Chapter 12 - Calliope

I’m still trembling when they pull me from my room.

The guards barely acknowledge me as they lead me through the castle’s labyrinthine halls, the one on my left gripping my arm like he thinks I’ll bolt at any moment. The other strides forward, his gaze fixed straight ahead, as if I don’t exist at all.

I wish I didn’t. Not right now.

The storm’s fury has continued unabated into the morning, pounding against the walls of the keep with the wrath of an angry god. The sky outside is a relentless, oppressive gray, the heavy clouds blotting out any trace of the morning sun. Rain drums against the windows, producing a ceaseless roar that drowns out everything else.

They march me through the eastern corridor, past towering portraits of long-dead kings and queens of Millrath. Dark, draconic eyes painted in oils follow us, blank and pitiless, as if weighing me against some unseen scale. I grit my teeth and keep my head down, refusing to meet their judgmental gaze.

The journey is short. My guards don’t speak, and neither do I. My voice still feels raw, scraped clean from shouting and pleading, and I’m not sure I’d have the strength to use it even if I wanted to.

The truth of what I did yesterday morning—my attempt and failure to unsettle the king, to prove his lack of power over me—burns inside me.

Lyra’s presence made me feel powerful somehow. As if I had any real control here. Now, I know that isn’t true.

When we reach the underchamber, the sound of dozens of voices hits me like a physical blow.

I falter, caught off-guard by the sheer volume. I haven’t been dressed in finery today. Reduced to mere rags, I look the part of a slave.

The guard on my left jerks me forward, half-dragging me up the final set of stairs and into the court. The rich, suffocating smell of spices and liquor hangs in the air, thick enough to choke on.

The chamber opens before me, humming with activity. I glance around quickly, trying to take in the scene. Rows of noblemen and women are seated along the edges of the hall, their opulent gowns and fine velvet cloaks splashed with the colors of their lower houses. The aristocracy of this city. Advisors and officials cluster around the base of the king’s raised dais, their voices low and urgent. A cluster of armored guards stands at attention near the arched entrance, steel glinting dully in the green torchlight.

And there, seated at the very top of the dais, is him. Arvoren.

King Arvoren, tyrant, coward, tormentor.

I want to spit at the sight of him, looking so composed and untroubled, like the events of yesterday morning never happened. Like he hadn’t dragged me down from the tower’s edge with brutal efficiency, carried me kicking and screaming through the bowels of his damned castle, and thrown me to his guards like a rag doll. I want to scream, to rail at him for his cruelty and arrogance, for treating me like something less than human, less than even the lowest of his subjects.

But I don’t. I swallow the bile, the hatred, the fury. It does me no good here.

The guards bring me before him, stopping just shy of the bottom of the dais. A hush falls over the hall as those gathered notice us, notice me, the bruises on my wrists, the raw scrape of blood at my temple from when I fought against him. I sense the curious glances, the covert whispers.

The king shifts slightly on his throne, the faintest smile curling his lips. Something ugly and possessive flashes in his eyes.

“Good morning, Calliope,” he says softly, his voice a low, velvet murmur that somehow cuts through the silence like a blade. “Did you sleep well?”

A murmur of laughter ripples through the court. I grit my teeth so hard I taste copper.

I should ignore him, bite back my defiance, but his taunt burrows deep under my skin.

“Perfectly, Your Majesty,” I answer stiffly, lifting my chin. “Like a princess in a tower.”

His smile widens. The laughter grows louder, more raucous. I force myself not to flinch under the weight of their collective gaze.

“Good. Then you’ll be refreshed and ready to fulfill your duties today.”

A wave of confusion crashes over me. My duties? What duties? As far as I know, he hasn’t assigned me anything beyond being his prisoner.

The king claps his hands twice, the sharp sound echoing through the hall, and a servant appears, a wide wooden tray balanced in his hands. He kneels before the dais, holding the tray out toward me.

I stare at it, and my confusion turns to shock, and then a slow, simmering rage.

On the tray is a porcelain bowl, filled to the brim with … rice. Tiny, round, white grains of rice. Beside it is an empty glass jar.

No. No . He wouldn’t—

“Today, you will count,” Arvoren announces, his voice carrying easily over the hall. “Count every grain of rice in that bowl, and place them one by one into the jar. You will not stop until every single grain has been accounted for.”

For a moment, the words don’t register. I just stare blankly at him, at the mocking smile on his lips, at the way the gathered lords and ladies watch us with rapt attention. Then, like a punch to the gut, the reality of what he’s asking hits me.

“You want me to … count grains of rice?” I whisper, incredulous. It’s absurd. It’s insulting. It’s—

“It is a task fitting your station, is it not?” Arvoren asks, his voice dripping with mock sympathy. “Something to keep you busy. To keep your mind occupied. Perhaps it will teach you patience, and give you time to reflect on the consequences of rash actions.”

“Why?” I breathe, unable to keep the raw bitterness out of my voice. “Why make me do this?”

His gaze sharpens, and for a moment, something like anger flashes in his eyes.

