Page 15 of King of Flames and Shadows

Without a word, she whirls, attempting to flee. My arm snaps out, and in one swift motion, I catch her around the waist. She gasps, fighting against my hold, but I ignore her fury, hoisting her up and slinging her over my shoulder, her fists beating against my back. I stride down the corridor, her weight slight and fiery as she writhes, cursing me in muffled snarls.

We reach her chamber, and I push the door open with one booted foot, crossing the threshold and tossing herunceremoniously onto the bed. She tumbles into a heap on the thick velvet coverlet, her hair wild and eyes ablaze with unspent rage.

I could have her, right here, right now. Even the mere thought is enough to make me shudder. Damn her, for this power. Damn her for her beauty, the delicate lines of her face, the searing potency of her fury.

No. Not tonight.

I turn, stepping back, hands flexed in restrained anger. I know she’ll find her way past the lock again soon enough, but tonight, I’ve drawn the line. I close the door behind me, snapping the lock with a finality that dares her to defy me again.

As I make my way back to my chambers, her furious pounding and howling echoes through the empty corridor after me. Her muffled shouts thread through the air, sharp and unyielding, growing fainter as I cross into the dim hall beyond, retreating into the cold sanctuary of my rooms.

The rumble of my discontented city across the dark, impossibly deep waters of the lake calls to me all night. I do not sleep a wink. I think only of the bronze statue in the underchamber, the breadth of the Iron Masters’ fury at those doomed rebels, the lords plotting to kill me the moment they have an opening—and I think of Calliope, my sweet, foolish caged bird.

Chapter 6 - Calliope

A day passes after my attempt to escape is foiled. It is the longest day I’ve ever experienced.

When night falls, I’m almost grateful for the change, even as the darkness seems to swoop down to meet the windows, boxing me in. I’ve been staring at the same four walls for what feels like hours now, waiting for the monotonous chime of bells that signals the changing of the guards. They’ve kept me locked in here all day, only letting silent, hunched servants in twice to bring food I can barely stomach. Bread and meat and bread—is that all dragons eat? My boredom gnaws at me with almost as much insistence as the chains do.

When the bells toll, their echoing like a harkening of death, I know what’s coming. I decide I’ll take my chances.

I rise from the edge of the narrow bed, the mattress creaking softly under my weight. My gaze flits to the door, where a faint light slips beneath the threshold. Shadows pass, then fade.

There—another change. I’ve memorized their movements now, counted the intervals, learned the rhythm. The guard shifts, however precise, always leave a small gap. A few minutes, no more. A flaw in the great Dragon King’s fortress, his impenetrable wall of dominion.

If I’m to be caged, I’m better off knowing my prison.

My bare feet are silent on the cold stone floor as I approach the door, ears straining for the faintest sound. The lock’s been left undone, an investment in my supposed cooperation.

The king thinks he’s already cowed me into submission. He’s wrong.

I slip out, heart pounding in the stillness of the corridor. My entire body is cold with anxiety. The hall is dim, bathed only in the ghostly blue of moonlight spilling through narrow, arched windows. Shadows pool in every corner, merging into a heavy darkness that makes the space seem both vast and suffocating.

I hold my breath, waiting—listening—for any sign that I’ve been spotted.

But there’s nothing. The hush is absolute. I have timed my flight perfectly.

I start moving, every step careful and measured, and head east, searching for a staircase that might lead me down from the tower. When I find it, I descend in silence. The castle’s corridors seem to stretch on endlessly, twisting and turning, thick with forks and intersections, false doors and narrow, dark passages. It’s beautiful, in a cold, austere fashion I have never known: walls of gray stone lined with tapestries woven in dark hues, chandeliers hanging like cages of iron and glass from impossibly high ceilings. The enchanted flames which illuminate these halls have extinguished themselves. It must be two or three in the morning.

The whole place feels more like a mausoleum than a palace. The farther I go, the more the chill seeps into my bones. I feel somehow like I’m being consumed by the spirit of this place, eaten alive by its sickness.

I hesitate at a junction, glancing down one identical hallway after another. I need to be methodical, but I also need to be quick. If I get caught again…

Arvoren would kill me. He’ll quash me, destroy me, if I continue to test him. I know he needs me, but he doesn’t needme so badly that he’ll keep tolerating my impetuousness. No king would allow much more disrespect than I’ve already shown.

If I’m not incredibly careful, I risk death. And I have promises to keep.

I shake the thought away and keep moving. Eventually, I spot what I’ve been looking for—a narrow staircase winding upward. Have I really crossed the length of the entire castle? The library should be in the West Wing—I overheard a guard mention his post nearby.

The steps spiral up and up, and by the time I reach the top, my legs ache. I pause, leaning against the cool wall, and then take a deep breath, pressing on.

The air changes as I approach the end of the corridor. It grows heavier, laced with the scent of old parchment and something faintly sweet and musky, like dust motes drifting through sunbeams in my grandmother’s cottage. I push open the heavy double doors and step into the library.

The sight of it takes my breath away.

Even unlit, the enormous chamber is staggeringly beautiful. Rows upon rows of towering shelves stretch into the distance, laden with tomes bound in every shade of leather imaginable. Iron ladders rise up to reach the higher levels, disappearing into shadowed alcoves and hidden nooks. The ceiling above is vaulted, its arches etched with faded frescoes that seem to ripple under the shifting glow of moonlight through the high windows.

I walk slowly down the nearest aisle, fingers trailing lightly along the spines of the books. Some are brittle and crumbling, others smooth and cool to the touch.

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