, don’t you?” he breathes, voice soft and deadly. I realize just then how low his voice truly is. It rattles inside my chest like a war signal, the horn of a distant ship. “You think you can rile me up with your sharp tongue and wounded pride. But you’ll learn, little sparrow. You’ll learn what it means to kneel before a king. You’ll learn to sing when I command it.”

The words are a promise, a threat. They chill me to the bone. But I hold his gaze, my chin tilted defiantly upward, refusing to let him see my fear.

“Then I suppose you have your work cut out for you,” I say softly. “I won’t do a thing for you, Tyrant.”

His lips curl back in a snarl, and for one heart-stopping moment, I think he might strike me. But then he laughs, a sharp, humorless sound that echoes harshly off the walls.

He turns abruptly, striding toward the door.

“You’ll sing,” he says over his shoulder, the words clipped despite their amusement. “You’ll sing, and you’ll beg for it before this is over.”

With that, he slams the door behind him so hard the goblets on the table rattle and my chains jangle softly at myankles. I sit there in stunned silence, my heart hammering wildly in my chest.

The room feels colder without him in it, as if he’s taken the very air with him. But I know even now that I have spoken only the truth. If he wants to hear me sing, he’ll have to rip the words from my throat.

I look down at my empty plate and smile grimly.

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