Page 55 of King of Flames and Shadows

Through narrow passing windows, I catch glimpses of the city across the dark water. The first snow falls in thin, blustering curtains over the lake, but even through the white haze, I can almost see the restlessness in the streets. Tiny as ants from here, small crowds are gathering at the port despite the early hour.

The underchamber, when I reach it, is thick with tension. My advisors cluster around a long table beneath my throne like crows at a feast, their faces drawn and pale in the weak morning light. A fire roars in the hearth, but its warmth doesn't reach the corners of the room where shadows gather like conspirators.

"Word from Brittletale," one advisor begins without preamble. "The Iron Lords demand action. They will not tolerate this any longer.”

A voice pipes up. “The coalition—”

"The beast breached our innermost defenses," another adds. "The people say—"

"I know what they say," I cut in. The torches flicker as my temper rises. "What do you expect me to do about it?"

Darian steps forward. "They want protection. Assurance." He hesitates. "Some suggest removing the … source of their fear."

"You mean my wife."

Silence falls heavy as a blade. Outside, a crow calls into the thin morning air, sharp and mocking.

"The chains may not be enough anymore," an older advisor ventures. "Her power grows stronger. The Gods themselves—"

"The Gods can rot." My voice drops to a dangerous whisper. "I will not be dictated to by ancient spirits or fearful peasants."

Even as I say the words, I know their foolishness. I know I am losing that which I most greatly rely upon—the trust of those who command my armies, my factories, my districts and people.

But I think of Calliope, pale and vulnerable in my bed, and I cannot bear to toss her to these wolves.

The quiet is broken when a guard bursts in through the outer doors of the underchamber without knocking. Blood streams from a gash on his forehead.

"My King,” he gasps, “fighting in the lower city! They're calling for the witch's head—"

I'm moving before he finishes speaking. I sweep down from my throne and across the chamber in a heartbeat. My hand finds the fool’s throat, claws lengthening as I lift the soldier from the ground. The council chamber falls silent but for his choking gasps and the soft crackle of the hearth.

"She is your queen," I say softly, watching the blood from his throat drip onto my fingers. His eyes go wide as my grip tightens, and I feel the delicate bones of his neck beginning to crack. "The next person who calls herwitchdies slower."

I crush his windpipe with a sharp twist, letting his body crumple to the floor like a discarded doll. Without looking at my stunned advisors, I stride from the chamber, leaving them to deal with the corpse cooling on their pristine marble floor.

Behind me, the council erupts in a clamor of voices, but their words fade to nothing against the thunder of my pulse.

When I return to her, Calliope stands at the window of my chamber, fully dressed, her fingers tracing patterns in the frost on the glass. The morning light catches in her hair, turning the dark strands to liquid shadow. She's beautiful and terrible, a storm given flesh.

She is looking out upon the port on the other side of the lake, where townspeople gather in the pale, sheer light of the snowy dawn. She cannot see them clearly from here, but she must know what the people’s unrest means.

"They're afraid of me," she says without turning. It's not a question.

"Fear is a powerful weapon." I move closer, drawn to her like iron to a lodestone. "One that can be wielded."

Now she does turn, and something in her expression makes my chest tighten.

"Did last night change anything?" I ask, my voice low. "Your … resistance to this place?"

She considers this, head tilted slightly. "I'm not certain yet."

"We could always try again." The words slip out before I can stop them. "To help you decide."

To my surprise, she laughs—a real laugh, bright and unexpected as sunlight breaking through storm clouds. The sound transforms her face, softening the sharp edges of her beauty, and for a moment, I glimpse what we could be.

But then there is a soft, faint thud, gentle as the sound of a shoe dropping on carpet. In the distance, a column of black smoke rises beyond the window, in the heart of the city, thick and ominous against the pale morning sky.

The smile dies on her lips as we both watch it curl upward, a stark reminder of the chaos her presence has brought to my city.

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