Chapter 10 - Calliope

The gold circlet around my neck is too tight. It bites into the skin just below my throat, its edges sharp as knives. I hate all of it—the silk gown that weighs heavy on my shoulders, the opalescent jewels pinned in my hair.

Each shimmering chain, each strand of fabric, is an unwanted reminder of my position: the pretty trinket brought to heel beside his throne.

I swallow, trying to ease the choking sensation as the court buzzes around me. The dark underchamber is full to bursting with courtiers, guards, and petitioners, their hushed voices echoing off the high stone walls. The air is thick and stifling with the scent of incense and wine, making it hard to breathe. A faint, sickly sweetness clings to the back of my throat.

Showing weakness is what he wants, but I refuse to do it. I keep my gaze fixed on the polished marble floor. I refuse to meet the curious stares directed at me, those eager, speculative eyes watching the king’s new captive on display.

My cheeks burn, but I keep my expression carefully neutral.

I will not give them the satisfaction of seeing my shame.

Arvoren sits beside me, his presence a dark, smothering weight. He hasn’t looked at me since I was dragged in here and positioned at his side, a glittering bird in a shadowed cage. But I can feel his awareness of me, as if an invisible tether connects us. Every muscle in my body is wound tight, straining to maintain composure. My hands, hidden beneath the folds of my gown, are clenched into fists.

I focus on the cold beneath my knees. The stones of his court are smooth and unyielding, carved with intricate patterns that snake across the floor like veins. Each line, each spiral, is a mark of his ancestral ownership. My presence is a defilement of this place, and some twisted part of me is glad for it. I hope I dirty this place. I hope I defile it with my witch’s blood, my witch’s heart. I hope I’m the wench you say I am.

My gaze flickers sideways, toward Arvoren. He’s staring down at a trembling petitioner, a merchant of some kind, who wrings his hands, his voice a barely audible mumble. Whatever the man is saying, it’s clear he’s terrified. His words fumble over each other in his haste to speak. I watch the king’s fingers drum once against the armrest of his throne, the only sign of his impatience.

“And you allowed these … forgeries into Millrath unchecked?”

Arvoren’s voice is a low murmur, almost gentle.

I shiver at the sound. It’s a tone I recognize. Dangerous, coiled like a snake ready to strike.

The merchant stammers, his face pale as milk. “N-No, Your Majesty—”

“Enough.”

The single word is enough to silence the entire chamber.

It sends me right back to last night. Enough. The sound of his voice in my nightmare, laughing as I froze to death in frigid waters, punctuated by the sound of him in my room. I’ve never been so embarrassed as I was then, so furious, so terrified. Seeing him standing beside my bed, the dark, the huge shape of him watching silently as I tried to even my breathing … I’ll never forget how it felt.

A ripple of unease passes through the gathered crowd. Arvoren pays them no mind. “You’ll see to it that the situation is rectified, or I’ll find someone else who will.”

“Yes, Your Majesty. Of course, Your Majesty.”

The merchant bows so low that his forehead nearly touches the floor. When he finally scurries away, I catch a glimpse of his sweat-drenched back beneath his cloak, a dark stain spreading between his shoulder blades.

“Next,” Arvoren says, his voice flat. Right back to his practiced nonchalance, his kingly boredom.

A guard steps forward, a man with a squared jaw and a scar running from his temple to his cheek. He salutes sharply, glancing at me only once before turning his attention back to the king.

“Your Majesty, there have been … sightings. Outsiders in the city, asking questions in the slums. We’ve detained several, but they’re not giving in to interrogation. They’re—”

“Outsiders?” I can’t stop the word from slipping out.

It echoes loudly in the silent chamber. Every head turns toward me, shock and curiosity mingling in the air like the scent of blood.

Arvoren’s gaze snaps to me, sharp as a blade. I freeze beneath the weight of his stare, feeling my cheeks flush hot.

