Page 45 of King of Flames and Shadows

I turn from her, summoning my guards, orders spilling out as I stride down the hall. My kingdom is at risk, and there is no more time for shadows or secrets.

One way or another, we will survive this—together, or not at all.

Chapter 20 - Calliope

Pain. It slices through me, heavy and hot, a relentless pulse of agony. I can’t move; my limbs feel weighted, pinned down by invisible chains. But something else—a shadow, looming and watching—keeps me rooted in place even as I come to, my vision blurring in and out, swirling with shapes and smudges of light.

The scent hits me next. Smoke, iron, and the faint tang of some kind of herb—a pungent mix of pain and healing, as though the room itself is caught between the two. I squint at the ceiling, then around me. I don’t recognize the room I’m in. High, iron-detailed windows stretch toward an ornate arched ceiling. It’s incredibly intricate, the room filled with books and complex tapestries, a golden telescope mounted at one window.

And as my eyes adjust to the dim light, I see him.

He’s sitting close, elbows on his knees, broad shoulders blocking some amount of light from me, leaning toward me as though expecting some revelation to spring forth the moment my eyes open. His gaze is a weight of its own, scrutinizing, piercing, not allowing me even a second to gather myself.

“Calliope.”

Arvoren’s voice is a low command, one I’ve grown all too used to, though it strikes differently now, less an order than a strange, forceful plea.

I shift, swallowing hard against the dryness in my throat.

“Arvoren,” I manage, my voice raspy. The name comes out as if dredged up from deep within, coated in the memories of every argument, every fear, every trace of hatred. I find his eyes, dark and unyielding, but there’s something else there,something new in the way he looks at me, though I can’t yet understand why. My memories of what happened are so fuzzy.

“You survived,” he murmurs, almost to himself, his tone threaded with an unfamiliar roughness.

A vision of the sanctum—of glass shattering, relics breaking, colors bleeding into darkness—returns to me in a dizzying wave. I see the tapestry of our wedding night unraveling, feel the stone floor beneath me cold and unforgiving, then the warmth of Arvoren’s arms—no, I can’t think of that. I swallow and look away.

“You don’t look pleased about it,” I say, a touch of bitterness slipping out despite my effort to keep it contained.

He sits back, crossing his arms, his face hardening into the expression I’ve come to know. He’s judging me unworthy.

“Pleased isn’t the word I’d choose.” He pauses, eyes narrowing. “Tell me, Calliope—did you know what you were? Or were you simply hiding it from me?”

“‘What I am?’”I echo, incredulous. “Do you think I wanted this? Do you think I have a clue what that was? You saw what happened. I was …” I stop, forcing the rest of the words down. I was terrified. “I don’t know what happened, or how, or why.”

Arvoren regards me for a long, quiet moment, his gaze flickering as though weighing every word, every breath. “Tell me everything. About your family. Your bloodline. I want details, not some trite tale you’ve told to placate me. If you truly aren’t a witch, then you are something far, far worse than that.”

My heart stutters, and I meet his gaze, searching for any sign of understanding. But his expression is unyielding. He doesn’t want to understand. He wants control. I should befurious with him for that; I am furious. And yet the phantom warmth of his arms around me, protecting me, lingers on my skin, a rash, a disease. I cannot shake myself free from it.

I hesitate, the memories of my grandmother’s stories filling my mind like echoes in a chamber. She may be long dead, but since I got to this wretched place, she hasn’t left me.

“My grandmother … she used to tell stories,” I begin slowly, my voice almost a whisper. “About her mother, and her mother’s mother before that. Stories about what we could do.” I shake my head, feeling the weight of his gaze. “We were called witches by the people of the village. And she told me it was because they were too afraid of what we really were, to admit we were something far greater. But that was nonsense, childhood tales. She said it to offer me some comfort. I was a lonely child.”

“And yet here you are,” he says, his tone hard, but there’s a flicker of something else in his eyes. “Clearly, there was some truth to it.”

I lower my gaze, letting the ache in my limbs ground me. “She told me stories of a power that could shape storms, bend the very air around us. Passed down, mother to daughter. But it was all fantasy to me. I never—” I swallow, feeling the painful dryness of my mouth. “I never believed it was real. She was a storyteller. An old woman with dreams. I never knew my mother. She died giving birth to me. How could someone with such power …” My words trail off. I suddenly feel very childish, a scared little girl repeating fairytales.

Arvoren’s silence is a heavy one. Its weight presses upon me. And though I don’t look up, I can feel him considering every word, every hesitation.

He leans closer, and I feel the warmth of his presence, a kind of quiet intensity that feels almost possessive. It spursme to keep talking. Fear or desire—I cannot tell the difference anymore.

“I have my family’s blood,” I continue quietly. “But I have never felt any power … not until last night.” I glance up, catching his eyes. “Believe me or don’t, but I didn’t want any of this. Whatever power you think I have, it’s as much a mystery to me as it is to you. For all you’ve done to me, Tyrant, I have not yet lied to you.”

There is much I’ve hidden. I think of Linus, of Lyra, of the plotting in the city, the sheer chance of my escape.

Nonetheless, it’s true; I have not lied.

Arvoren is silent, his expression unreadable, but his gaze is sharp, calculating.

“If that’s true,” he says slowly, “then what happened to you wasn’t a choice. But it was also … not entirely an accident, was it?”

---