Page 47 of King of Flames and Shadows

“Is that a threat?” I ask coldly, my hand inching toward my sword.

“No,” he says lightly, pulling back with a disdainful smirk, “merely an assurance, should anything … unexpected happen to me.” His smirk fades, replaced by an intense, almost eerie stillness in his gaze. “I’d advise you, dear brother, toconsider my warning. This throne you sit on—it’s a perilous place to rest. Best you be careful with it.”

The silence that follows his words presses like iron between us. I hold my ground, forcing myself not to look away, though I know he wants that, too.

“I don’t need magic to hold my rule,” I reply, voice low, steady. “Nor your blessing.”

“Suit yourself,” he says, the smirk curling back. “I’ll be here, watching. Waiting.”

With that, he turns, slipping back into the shadowed woods, the mist swallowing his figure as though he had never been there at all.

It’s only a matter of time before he acts on his ambitions, and with Calliope in the picture, his arsenal of grievances grows stronger. It’s as if I can feel his presence nearby, though I’m almost certain he’s not in Millrath. Surely, even he is not so brash.

Then again, my enemies seem to grow bolder by the day …

A sound by the door pulls me from my thoughts, faint footsteps, too cautious for a guard or servant. I know who it is before she speaks, though the sight of her here, at this hour, still startles me. She’s draped in a dark robe, her face pale in the moonlight, hair slightly tangled from restless sleep. I’d expected Calliope to stay hidden in my rooms, nursing her wounds, perhaps in silent defiance of whatever fate binds us. But here she stands, at my door, her gaze shifting uncomfortably as she steps into the room.

“It’s cold in there,” she says simply, voice barely louder than a whisper. “Your chambers are too exposed to the wind.”

I arch a brow, struggling not to smirk at her boldness.

“I’ll remind you that you’re still alive to complain about the wind,” I reply, crossing my arms, body laid back against the headboard. “Something to be grateful for.”

She bristles slightly, drawing her robe closer around her. “I came here to ask to share a warmer room, not a conversation.”

I watch her, the half-moon light catching on her face, a face I’ve come to know well yet understand so little. Each time I look at her, it appears there is only more to uncover, more to slip past, to pry apart.

“I’ll let you stay,” I say after a beat, “but only on the condition that you’ll share this bed with me. You are my wife, after all. Despite your best efforts, the ritual took hold.”

For a moment, she seems ready to refuse, her jaw tight, lips pressing together. But then, as if something shifts within her, she nods, almost defiantly, and steps forward, accepting the offer without another word. It is a strategic move. She is telling me, in her own way, that she has nothing to fear from me—or perhaps simply nothing to hide.

She slips into the bed beside me, careful to keep as much distance as the narrow space allows. It is a strange, tense peace we make between the sheets, where heat gathers despite the chill, leaving silence to linger, to swell, filling the space around us.

Neither of us speak at first. Her breathing, low and steady, draws me in closer than I care to admit. I catch the faint scent of herbs and fire, remnants of the sanctum lingering around her, a reminder of how close she came to burning alive within it. Yet she survived, as if defying me, defying even death itself. This has become her signature—a quiet defiance that refuses to bow or break.

I allow myself to close my eyes, but sleep is evasive, too many fragments of past and future darting through my thoughts.

“Do you know,” I say quietly, breaking the silence, “that this castle has stood for almost eight hundred years? My ancestors built it after breaking free from the clutches of the other lords, securing our own sovereignty, our rule over all others in this kingdom.”

She remains silent, but I sense her listening, eyes tracing the ceiling beams, taking in the weight of history here.

“They carved it out of the rock, sealed in their bloodline, their power,” I continue. “It is both a fortress and a curse. There have been kings who died here in battle, others taken by betrayal, and a few by madness, yet the castle remains. It seems none who rule from this place rule peacefully. Perhaps that is its effect.”

She shifts beside me, perhaps sensing the unease lacing my words.

“It’s beautiful all the same,” she murmurs.

“Yes,” I reply, surprised by her insight. “And it’s a bastion. But even the strongest walls fall. And now, it seems, the Gods have turned against us. They’re eager to see Millrath burn to ashes, to strip this fortress from our blood.”

Silence stretches between us again. I feel her glance at me, probing, curious. “You believe it to be the fault of what I am?” she asks, tone cautious.

“I do.” The words are heavy, but nonetheless, they are a simple truth. “Perhaps it can be fixed. I’m still not sure.”

The intensity of her gaze meets mine in the dim light. “I don’t have answers for you, Arvoren. I don’t even know whathappened, only that … something inside me shattered, then remade itself.”

I swallow back a retort, finding my frustration softened by her honesty. She survived when she should have died; she defied the forces that sought to end her. That alone should make her a worthy queen for me, and yet, I am more uncertain than I have ever been before, and it is all the doing of her pure, uncut power.

And as the thought sinks in, an idea takes root, a dangerous notion that grows more convincing the longer I stare at her.

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