Chapter 13 - Arvoren

The storm passes, but its lingering scent hangs in the air, sharp and metallic, as I pace in my pen, my cage, my cave of unmitigated fury. It seems even the Gods seek to tempt me these days. The world outside my castle is washed clean, pale and silvered under the dawn’s bleak light. I should be pleased that the torrential rain has ceased, that the drawbridge will lower over the moat surrounding my castle and commerce can resume after days of isolation, and that Millrath’s heart will beat normally once more.

But I’m not.

My eyes skim over the missive again, my fingers crumpling the edges of the parchment. The seal of my own house, red and bold, gleams mockingly up at me.

Lord Morwen of Whiteraid has agreed to the trade alliance, my brother’s familiar script reads. He sends his regards and wishes to renew his house’s oaths of fealty at your earliest convenience.

Such a message from Ulric, my younger and only brother, would typically be no cause for alarm. It’s true we have never gotten along, not since I took the throne when we were still young, but he is a good enough trade envoy and diplomat, and his role traveling between the cities of my kingdom keeps us out of one another’s way. Our relationship is better now than it ever was when we shared this castle as youths, when our riotous battles atop the roof of this place almost brought it to the ground.

But this is no ordinary letter from my kin.

Lies. It’s all lies.

I know this, because Lord Morwen is dead. He’s been dead for three weeks—stabbed in his own keep, an act that reeks of treachery and betrayal.

Since he was killed, Ulric’s whereabouts have been unknown. Bitterly, I think he could be in my very city, for all I know. None of my spies have managed to track him down.

The fool who took Morwen’s place, his unworthy son, is a spineless whelp. No one in Whiteraid would dare cross me openly; I have had their grudging, resentful loyalty for decades. But now, one of my only allies in the settlements, the late lord, has been killed, and I do not know his heir, and clearly, some manner of deception has occurred somewhere, because here is Ulric, spinning fantasies from across the northern reaches, expecting me to believe them like a naive child.

A cold smile curls on my lips. Does he think me blind? Or just weak?

I toss the letter aside and stride to the west. The courtyard below is a mess of mud and trampled earth, the morning patrols sloshing through the aftermath of last night’s deluge. I feel the weight of the castle around me, every stone, every shadowed archway. It’s a heavy thing to hold together, a fortress of secrets.

Ulric is playing a dangerous game. Either he’s feeding me misinformation for his own gain, or worse, he was one of those behind Lord Morwen’s death. The idea settles in my chest like a poisonous thorn, pricking deeper with each passing second.

The assassination of one of my closest allies, followed by an attempt to conceal that information from me.

It’s tantamount to treason.

I need to act, to strike back at this insolence. But how? He’s likely miles away, insulated always by his own fortifications and spies, surrounded by men who swear to his command and mages who conceal his location and actions from me. It’s treason for any member of the ruling House to gather forces against me—it stings especially that blatantly, right under my nose, my foolish, traitorous brother employs the power of mages against me, highly coveted magical combatants whose loyalty should serve the Kingdom first. As if he’s forgotten who killed our family. It makes me sick, but what can I do? I can’t storm him, can’t expose him without more evidence—and besides, he’s a ghost so long as I can’t locate him. Catching him would be like catching smoke. I can’t seek to strike out at him right now, not without risking a fracture in the kingdom, without risking being seen as weak, vulnerable, open to attack.

“Damn it!” I snarl, slamming my fist against the window frame. Pain flares briefly in my knuckles, grounding me.

But it’s not enough to cool the rage that coils within me, bitter and festering.

The door swings open, the hinges creaking loudly, and a guard steps in, snapping to attention.

“Sire, the moat has been lowered. Trade envoys will begin arriving by midday—”

“Dismissed,” I snap, cutting him off. The guard blinks, then bows deeply and retreats without another word.

My brother’s games … they’re seeping through the cracks in my foundation. Like a disease. I need to keep my head clear, my vision sharp. He won’t have me scrambling, won’t have me clutching at shadows while he undermines everything I’ve built.

He wants me afraid, confused, caught off guard. I will not give him that.