I lower my head quickly, my pulse racing. What have I done?

A fragile moment of silence passes, its quiet almost violent.

“Continue,” Arvoren orders the guard, his voice as cold and impersonal as Winter. He doesn’t acknowledge my outburst.

The guard clears his throat, clearly uncomfortable.

“Yes, Your Majesty. As I was saying … they’re too well-organized for simple mercenaries or rebels. We believe they’re gathering information. Mapping the city, the entrances and exits. If they’re here for you …”

He lets the implication hang in the air. A chill runs down my spine. Why would anyone come here for him? Arvoren rules over his city—his kingdom—with an iron fist. Who would be foolish enough to challenge that?

Linus Caddel’s face flashes through my mind unbidden. I’m not sure why.

“See to it that the rest are caught,” Arvoren says, dismissing the guard with a wave of his hand. “And increase patrols around the castle. I want anyone who doesn’t belong here dragged before me. Alive.”

The guard bows and exits swiftly, leaving the court embroiled in a tense silence. My mind races, trying to piece together what little I’ve heard. Outsiders. Revolutionaries, perhaps? The thought sends a thrill of fear through me. And hope.

Hope for escape.

But how? When I am chained as I am, tethered eternally to this place?

The rest of the court session drags on, a blur of voices and faces I don’t care to remember. By the time the final petitioner leaves, my head aches from the strain of holding myself still, silent, straight-backed.

When Arvoren rises, I force myself to follow. My body is no longer my own. I must follow him like a pet, like a slave.

My shame is a bottomless well. Just when I think I can’t sink further, I do.

I trail after him like a shadow, the chains of my submission heavy around my neck. He doesn’t speak to me, doesn’t even glance in my direction as we ascend through the winding corridors to the upper levels.

He leads me to the East Wing and up past the doors of my chambers, further up the stairs. I suppose now I know who lives above me. When we reach the entrance to his private quarters, he pauses, turning to me with a look of mild disdain.

Briefly, I am certain he’ll take me to his bed.

Then—

“Go,” he says with a tone of quiet danger. “You’re dismissed. But don’t think for a moment that your little interruption has gone unnoticed. You’ll be dealt with, in time.”

In time. I’m living on stolen time. I already knew it, but it’s getting shorter. I can feel the noose tightening.

Unable to summon words, I nod stiffly. His gaze lingers, burning into me, and then he’s gone, disappearing through the heavy wooden doors.

Only once I’m sure he’s left do I let out the breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding.

***

That night, long after the castle has fallen silent, I creep down toward the winding tunnels that snake beneath the keep.

I have tried to interrogate this impulse, the desire to explore, to know. I have no real answer to justify it. I feel I must know this place intimately, that I must now my enemy. And the castle itself is certainly my enemy. My footsteps are light, careful, barely disturbing the dust that coats the floor in a fine layer. The darkness is absolute, save for the occasional torch flickering weakly in its bracket. The walls here are lined with strange symbols, ancient carvings that glow faintly in the gloom, casting eerie shadows, and it’s strange, but I swear I feel them watching me.

Yes, I think; the castle is my enemy indeed. And I must know my enemy.

I have no real plan. Only the desperate need to move, to do something, to find something. To find a way out, though I know I wouldn’t be able to pursue it.

When I reach the entrance to the catacombs, I linger for a moment at the mouth of the darkness, where a steep slope descends into the earth. These passages are unfamiliar, but I won’t let that stop me.

I take a deep breath, then set off into the darkness.

There are almost no torches down here. In the darkness, I occasionally see them flickering down the path, around sharp bends and corners. It’s a maze. Deeper and deeper I go, until the air grows thick and stifling, the smell of earth and decay cloying in my nose.

I’m not certain I can even begin to find my way out of here.

And then, in the distance, I see it.

A door, half-hidden in the shadows, its surface etched with runes I can’t decipher. It is bracketed by torches on either side.

