Page 56 of King of Flames and Shadows

It takes some time for her to speak again. I know she has seen the blood on my hands. I know she will not ask what it means.

"You may be my husband," she says quietly, moving closer until I can feel the heat of her body, smell the lingering scent of our passion on her skin. "But if this is to be my kingdom, too, I should like to have some part in working against its doom. And I do not know if you're to be its doom, Your Majesty. Arvoren." My name on her lips sends a shiver through me. "Because this is certainly not my doing. Whatever I am, I amstill no witch, no wench, no temptress, no omen. And if Kaldoria should fall, it will not fall to me."

She reaches for my bloodied hand, and cups it within her own, my palm turned toward the ceiling. We both know what she means without her having to say it.

Not yet has her rebelliousness faded from her.

She leaves before I can respond, the chains at her ankles chiming softly as she goes. The sound echoes in the empty chamber long after she's gone, a delicate counterpoint to the distant sounds of unrest rising from the city below.

I remain at the window, watching the smoke rise, wondering if she's right—if the doom approaching my kingdom comes not from her presence but from my own inability to let her go.

Outside, the snow continues to fall, and somewhere in the city, another fire begins to burn.

Chapter 26 - Calliope

The catacombs beneath Millrath are a labyrinth of damp stone corridors, carved deep into the bedrock beneath the castle. I have only visited them once before, but still, they bear an eerie familiarity. Each step I take sends muted echoes through the walls, and a faint chill seeps up from the earth, wrapping around me like a shroud. I’ve learned to move almost silently down here, winding strips of cloth around the chain-links at my ankles to deaden their sound. The magic-torches lining the walls burn a dim, flickering green, their light twisting into shapes that slip into the corners of my vision.

Arvoren would not kill me for wandering. Not anymore. But still—he cannot know of this. Not if I want Lyra to live. Not if I want the revolutionaries to succeed.

Do I want the revolutionaries to succeed? I am no longer sure.

The air tastes stale, as though it hasn’t moved in centuries, and carries an earthy scent laced with decay. Somewhere far above, the world slumbers, oblivious to what schemes brew below its foundations.

At last, I reach the meeting point: a small, shadowed alcove behind a collapsed arch. It’s barely a room—only a narrow, coffin-shaped chamber. Not far from the tomb of Arvoren’s family. The stone niches carved into the walls, where the ancient dead once lay, are now empty, abandoned. A single torch glows faintly in its rusted sconce, casting a meager light that clings to the darkness instead of chasing it away.

Lyra is already there, wrapped in a rough, patched cloak, her arms drawn close to herself as if warding off the cold. I approach silently, but still, she seems to sense my presence.

Her eyes widen when she sees me, and she steps forward to pull me into an embrace. I can feel her bones beneath her skin, sharp and brittle as glass. She’s always been small, but now, with hollow cheeks and sunken eyes, she looks gaunt. Scrappy and wiry, her unwashed blonde hair hangs in matted strands around her face, and her cheeks are smudged with dust and shadows.

Her voice comes out in a harsh whisper as she pulls away, her gaze darting around us.

"You shouldn’t be here, Calliope. I didn’t think you’d actually risk it. If they catch you …" Her eyes shine with worry, but there's also a flicker of admiration there, a spark that ignites something dangerous in me. The last time we spoke, she imbued me with the courage that led me to the top of the castle’s highest tower the following morning. Her faith in me is dangerous.

"I can handle it, Lyra," I reply, injecting a confidence I don’t quite feel. I study her face in the dim light. "Are you safe? Are you getting enough to eat? Do you have somewhere to sleep—”

Lyra glances away, but before she can answer, a darker shape steps forward from the edge of the shadows nearby. Linus emerges, his movements liquid, unhurried. He moves with the sort of smooth, practiced stealth that feels almost unnatural, like a cat weaving silently through tall grass. His presence is a cold wave filling the room, and even the dim light can’t soften the sharp lines of his face.

Gone is the smooth, attractive young man I knew. The dim torchlight glints off his wiry frame, emphasizing his lean, almost skeletal build, his clothes hanging loose as if he’s simply too hungry to fill them out. The bones of his face castangular shadows, and his hollowed eyes gleam with something dangerous.

Clearly, it has not been easy for the rebels of the city.

"Our fearless queen," he says with a too-sharp smile, voice slick and silken. "How gracious of you to join us."

He steps close—too close. I feel his eyes roving over my face and form. His fingers graze my wrist, lingering a beat too long. I can’t tell what his desire is for—me, or my newfound power.

I resist the urge to recoil, feeling the thin scrape of his nails against my skin. I offer a tight smile and pull my wrist free, my discomfort festering into a low burn.

He’s not what he seems—that much, I’m sure of. The way he’s always watching me, always too close … there’s something in him that stirs a primal wariness deep in my gut.

I hold the information I do have close to my chest: he’s certainly lying about something. He spoke a big game about revolution, and yet his family is withholding from the revolting coalition. He is surely no longer welcome as a diplomat in the city, and yet, he remains; he’s certainly hiding from the king now, covering up, nowhere to go but underground.

The man is desperate. And whatever he wants from me, he’ll do anything to get it.

"What news?" I ask, making sure my voice is steady, cool.

Linus lets the moment stretch, as if amused by my restraint, before finally answering.

"War," he begins, voice dropping into a dramatic whisper. He paces in the narrow space, his gaze darting between me and Lyra. "Though I’m sure you know that part. The noble houses in the North rally their forces against Arvoren, finally seeingthrough his tyranny. They wait for us to act, to send them a sign—a show of strength." He stops, looking at me with a predatory glint. "And the people … they’re restless. Fearful of the witch-queen in their midst. They need a savior."

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