I tear away from the window and storm into the corridor, boots striking the floor with a hard, rapid rhythm. The halls are mostly empty at this early hour, the servants scurrying to keep out of my path. I stalk past tapestries and torch sconces, past windows that overlook the barren expanse of the outer grounds. Wind rattles against the glass, sweeping over the waters, the chill slipping through the seams of the stone, but it’s nothing compared to the cold fury thrumming in my veins.

My brother thinks he can play me. He’s wrong. Dead wrong. I’ll—

I round a corner sharply and nearly collide with a slim figure.

I stop short, blinking as I take her in.

Calliope. Again, Calliope. Again, escaping. Again, in my path, the most infuriating of obstacles.

She stands alone in the middle of the hall, arms folded across her chest, head lowered. There’s no one else nearby, not even a guard. It’s as if she’s materialized out of thin air, summoned by my frustration.

I feel my lips curl into a sneer, the anger needing somewhere, someone, to be unleashed upon.

“What are you doing here?” I bite out, voice low and venomous. “You aren’t permitted to leave your chambers.”

She doesn’t flinch, doesn’t shrink away, but she does lift her gaze slowly, deliberately, to meet mine. Her eyes—clear, steady, but with a veil over them. Something contrived, something … false.

“I asked that I might take a turn about the castle. I was walking, Your Majesty,” she says, her voice even and calm. Too calm. “I thought I might—”

“Spare me your excuses,” I snap, cutting her off. “I know your deceit too well, girl. I should have you sentenced to further labors for this.”

A flicker of something passes over her face. Anger, maybe. Frustration. But she smooths it away so quickly, it’s gone before I can be sure.

“Is that what’s bothering you?” she murmurs, tilting her head slightly, like she’s genuinely curious. “That I’m not still on my knees before a bowl of rice in your court?”

My fingers twitch at my sides. She has no idea what I’m dealing with right now, no idea how much I’d relish an outlet for this anger. But striking her would be too easy. Too … unsatisfying.

“I could have you dragged back there,” I say softly, letting the words drip like poison. “And you’d finish the task, no matter how long it took. A day, a week … months, if need be.”

To my surprise, she lowers her gaze again, that same placid mask sliding into place.

“Yes, Your Majesty,” she whispers. “I’m sure you could.”

Something about her compliance sets my teeth on edge. It’s not real. I can feel it, simmering beneath the surface.

“What’s wrong, Calliope?” I ask, voice dropping to a dangerous murmur. “Where’s that fire of yours? The one that had you spitting at me in defiance not two days ago?”

She swallows hard. I watch her throat as it bobs, her silence louder even than her screams were as she kicked and scratched at me.

“I’m … sorry, My King,” she says finally, softly. “Apologies for whatever dissatisfies you.”

“Don’t lie to me,” I snarl, stepping closer, looming over her. “You’re not broken. You’re pretending. Why ?”

Her shoulders tighten, her hands clench at her sides. I expect her to lash out, to retort with some biting, reckless remark. But she doesn’t.

“I don’t know what you want me to say,” she murmurs, her voice small, subdued. “If you want me to beg, I will. If you want me to scream, I will. But none of that changes anything, does it?”

For a heartbeat, I just stare at her, at the way she stands there—too still, too compliant. I can’t see through her. It’s infuriating. Aggravating.

“Stop playing games with me,” I hiss. “If you think for one second that I’m going to be swayed by some pathetic show of submission, you’re wrong. You’re mine. And you will obey me. Always.”

She blinks slowly, then nods, a stiff, unnatural motion. The act is so transparent, it’s almost laughable.

“Of course, Your Majesty,” she says softly, like she’s speaking to a child. “After all, I’ve seen how you behave when you become so enraged.”

The fury inside me roars, its own loud and tempestuous dragon.

This is no victory. This is mockery. She’s taunting me, showing me just how little control I truly have. Even now, even beaten down, she dares to undermine me.

I lean close to her, looking imperiously down upon her. Our faces are closer than they’ve ever been, and her warm, fluttering breath breaks against my face.

“You do not know the meaning of the word,” I promise with quiet danger in each syllable.

I cannot speak any more. If I say a single word more, I will howl, I think, surely—I’ll come undone with rage.

Without another word, I storm past her, away, away, as far from the girl as I can possibly get.