I jog to reach it, stumbling on the uneven floor of the catacombs. Even the walls are jagged—sharp outcroppings of rock seem to swing from the gloom at every step.

When I reach the door, I hesitate, a strange dread curling in my gut. But I can’t turn back now.

Swallowing hard, I push it open.

The chamber beyond is vast and echoing. The ceiling is incredibly high. Below, it's a tomb of polished stone and silence. Marble effigies lie upon raised platforms—three in total, then countless more far behind them, covered in far thicker dust and sediment.

The effigies at the front draw my eye and refuse to release it. A man, a woman, and a child.

Their faces are serene, peaceful, though there is something haunting about the way their hands are clasped together, as if in mourning.

A sense of wrongness settles over me, thick as fog.

I was twelve the first time I killed a rabbit. I’m no hunter, but as a trapper, I was always competent—and after my grandmother’s death when I was young, I had to provide for myself alone.

All this to say, I know the smell of death. I know its very spirit. And this place has known such death, such a volume of it.

The realization hits me like a blow to the chest.

This is his family. Arvoren’s parents, and—what? A sister? The thought sends a shiver down my spine. They all have his features. Transfixed, I can’t help but move closer. He has his father’s nose, his mother’s intense, dark eyes. He and the girl I presume was his sister shared their sharp jawlines and thin, expressive lips, their structured cheekbones and low brows.

Now, they’re in the ground. Linus’s book, at least as far into it as I’ve read, hasn’t mentioned any of these people.

The ghosts in this place are not uneasy. They seem content to linger beneath the castle they built, maintained, and ruled in life. There is no anger in this room, just the faint, cool watchfulness of a graveyard, a crematorium, a ritual funeral like those they once held in Essenborn before it, too, was ash.

I need to leave, I know. This place isn’t for my eyes. And each moment longer I spend in the dimly-lit hall of the king’s dead family, his dead ancestors, the more uncomfortable I feel, as if I’m being watched. As if they are all bearing furiously down upon me, ready to rip me apart.

The statue of his mother keeps staring at me. I can’t stop looking at it, at her. She has the same penetrating, undoing stare as her son.

And she’s human, too, I realize. A human like me. Was she plucked from obscurity like I was? Did they burn her village, kill her people? Did they chain her in this wretched place until she relented to the sorrow, until she surrendered her body and soul to the beasts here?

“I’m sorry,” I tell his mother’s grave in a tiny voice. “I’m sorry you raised a son like him. And I’m sorry you died. You probably didn’t deserve it.”

I turn to leave. I need to get out of this place.

Then, a flicker of movement catches my eye.

My breath hitches. Someone is there, a figure at the far end of the tomb, just visible in the half-light.

I freeze, my heart pounding. The figure doesn’t move, doesn’t speak. Then, with a swiftness that makes my blood run cold, it slips away into the darkness, vanishing between the columns.

For a heartbeat, everything is still. I stare into the darkness, breath caught in my throat, every nerve in my body thrumming with tension.

Then, I bolt.

The figure has disappeared down a side passage, but I’m already moving, instincts overriding thought. My feet barely touch the ground as I tear through the narrow corridor. Shadows and light blur together, the twisting passages threatening to disorient me, but I keep my gaze fixed ahead, tracking the flicker of movement around the winding tunnels of tombs.

My pulse roars in my ears as I skid around a corner sharply, almost losing my balance. The figure is just ahead, a fleeting glimpse of a dark cloak whipping around a bend, footsteps echoing dully off the cold stone walls.

“Wait!” I call, voice hushed but desperate, a command that still shatters the grave silence.

The figure doesn’t slow, doesn’t acknowledge me at all. They only move faster, melting into the gloom.

I push myself harder, lungs burning, legs screaming in protest. Down, down, deeper into the bowels of the earth. The tombs descend at a downhill slope further into the darkness, seeming to go endlessly on. My pulse thrums with a familiar blend of fear and exhilaration, and the thrill of pursuit momentarily overwhelms my terror. Whoever this is—whatever this is—they’ve seen me.

