Page 24 of King of Flames and Shadows

I don’t bother with a reply, dismissing her with a flick of my hand to descend once more into the darkness where she resides. She knows me well enough to understand that I have no patience for superstition.

Nonetheless, Varya’s words echo in my ears as I retreat back through the winding halls, up toward my private quarters. The castle is colder than it should be, the air thick with the scent of frost and dust, the sensation of static and heat. The runes have not cowed to my clear show of heedlessness. Their angry glow follows me all the way back to the East Wing, the tower upon which my private quarters are perched.

I exhale slowly, tension easing slightly from my shoulders. Perhaps Varya will have an answer by morning.

As I approach my chambers, ascending the winding steps of the tower, a faint sound reaches me through the walls. It’s tiny at first, so distant that I pay it no mind, but as I climb, it grows louder.

Muffled cries. Soft, desperate.

I pause, ears straining to locate the source. It’s coming from behind one of the doors down the hall. Two guards stand stoic and still before it.

Herdoor.

I hesitate, then curse under my breath and move closer, gesturing for the guards to make themselves scarce. They vanish from my path.

The sounds become clearer as I linger close to the door: whimpers, gasping breaths, the occasional incoherent murmur. A nightmare.

Pushing the door, I peer inside. Through the gloom, it is hard to make her out for a moment; then I see her. The girl is writhing in her sheets, tangled up like a trapped animal.

I shouldn’t care. It’s no concern of mine.

Yet I find myself stepping closer, drawn by something I can’t name or understand.

Her face is pale, twisted in fear, her skin glistening with sweat despite the cold. Dark hair is flung across her pillow, unkempt with the violence of her movement. I watch, torn between frustration and curiosity, as she thrashes against the imagined threat, thin arms straining against her sheets, nightclothes riding up over her shaking limbs.

One of her hands lashes out into the air. She gasps hard, a sob escaping her heaving chest.

“Enough,” I murmur softly, the word slipping out before I can stop it.

She jerks awake, eyes wide and unfocused, gasping for breath. For a moment, she doesn’t see me—doesn’t see anything but whatever horror chased her through the dark.

Then her gaze sharpens, locks onto mine, and I see the panic in her eyes morph into something else, raw and guarded. The furious and uncomplicated intensity of her hatred consumes her as if it never left. She is all hard edges, but even beneath them, her flushed, wet lips are slightly parted, her clothes ruffled, her eyes wild.

She’s beautiful. She’s almost inhuman in the dull glow of reflected moonlight.

I don’t move. I don’t speak. I simply stand there, watching her struggle to even her breathing. She watches me right back, chest rising and falling fast.

She doesn’t move an inch until I retreat, silent, from her bedchambers, closing the door behind me.

Chapter 10 - Calliope

The gold circlet around my neck is too tight. It bites into the skin just below my throat, its edges sharp as knives. I hate all of it—the silk gown that weighs heavy on my shoulders, the opalescent jewels pinned in my hair.

Each shimmering chain, each strand of fabric, is an unwanted reminder of my position: the pretty trinket brought to heel beside his throne.

I swallow, trying to ease the choking sensation as the court buzzes around me. The dark underchamber is full to bursting with courtiers, guards, and petitioners, their hushed voices echoing off the high stone walls. The air is thick and stifling with the scent of incense and wine, making it hard to breathe. A faint, sickly sweetness clings to the back of my throat.

Showing weakness is what he wants, but I refuse to do it. I keep my gaze fixed on the polished marble floor. I refuse to meet the curious stares directed at me, those eager, speculative eyes watching the king’s new captive on display.

My cheeks burn, but I keep my expression carefully neutral.

I will not give them the satisfaction of seeing my shame.

Arvoren sits beside me, his presence a dark, smothering weight. He hasn’t looked at me since I was dragged in here and positioned at his side, a glittering bird in a shadowed cage. But I can feel his awareness of me, as if an invisible tether connects us. Every muscle in my body is wound tight, straining to maintain composure. My hands, hidden beneath the folds of my gown, are clenched into fists.

I focus on the cold beneath my knees. The stones of his court are smooth and unyielding, carved with intricate patterns that snake across the floor like veins. Each line, each spiral, is a mark of his ancestral ownership. My presence is a defilement of this place, and some twisted part of me is glad for it.I hope I dirty this place. I hope I defile it with my witch’s blood, my witch’s heart. I hope I’m the wench you say I am.

My gaze flickers sideways, toward Arvoren. He’s staring down at a trembling petitioner, a merchant of some kind, who wrings his hands, his voice a barely audible mumble. Whatever the man is saying, it’s clear he’s terrified. His words fumble over each other in his haste to speak. I watch the king’s fingers drum once against the armrest of his throne, the only sign of his impatience.

---