Page 9 of King of Flames and Shadows

The world swims around me in a blur of dark shapes and shadowy edges. Voices rise and fall like waves, seeming to reverberate inside my very soul, echoing through the corridors as I’m dragged along by rough hands.

The inside of the King’s castle is just as terrible as I imagined it would be.

No—worse.

The stone walls seem to shift and writhe in the flickering torchlight, the ancient draconic architecture almost monstrous in its sharp, gothic construction. Pools of shadow leer from spaces between intricate dragons, snakes, and griffins carved into the walls. Columns twist up around the walkway like the trunks of ancient trees, their surfaces carved with depictions of scales, wings, and gaping maws.

I catch glimpses of stained-glass windows. The image of a Dragon King long past stares back at me, his clawed hand resting upon an image of the globe, fingers splayed across its continents, palm obscuring Kaldoria completely.

Outside, the city of Millrath looms through the high, arched windows, a sprawl of stone and smoke, its towers clawing at the sky. Even through the glass, I can see the distant flicker of torches and the faint red glow of forge fires across the lake, their smoke rising like prayers to the God of industry—Nyxharra, I believe His name is, though I don’t take pains to familiarise myself with the Gods they worship in the south, where draconic power goes unmatched and unchallenged. The city pulses with the restless energy of a place on the brink of something terrible.

I have never been to Millrath before. I had never left the Great River region before I came here. I had never even left Essenborn.

I don’t belong here.

Now that Essenborn is a pile of ashes, I find myself thinking, I don’t belong anywhere.

“Keep moving,” one of the guards growls, yanking me forward when I stumble.

I bite back a gasp of pain, struggling to keep my feet under me. My head feels thick and heavy, my thoughts sluggish. Everything hurts: my head, my wrists, my ankles, the hollow ache of grief in my chest. Can a broken heart hurt you physically? Can it render itself into a kind of visceral, heart-stopping pain? Perhaps it’s selfish, but I am heartbroken for myself. For my future. For my freedom. I carry that loss like an open wound.

Shadowed chambers and long, winding corridors pass. We turn a corner and then another, ascend a flight of velvet-covered stairs, which I barely have the coordination to mount, and finally, we emerge into a narrow hallway lined with heavy oak doors. I barely have time to take in the sight before I’m shoved through one of them and into a large, dimly lit room.

I blink, desperate to find my bearings. The hands leave my arms and I sway, almost slumping to the floor. A low candle-lit chandelier dangles on an iron chain from the ceiling, its flames flickering faintly greenish. Beyond a tiny window, the black water of the lake churns beneath the mountain.

A flurry of movement erupts around me.

Women—maids, I think, though none of them will meet my gaze—swarm forward like a flock of birds, their hands fluttering over me in a blur of motion.

Fighting is no use. I’m too weak to even bat away a horde of drudges. I can barely keep up as they strip me of my ridiculous rags, the coarse fabric peeling away from my skin. My breath catches as the chill air of the room hits my bare skin, and I shudder, struggling to cover myself.

But the maids pay no mind to my nakedness, my shame. With deft, practiced efficiency, they lead me to a deep copper tub. They retrieve wet rags and begin to scrub every inch of me, their fingers scouring hard with rough cloths and harsh soaps that sting and burn. My scalp aches as they drag a comb through the tangles of my hair, yanking and pulling until tears prick at the corners of my eyes.

I grit my teeth and force myself to endure it. I will not cry in front of these women. I will not give them the satisfaction of seeing me break.

They pluck me, brush me, and scrub at me until I ache even more fiercely than before. They douse me in sweet-smelling oils and salves, scented like an imitation of flowers. I miss the herb garden behind my cottage so fiercely that it almost bowls me over. It’s probably rubble now.

By the time they’re finished, my skin is raw and flushed, tingling all over. I’m left shivering and exposed as they pat me dry with towels.

I barely have a moment to catch my breath before they sweep a gown over my head, tugging and smoothing the fabric until it settles around me like a second skin. A corset is laced tight around my waist, so tight I yelp.

Outside the closed door, I hear the muffled laughter of the male guards who dragged me here. I burn with resentment and shame, with fury and indignance.

The maids retreat to the entryway when they have knotted my hair into an intricate gathering of braids atop my head, a few loose pieces of softly curled hair dangling around my face. I breathe in hard, trying to savor the brief reprieve I have been allowed, before I catch a glimpse of myself in the long mirror in the corner of the room, and for a moment, I can’t breathe.

The girl staring back at me looks like a stranger.

The gown is … beautiful. There’s no other word for it. It’s palest ivory, the color of young elderflower wine, with a low square neckline and long, fitted sleeves that trail to my wrists. The bodice is embroidered with delicate gold thread, the pattern forming intricate, twisting designs that catch the light and shimmer faintly with each movement. The skirts are full and heavy, falling in soft, sweeping folds to the floor in a short train behind me. My narrow shoulders catch the light. Even my heaving chest looks full and healthy, my thin torso sculpted by the boned corset.

I almost look … regal. I look healthier and cleaner than I ever have, or at least since my grandmother died. My delicate hands are clean, their nails unsullied by potting soil and ash. Mychin is tilted upward, and whatever they have dashed across my face to enhance my features offers me a haughty look, a sharp, tapered slant.

Their powders and salves have completely covered up the scars on my face, too.

I look like a noblewoman.

The door opens behind me, and I am pulled from this vision of myself, the world it offers, and plunged into the cold water of reality.

Heavy iron cuffs encircle my ankles, the metal cold and unyielding against my skin. The guard who fastens them doesn’t speak, but he meets my eyes briefly—just long enough for me to see the pity and contempt mingled there.

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