They could help. Or harm. Either way, I must know.

They dart left, and I lunge to follow, nearly slamming into the rough-hewn wall. My breath comes in ragged gasps as I close the distance between us, but the stranger slips around another corner, then another, faster than a shadow fleeing from the sun.

I’m losing them.

“Stop!” The word is torn from my throat, but it’s no use.

I push harder, sprinting down a narrow hallway that opens into another vast chamber. It’s darker here—the sconces on the walls have long since gone out, leaving only the faintest glimmer of rune-light along the walls to guide me.

Something sharp catches me. I stumble, cutting myself on a jagged outcrop of stone. The most ancient burials are here, I realize. The burials of the very first generations who settled this city.

Ahead, I glimpse a flash of movement, a dark blur slipping behind a rock. The darkness is vivid, almost alive.

I veer toward my prey, heart pounding furiously. I’m no hunter, I think, but tonight, I’ll certainly hunt.

My hand grazes the hilt of a sword mounted upon a black marble edifice as I pass—I snag it on impulse from the stone, hauling it in both hands to position at my side, raised to strike.

Another few steps. I reach the column. Then I throw myself around it, eyes scanning wildly, sword before me—

Only to freeze.

The figure stands before me, a hooded silhouette barely visible in the gloom, hands raised before them. The tip of my sword is almost directly beneath their raised chin.

Surrender. I won.

I lurch to a halt, chest heaving, muscles trembling with adrenaline. I can’t see their face, but I feel their gaze, a heavy, piercing thing that pins me in place.

“Who are you?” I demand, panting, voice trembling despite my efforts to keep it steady. “Why are you here?”

The figure shifts slightly, and then, with deliberate slowness, they push back the hood.

I blink, confusion and disbelief washing over me like a tidal wave. “Lyra?”

Lyra’s face, pale and gaunt in the dim light, breaks into a tense, shaky smile. “Hello, Calliope.”

For a moment, I just stare at her, breath caught somewhere between a sob and a laugh. Lyra—my only friend, the girl I had assumed dead—standing here, impossibly alive, looking at me with those sharp, familiar eyes. The same eyes that used to squint up at me from the village as I waved to her from my cottage; the same eyes that flashed with laughter over stolen berries.

I drop the sword. It clatters upon the stone at our feet, and in an uncharacteristic show of affection, I throw my arms around Lyra and hug her tightly to me. She wraps her arms around my waist and clutches me just as hard. Her body is trembling slightly.

“Lyra,” I find myself murmuring against her hair. “Lyra, what are you doing here?”

She releases me. “I came to get you, of course,” she says, half-laughing, though now there are tears running down her face.

I look her up and down. Long gone are the expensive frocks and the dainty jewelry. She’s dressed in drab, practical workers’ clothes, linen pants and a tunic, half of her hair cut away so it now barely scrapes her chin. Mere weeks ago, she would have rather died than be seen in that thick cloak and those dark, heavy boots, but now, she simply looks happy to see me, though I can tell she’s exhausted, deep circles heavy beneath her eyes.

“Y-You’re—how—” I stammer, words faltering on my tongue. “I thought—I thought you were dead.”

Lyra’s smile fades, replaced by a haunted look. Her voice is quiet and raw as she speaks. “I barely made it out, Cal. Everyone else … they didn’t stand a chance. They were trapped in the blaze. The whole village …” She trails off, swallowing hard, eyes flicking away as if she can’t bear to meet my gaze. “Only reason I got out was because I was desperate enough to take the old path, the one you showed me—through the woods, by your herb garden. I got through it before the fire reached it. Nobody would follow.”