“Because I can,” he murmurs. “And because you need to understand that defiance will not win you freedom here. It will only win you … this.” He gestures to the tray, the tiny, pathetic bowl of rice that somehow seems overflowing, like it will take me days to get through.

My stomach twists. I want to scream, to throw the bowl at his feet and shout until my voice breaks.

But I can’t. I can’t give him that satisfaction.

Slowly, deliberately, I lower myself to my knees beside the tray, before his feet.

The marble floor is cold and unyielding beneath my legs, the sound of the court resuming its murmuring a distant, awful blur around me. I reach out, pick up a single grain of rice, and drop it into the jar with a tiny, pathetic plink.

One.

Another grain. Plink.

Two.

Rage makes its presence known, hot and bright inside me. I have to fight to keep my hands steady. To keep from crushing the grains in my fists. This is what he wants. He wants to humiliate me. To reduce me to mere spectacle, something to be jeered at and pitied. I will not give him the satisfaction of seeing me break.

Slowly, grain by grain, I adjust to the mind-numbing task. I don’t look up, don’t acknowledge the whispers and murmurs that surround me. I let my fingers work mechanically, focusing on the texture of each grain, the delicate weight of it, the tiny plink as it falls into the glass jar.

He can’t do this to me forever. He can’t break me like this. I won’t let him.

But as the minutes drag on, the strain begins to set in. My back aches from the awkward position, my knees throb from the hard floor, and my fingers feel numb and clumsy. Still, I don’t stop. I keep counting, keep working. The sound of the court’s voices washes over me, a meaningless, jumbled mess of words and phrases. My vision blurs, my thoughts grow sluggish.

When, once, I dare glance up, my neck beginning to cramp from its uncomfortable position, I catch a flicker of movement ahead of me. Light hair, a dark coat. Less finery than the other nobility here.

Linus, sitting across the chamber, in all his silent, watchful calm, inclines his head slowly and imperceptibly in my direction as I catch his eye.

Face and eyes burning, I look back down.

Time seems to mold itself around my task, an impossibly elongated thing. I must count for hours, I think, or it certainly feels that long.

I have almost reached a thousand the first time I lose count. The crowd jeers as I am forced to restart, all my work poured back into its original bowl.

That almost makes me cry. It’s the most difficult thing I’ve ever done to hold back those tears.

Until a single word cuts through the haze, sharp and clear.

“Rebellion.”

I jerk upright, head snapping up, and immediately regret the motion. My neck aches, and the sudden shift sends a jolt of pain shooting through my legs.

The king is speaking to one of his advisors, a tall, thin man with a stern expression and a meticulously trimmed beard. They stand a few paces away from the dais, their voices lowered, but not enough that I can’t hear them.

“… reports of increased activity in the Western Quarter,” the advisor is saying. “Small gatherings, mostly. But there’s talk. Rumors of a group organizing—”

“Organizing?” the king interrupts, his voice hardening. “Who?”

The advisor hesitates, glancing around as if worried someone might overhear. “Humans. Workers, mostly—the dredges of our city. But of course, slothful as they are, they have much time to speak of revolution, it seems.”

Arvoren’s jaw tightens, a muscle jumping beneath the skin.

“I want names,” he says softly, dangerously. “I want to know who’s behind this. Who dares—”

The rest of his words are lost in the renewed rush of conversation, and I bite back a curse. I can’t make out what he’s saying. But it’s enough. A dangerous, heady rush of emotions rushes over me all at once. Hope, fear, anger, anxiety. Lyra.

I don’t have to do this alone. There are others. Others who might be willing to help. Others who—

Others who could die tonight, or tomorrow, easily. Others he would sooner murder than bother imprisoning or exiling.

“Eyes down,” a voice snarls above me, and I flinch, dropping my gaze back to the bowl of rice. The guard on my left looms over me, his expression dark with disapproval. “You heard the king. You don’t stop until it’s finished.”

I swallow hard and nod, forcing myself to focus. I can’t afford to draw attention right now. Not when there’s so much I still don’t know.

But as I resume my work, the king’s voice echoing faintly in the background, I make a vow.

I will learn. I will listen. I will find a way to turn this ridiculous, humiliating task into something useful. Something that can help me escape this place, escape him.

***

That night, as I lie on the hard, narrow bed in my darkened chamber, the storm still raging outside, something slips through the small gap at the bottom of my door.

I sit up, heart pounding, and crawl across the floor to retrieve it, not daring to make a sound. It’s a slip of paper, folded neatly, and I unfold it with trembling fingers.

There are only a few words, scrawled in a messy, hurried script:

Meet me in the library at midnight tomorrow.

For a moment, I just stare at it, my mind spinning. My heart thuds painfully against my ribs.

Then, slowly, I fold the note and tuck it beneath my pillow.

Whoever it is—Lyra, Linus, or someone else—I’m willing to put my neck on the line for this if it means even the tiniest sliver of hope of my freedom.

Anything to escape this nightmare. Or I really will toss myself from this tower, I promise myself. I will hurl myself to the rocks and allow them to be my unmaker.