Page 13 of King of Flames and Shadows

But she stood there, spine straight, chin high, daring me to force her into submission.

My teeth grind together.

“Damn her,” I mutter to the empty room, my voice rumbling with fury. I’m not sure if I’m really cursing her or myself.

With a vicious motion, I slam the decanter down onto the table, the heavy clink of glass on wood reverberating sharply through the silence. For a moment, I brace both hands against the table’s surface, drawing in deep, measured breaths.

I knew she would resist. I knew breaking her would require time, patience. But I didn’t expect her to meet my gaze with such unyielding contempt. To throw my words back in my face with that cool, calm smile.

Her words taunt me. I can still hear them now.

She’s a fool if she thinks she can outlast me. I’ll tear down every shred of resistance she has, if I have to. I’ll make her beg for the comfort she obstinately forsakes.

My hand curls into a fist on the table’s edge. Weakness. That’s what it is. To let a simple girl—herof all people, human, lowly, frail—make me retreat like some chastened schoolboy. The thought sets my blood boiling.

A knock at the door jolts me from my spiraling thoughts. My head snaps up, fury flashing like a blade through me.

The heavy oak door creaks open, and one of my courtiers, Keldan, steps inside with all the hesitance of a man approaching a predator in a cage.

“Your Majesty,” he murmurs, bowing low. His gaze darts to my clenched fists, then quickly away. In one gloved hand, he holds a rolled parchment sealed with a crimson wax emblem. “A message has arrived from Brittletale.”

I stiffen, tension coiling tighter. Of all nights, now? I gesture sharply, and Keldan steps forward, laying the letter on the table before me. I snatch it up, breaking the seal with a flick of my thumb. The parchment unfurls, revealing the elegant script of Lord Alistor—one of the Iron Master of Brittletale, and the most insufferable of them all.

His Excellency, King Arvoren, Sovereign of Kaldoria, Lord of House Szallitás,

There is unrest in Brittletale once more. The miners and factory workers grow insolent, emboldened by recent whispers of rebellion spreading through the slum districts. They have been put down with force, but discontent festers like a wound. It is only a matter of time before their dissatisfaction spreads to the wider region. I advise increasing the military presence here to ensure order is maintained. The strength of your reign depends on the strength of your hand …

The rest of the letter blurs together as I skim through it, my fury deepening with every word.

Another uprising. Another festering pocket of resistance that needs to be crushed. Brittletale, the Iron City, isn’t far from Millrath, and is our main supplier of industrial trade.

Alistor’s thinly veiled warning burns like acid in my gut. This isn’t just a report; it’s a test. A reminder that my enemies are always watching, always measuring how far I’m willing to go to maintain my hold on Kaldoria.

I crumple the parchment in my fist. The strength of your reign depends on the strength of your hand.As if I need some bloated, self-important industrialist to remind me of the price of power. As if I don’t know acutely what must be done. It’s a message, plain and simple:show us your strength—or we’ll see its absence as weakness.

I cross the length of the room, the long folds of my cloak billowing behind me. My eyes are drawn, almost against my will, to the window set high in the northern wall. Beyond it, Millrath sprawls like a slumbering beast beneath a shroud of smoke and fog. The distant lights of the forges flicker faintly, the only signs of life in the oppressive darkness. Beyond the foothills surrounding my city lie countless enemies who pray to whichever Gods may be listening every night for my demise.

I can almost feel them watching me now, whispering.

Keldan shifts uneasily behind me, clearing his throat softly. “Your Majesty—”

“Leave me,” I snap.

He bows quickly, murmuring an apology before slipping out and closing the door behind him.

The silence that follows is thick, almost suffocating. I need to think, to breathe. But I can’t see beyond the red mist of my fury.

I know where I can find clarity.

The climb to the upper sanctum from my administerial wing is winding and steep, each step a reminder of the weight of the kingdom resting on my shoulders. In the cold, empty quiet of my castle, my boots echo with resounding force on the stone steps. The higher I ascend, the heavier the air becomes, charged with a peculiar energy that seems to thrum through the very walls.

The door to the sanctum is already ajar when I reach it. I push it open, stepping into a wide, circular chamber teeming with shards of refracted light which coalesce into strange shapes like shades of the underworld, the ghosts of this castle’s past, all splayed across the floor. The walls and ceiling are composedof hundreds of tiny, delicate sheets of crystalline glass, all positioned so as to reflect and refract the light of the stars hundreds upon hundreds of times, creating a soft, eerie glow.

The woman on the other side of the huge chamber knew I was coming long before I entered, but she still does me the decency of acting surprised.

Priestess Varya turns slowly as I enter, her pale face serene beneath the heavy veil that obscures her hair and shoulders. She is a slight, almost delicate figure, but the air around her seems to hum with a strange, unsettling power. Her eyes—dark, fathomless pools that seem to see far more than I’d ever care to reveal—lock onto mine the moment I step inside.

High Priestess of the Cult of Iepehin, she has been my closest advisor since I first took the throne, when I was only a boy.

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