The herb garden. The one I’d tended to so carefully, day after day, with Lyra beside me on the days she dared sneak out. My heart aches at the memory, bittersweet and painful. I reach out, needing to still touch her, to confirm she’s still real. My fingers stop just short of her arm, trembling.

“I should have been there,” I whisper, voice breaking. “I should have …”

“No.” Lyra’s voice is firm, cutting through the haze of guilt that threatens to choke me. “Don’t you dare, Calliope. This wasn’t your fault. It was him.” Her gaze hardens, fierce and blazing. “All of this—your capture, the village, the deaths … it’s all on him.”

Arvoren . The name curdles in my mouth like poison.

“I’m here to get you out,” Lyra says quietly, leaning closer. “There’s a group of us—humans, mostly, hidden in the city. They’re good people, mostly from the North. They’re speaking of revolt. They have plans to assassinate the King. I just … I couldn’t stay here a moment longer without trying to get to you first.”

My throat tightens. Hope flares in me, bright and dangerous, but I force it down.

“I can’t,” I whisper. I lift the hem of my now-muddied skirt to reveal the iron cuffs gleaming darkly around my ankles. The chain that binds me to this castle. To him. “They’re cursed. I can’t leave the grounds.”

Lyra’s eyes widen in horror.

“Bastard,” she breathes, voice trembling with fury. “I’ll— we’ll find a way, Callie. I swear it. We’ll break that damn chain and get you out of here.”

My chest tightens with a rush of emotions; fear, gratitude, despair, all of them at once, the force of them unbearable.

“You shouldn’t even be here,” I murmur, glancing around as if the very walls might betray us. “If he … if anyone finds you …”

“I’ll be fine.” Lyra’s voice is soft but fierce. She reaches out, gripping my hand tightly. Her skin is warm against mine, grounding me in a way I hadn’t realized I needed. “I have allies. I have my wits about me. What happened to us taught me a lot—we need to look out for each other. I won’t let him keep you, Callie. You’re not anyone’s to keep.”

The resolve in her voice is like a lifeline. I squeeze her hand back, heart aching.

“Be careful,” I whisper, throat tight. “Please. The guards know there are outsiders in the city. They’re searching for you. Tell the others to stay hidden, to keep their heads low, at least for a couple of weeks. The king is aware of their presence here. He wants them dead, all of them.”

Lyra nods, eyes lingering on mine for a moment longer. “I’ll find a way to contact you again. Stay strong, Cal. We’ll get you out. I promise.”

Before I can reply, a sudden clamor of voices echoes down the hall, followed by the heavy thud of booted footsteps.

Lyra’s head snaps up, eyes wide with alarm.

“Go,” she hisses, shoving me gently back. “Get out of here. I’ll handle them.”

“No, you—” I begin, but she’s already gone, melting into the shadows like she was never there.

Panic surges in my chest, but I force myself to turn and run, slipping back through the passageways as quickly and quietly as I can. The footsteps draw closer, voices harsh and demanding, and I press myself against the wall, heart hammering wildly.

“Did you hear that?” one guard mutters, his voice sharp with suspicion.

“Check the tombs,” another orders, and I catch the faint glint of armor as they round the corner. “I swear, if one of those slum rats got in again—”

Distantly, there is a fierce din, a crashing and shattering so immense that I briefly wonder whether Lyra intends to bring this entire castle down upon us.

Exclaiming, the guards sprint away.

I don’t wait to hear more. I dart down the hall, footsteps soundless, breath tight in my throat. When I have finally hauled myself from the catacombs, I slip through a side passage through the empty castle and take the twisting stairwell back up to the main levels.

It isn’t until I’m back in my quarters, the heavy door closing softly behind me, that I finally let myself breathe.

Lyra’s face lingers in my mind’s eye, fierce and determined, a spark of hope against the oppressive darkness.

She’s alive. She’s alive, and so am I. And I’m not alone in this place anymore.

Inside me, I feel the faint spark of my rebellion as it rekindles to a fiercely rejuvenated flame.