Page 31 of King of Flames and Shadows

“Get her inside,” I order the guards, not daring to look at her again. “Now.”

I don’t stay to watch as they drag her into the room. I don’t look back, don’t pause, don’t let myself think.

That night, as the storm descends upon Millrath, I find myself pacing the length of my study, staring out at the sheets of rain that lash against the windows, the lightning that splits the sky in brilliant, jagged forks.

The storm is fierce and unrelenting, howling like a wounded beast, battering the castle walls with a force that shakes the very foundation. It is furious. It’s a fitting mirror to the chaos in my mind, to the turmoil that churns relentlessly, driving me to distraction.

I want to break something. To shatter the silence, to tear down every wall and scream until my voice is raw. I want—

Her. It always comes back to her.

I am cognisant enough of myself, the truth of my soul, to know I have not felt true obsession until now. Until, in her eyes, I saw her fracturing.

What am I going to do with her? How do I crush that rebellious spirit without … without destroying her completely?

Damn her. Damn her for making me feel this way. For making me care. I am not one who cares.

She calls me tyrant, and yet, I cannot muster the rage to crush her like the bug she is, to undo her like a crudely-sewn doll.

The storm outside rages on, unrelenting, and I wonder—not for the first time—if I’m the one being undone.

Chapter 12 - Calliope

I’m still trembling when they pull me from my room.

The guards barely acknowledge me as they lead me through the castle’s labyrinthine halls, the one on my left gripping my arm like he thinks I’ll bolt at any moment. The other strides forward, his gaze fixed straight ahead, as if I don’t exist at all.

I wish I didn’t. Not right now.

The storm’s fury has continued unabated into the morning, pounding against the walls of the keep with the wrath of an angry god. The sky outside is a relentless, oppressive gray, the heavy clouds blotting out any trace of the morning sun. Rain drums against the windows, producing a ceaseless roar that drowns out everything else.

They march me through the eastern corridor, past towering portraits of long-dead kings and queens of Millrath. Dark, draconic eyes painted in oils follow us, blank and pitiless, as if weighing me against some unseen scale. I grit my teeth and keep my head down, refusing to meet their judgmental gaze.

The journey is short. My guards don’t speak, and neither do I. My voice still feels raw, scraped clean from shouting and pleading, and I’m not sure I’d have the strength to use it even if I wanted to.

The truth of what I did yesterday morning—my attempt and failure to unsettle the king, to prove his lack of power over me—burns inside me.

Lyra’s presence made me feel powerful somehow. As if I had any real control here. Now, I know that isn’t true.

When we reach the underchamber, the sound of dozens of voices hits me like a physical blow.

I falter, caught off-guard by the sheer volume. I haven’t been dressed in finery today. Reduced to mere rags, I look the part of a slave.

The guard on my left jerks me forward, half-dragging me up the final set of stairs and into the court. The rich, suffocating smell of spices and liquor hangs in the air, thick enough to choke on.

The chamber opens before me, humming with activity. I glance around quickly, trying to take in the scene. Rows of noblemen and women are seated along the edges of the hall, their opulent gowns and fine velvet cloaks splashed with the colors of their lower houses. The aristocracy of this city. Advisors and officials cluster around the base of the king’s raised dais, their voices low and urgent. A cluster of armored guards stands at attention near the arched entrance, steel glinting dully in the green torchlight.

And there, seated at the very top of the dais, is him. Arvoren.

King Arvoren, tyrant,coward,tormentor.

I want to spit at the sight of him, looking so composed and untroubled, like the events of yesterday morning never happened. Like he hadn’t dragged me down from the tower’s edge with brutal efficiency, carried me kicking and screaming through the bowels of his damned castle, and thrown me to his guards like a rag doll. I want to scream, to rail at him for his cruelty and arrogance, for treating me like something less than human, less than even the lowest of his subjects.

But I don’t. I swallow the bile, the hatred, the fury. It does me no good here.

The guards bring me before him, stopping just shy of the bottom of the dais. A hush falls over the hall as those gathered notice us, notice me, the bruises on my wrists, the raw scrape of blood at my temple from when I fought against him. I sense the curious glances, the covert whispers.

The king shifts slightly on his throne, the faintest smile curling his lips. Something ugly and possessive flashes in his eyes.

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