Page 51 of King of Flames and Shadows

“There is more, my lord,” Ridley continues, voice steady but dropping further. “Word has spread to Varya and her priestesses, where it is reported they have settled in the west, near the Great River. She has publicly allied with the enemyhouses. And she’s denounced … Lady Calliope. They call her the Heretic Queen. A witch, seeking to entrap you.”

At this, Calliope’s head snaps up, her fork freezing mid-air. I glance at her, noting the set of her mouth, the way her eyes darken, narrowing. The tension in her grows still more taut, the wordheretichanging heavy in the air between us.

She has spent all her life being called a witch, being made an outcast. Even now, she refuses to cover the scars on her face. There is a strength in that, I realize for the first time, an indomitable power. Now, against her will, that power is aligned with the power of my house, its standing within my kingdom.

“And Varya condones this?” I ask Ridley. “She asks that her followers turn against their king?”

“Yes, sire,” he replies, lowering his eyes. “The notion is popular. It has a certain … force behind it.”

The insult is brutal in its simplicity. It damns Calliope not only for her history or origins but for her very essence. The insinuation is plain: Calliope is not only unworthy, she is a threat. And though I’ve yet to decide if I agree with that assertion, the damage is undeniable.

Calliope lets out a harsh, mirthless laugh, surprising Ridley, who glances her way. Her expression is one of pure contempt, a smile of bitterness pulling at her lips.

“So I’m a heretic?” she asks, scoffing. “Is that all they could come up with?”

She stands abruptly, her chains clattering, the sound cutting through the room like the snap of a whip. I open my mouth to speak, not certain what I might say, but she’s already moving, hands balling into fists, stepping back from the table.

“This kingdom”—she spits the word like poison—“has called me worse.”

Without another word, she turns on her heel, leaving the table with her head held high, the chains dragging against the floor in a steady, defiant beat. Ridley watches her go, his expression carefully neutral, but I see his thinly veiled surprise, the faint glimmer of apprehension. Even the courtier, a man well-versed in the shadows of this castle, recognizes the gravity of what she is. Or what she could be.

As her shadow vanishes through the doorway, I exhale, letting out the tension I hadn’t even realized I’d been holding in. Ridley clears his throat, as though to speak, but I lift a hand to silence him.

“That will be all for now, Ridley,” I say, my tone dismissive.

The moment he leaves, my gaze falls to the place where Calliope had sat, the empty chair still bearing a faint, lingering reminder of her presence. I’m not sure whether I’m imagining it, but I swear I can still smell her, the scent of herbs and earth and magic.This kingdom has called me worse.

Chapter 24 - Calliope

The first time a beast makes it into the castle is three days later. I cannot yet know why, but it is me the creature seeks out upon making it inside.

It is deep in the night, past midnight. Once again unwilling to spend another moment alone in Arvoren's bed while he skulks the halls of this wretched place, I find myself here. The library looms, its doors creaking as I push them open, slipping inside and letting the silence swallow me. Those familiar old books rise like dark sentinels, towering from floor to ceiling, their contents filling the air with the faint scent of leather and parchment, mingling with the cool stone. The library is almost always empty, but tonight, its stillness presses in with an unsettling weight.

I step lightly, moving deeper into the dimly lit rows, my voice hushed as I call out, "Linus?"

The word barely carries, a whisper in the vast, shadowed expanse. Only silence answers. I take another step, my gaze sweeping down the rows, trying to pierce the heavy gloom. He must be here somewhere.

I have questions for him. I want to know about his family’s role in the revolts, his position in this city, the progress of the rebels. I want to know whether they still plan to murder my husband.

Privately, I want to know whether I even still want that.

I call his name again, a little louder this time, letting the sound drift through the still air. But all I hear in reply is the faint rustle of paper as a draft stirs somewhere in the depths of the library. No faint murmured greeting, no uncomfortably knowing laughter echoing from the darkness of the archives.

Frustrated, certain he must be here, I continue forward, each step cautious, my senses heightened, searching for any sign of movement.

A faint noise sounds from somewhere among the shelves, soft and indistinct, like something shifting in the darkness. Relief blooms in my chest—I'm sure it must be Linus, moving among the aisles, searching for one of the dusty tomes he seems to spend so many hours poring over here.

But as I listen closer, something about the sound strikes me as odd.

There's a gravity to the movement, a steady, ponderous weight that doesn't match the soft, gliding movements of the man I cannot comfortably call my ally. I hesitate, the relief draining from me quickly as it arrived, as a darker thought creeps in. The air feels colder, sharper suddenly. Then, that heavy weight again, moving between the shelves.

The thing in the library with me is not human, I realize in a single chilling moment.

The noise draws closer, echoing off the stone walls. An instinctive urge to hide grips me. A low growl rumbles up to the high ceiling, reverberating off the shelves in a wave. A sickening thrill of fear grips me. I hold my breath, every inch of me frozen as I press myself against the side of a towering bookshelf. Perhaps here, it won’t see me. My fingers dig into the wood, and a slight tremor runs through them, betraying my frayed nerves.

The growl fades, replaced by a dense, charged silence. I risk a small, silent exhale, my gaze darting along the aisle, scanning for any sign of movement. But the shadows are thick, impenetrable, and the flickering sconces offer no help, their light barely reaching past the first few rows of shelves.

Then, I hear it—a soft, deliberate scraping, as though claws were being dragged slowly, purposefully along the stone floor. The sound weaves through the narrow aisles, not far from where I hide, prowling closer.It smells you.

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