Page 63 of King of Flames and Shadows

"One where I'm not your prisoner, and you're not my jailer. Where we choose each other freely."

"I don't know how," I admit, the words barely more than a whisper. “I don’t know freedom. I never have.” Perhaps all along, she has been the free one of the two of us, and I the captive.

Calliope turns her face up toward mine. “Then let me show you."

When she kisses me, it's different from before. There's no desperation, no fury, no battle for dominance. Just a soft, steady pressure, like rain on parched earth. I feel something inside me crack and splinter.

A beast screams once more somewhere in the distance, its cry echoing off the castle walls. The sound reminds me of all we face—the Gods' wrath, the approaching armies, the festering discontent in my own city. The fire burns lower still, casting us in shadows. Outside, corrupted wings beat against the gathering dark. But here, we hold each other and pretend for a shimmering moment that tomorrow will never arrive.

Chapter 30 - Calliope

The dining hall is too large for one person. My footsteps echo as I approach the long table, its surface gleaming dully in the dim light. The emptiness feels deliberate, a reminder of my solitude in this place.

No servants hover nearby. They know better than to watch me eat. Only the guards remain posted at the doors, still as statues, their armor reflecting occasional glints of torchlight. Somewhere far below, Arvoren meets with his commanders and council in the underchamber. Soon, his brother’s armies will arrive. Any day now. I can almost feel the weight of their strategies pressing up through the stone beneath my feet. I wanted to be there, too—I was prevented from attending.

My plate is already set: roasted meat, fresh bread, winter vegetables arranged with careful precision. Steam rises from the food in delicate tendrils, carrying the rich scent of herbs and spices I never knew existed before coming here. Upon arriving in this place, the abundance of meat and bread at each meal disgusted me. Now, it feels normal somehow.

As I move to sit, something catches my eye: a slip of parchment, barely visible beneath the edge of my plate.

My heart stutters.

Careful to keep my movements casual, I lift my fork with one hand while the other slides the note into the folds of my skirt. The guards don't move. They don’t seem to even be looking at me, eyes fixed on the walls. Perhaps they feel as awkward as I do, being here without Arvoren.

I force myself to eat, though each bite tastes like ash. The note burns against my thigh like a coal. When I finally rise fromthe table, my legs feel unsteady, but I maintain my composure as I sweep from the hall, chains clinking softly with each step.

Only when I'm safely in my chambers—Arvoren's chambers, where I now sleep each night—do I withdraw the folded parchment with trembling fingers. The writing is familiar, though I know now it belongs to a different man than I believed:

Tomorrow night. The lower gates. They’ll ask tomorrow for the catacombs to be opened for the needy. Everything is ready. —L. Caddell

My breath catches. Just a scant few words, but their meaning is clear: Ulric's forces will breach the castle from below. They mean to kill him—to kill Arvoren while his attention is divided.

I should feel triumphant. This is what I wanted, isn't it? My chance at freedom, at escape from this gilded cage. And yet, all I feel is sick.

I cannot do this. I cannot bear to do this.

The door creaks behind me. I whirl, crumpling the note in my fist, but it's only a servant come to stoke the fire. She doesn't look at me as she works, adding logs with practiced efficiency before slipping away like a ghost.

Hours pass. I pace the length of Arvoren’s—my—room. The note feels heavy in my skirts, tucked away. Outside the window, stars appear one by one, then wink out, obscured by the snow clouds rolling in from the south.

When Arvoren finally returns, it's well past midnight, and I am in bed. He enters quietly, but I feel his presence like a change in the air. He's stripped off his formal attire, wearingonly a loose shirt and dark trousers, but exhaustion drapes him like a second cloak.

He doesn't speak as he crosses to the bed, doesn't even look at me. Simply lies down, still fully clothed, and closes his eyes. Within moments, his breathing evens out—the deep, steady rhythm of true sleep.

I move closer, drawn despite myself. In sleep, his face loses some of its hardness. The furrow between his brows smooths out, the tight set of his jaw relaxes. He looks almost peaceful, almost gentle. Almost human.

The crumpled note weighs heavy in my palm. I could do it if only I had the strength, the resolve. I could let them come, let them end him while he sleeps.

It would be a mercy, wouldn't it? A quick death, painless. Better than he deserves, perhaps.

But as I stare down at him, something shifts in my chest. I remember his arms around me in the administrative chamber, the raw honesty in his voice as he spoke of his family. The warmth of his body against mine. The way he looked at me not as a possession but as something precious, something he feared losing.

Before I can stop myself, I'm leaning down, pressing my lips to his. Damn them. Damn them all.

He wakes instantly, tension coiling through his body, but then he recognizes me and softens. His hand comes up to tangle in my hair, pulling me closer with a growl that vibrates through my bones.

"Calliope," he murmurs against my mouth, and my name sounds like a prayer.

I let him draw me down onto the bed, let him roll us until he's above me, his weight pressing me into the mattress. His eyes glint in the darkness, bright and hungry. When he kisses me again, there's nothing gentle about it.

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