Chapter 17 - Arvoren

Dark clouds swallow the sky over my city as night falls, heavy and endless. The air is thick, ripe with the scent of coming rain. The charged silence mirrors the one building inside me.

Years of hunting down potential wives, none of them worthy of me. And tonight, I take a bride.

I stand on the balcony overlooking the courtyard as servants, black-clad and furtive, rush to fulfill the preparations I’ve ordered. The sanctum must be ready within the hour, and the castle secured. The thought that she’ll finally, permanently, be bound to me should fill me with satisfaction, with control, but instead, something fierce and sickly twists within, raw and strange, leaving me uneasy and nauseous. I can’t put a name to the feeling. I can feel the castle itself churning beneath my feet as if it knows. As if it remembers.

Varya isn’t happy. Neither are any of my advisors. In fact, the only person I can rely on to support me …

“Your Majesty?” Darian’s voice breaks into my thoughts. He steps forward cautiously from his place at my shoulder, his hands folded before him, brow creased with the kind of concern I have no patience for tonight. He stands at my side.

“What is it, Darian?” My voice is low, barely more than a growl.

He clears his throat but does not back down or shy from my anger. “The preparations for the ritual are nearly complete. Lady Varya has begun gathering the components.”

I nod, already turning to leave, but he continues, his voice heavy with caution.

“I must speak plainly, Your Majesty,” he says, “about the girl.”

I halt. A chill slithers up my spine. “And what is there to say?”

“My King, I must speak that which we can all see. She doesn’t want this,” he says, his tone unsteady, as though aware he’s treading treacherous ground. “Calliope is … fighting this union with every fiber of her being. She wants nothing more than to escape. And with respect, Your Majesty, if you proceed tonight, binding her as queen—”

“Speak plainly, Darian.”

He takes a steadying breath, meeting my gaze despite the fear in his eyes. “Once the powers of the queen are hers, she could easily become an enemy—a powerful one. Should her resentment and will to escape grow, we may find her opposition dangerous.”

I close the distance between us, and he flinches but still doesn’t back down.

“Dangerous?” I repeat slowly, every syllable a warning.

“Yes.” His jaw is tight, and the words spill from him, forced but sincere. “I know you believe this is the only way, Your Majesty. But if she’s unwilling, if she holds her hatred this close to her heart, the magic will feel it, and the castle could—”

“Enough.” My voice is low, sharp as the lash of a whip. “You forget yourself, Darian. You think I haven’t considered what her power could mean?” I measure my tone into something steadier, more deliberate. “This binding is essential. She needs to be mine, entirely and without question. I will not suffer defiance from her or anyone else. She is the one. The mother of my heirs. It is her—my magic knows it, my bloodline, my dragon.”

Darian holds my gaze a moment longer, the set of his mouth grim. He bows his head at last, a reluctant surrender, and turns away.

It’s only when he’s gone that I allow my own thoughts to settle. At my back, the sanctum glows with its own fierce, private light through the gloom, its glass sides shimmering in the moonlight. At this very moment, not far from here, my soon-to-be bride is being prepared for me by the priestesses and servants who she shall soon, all the way from being tantamount to a slave, outrank.

I step inside the empty sanctum. The only witnesses tonight will be the priestesses of my castle. This place was built for ceremonies, for magic that binds, magic that lasts, that seals power and blood alike in an eternal hold. In a few minutes, she’ll be escorted here, dressed as tradition demands.

I draw in a long breath, letting it expand through my chest. She is strong; even now, I can feel her resistance in the charged air, taste her defiance on the wind. That fierce will of hers, the spark that she guards so desperately—how easily it could burn itself out if left unchecked. But as my queen, bound to me, she will have purpose. And she will submit.

The doors to the sanctum creak open, revealing Varya at the threshold, her arms laden with the ancient ceremonial vessels, brimming with the sharp scent of burning herbs and ink-dark oil. Her face is shadowed, severe, but she nods to me, and I know it’s time.

Even she knows she cannot alter this. It is my will alone.

I take my position at the center of the sanctum, cape secured with an ornate piece of plated ceremonial armor across my shoulders, sword sheathed at my hip. Thunder rumbles in the distance, and lightning splinters across the sky beyond the glass, casting brief, searing light across the marble floor beneath my feet.

The door behind me creaks slowly open, heavy with age and sheer size, and I turn, watching. A procession of lesser priestesses files inside.

Then I see her.

Calliope hovers at the far end of the sanctum, hands clenched at her sides, her gaze dark and defiant even as her face remains pale, lips pressed tight. She’s been dressed in the ritual gown—a flowing, ivory robe lined with deep crimson and indigo, the traditional colors of a queen’s binding. The gold circlet rests on her brow, and her hair spills in wild curls around her shoulders, the strands catching the flickering torchlight. Her beauty is haunting, wild and untamed, like fire encased in glass.

And she hates me for this.

Every line of her body radiates her hatred, the fierce defiance I first saw in her eyes the night she arrived in Millrath. She’s still that same girl. Even now, her resistance is a pulsing force that I can feel in the marrow of my bones.

“Come forward,” I command, my voice echoing through the silence.

For a moment, she doesn’t move, her chin lifting a fraction higher, her eyes narrowing. Her defiance is infuriating. And exhilarating.

But then, slowly, she steps forward, her bare feet whispering against the cold stone, her movements tense. Her gaze locks with mine, dark and unyielding. I can feel the surge of her anger. It’s a fury that electrifies the air, that threatens to ignite the very room around us.

“Good,” I murmur, not breaking her gaze as I extend a hand toward her.

She doesn’t take it. She looks at my outstretched hand, her lip curling in barely concealed disdain.

“I will never be yours, Arvoren,” she says, her voice steady, cold, defiance woven through every word.

“Is that so?” I step closer, letting my hand fall back to my side. “The ritual will decide that, Calliope.”

Varya moves beside me and begins the ceremonial words, first invoking Kaelith, God of marriage, then Iepehin for the castle and city, as tradition demands. The mixing of these Gods' blessings is intended to strengthen both bloodline and bond—though looking at Varya's face, I can tell she believes this union will please neither deity. Her voice is low and rhythmic, filling the sanctum with an ancient language that feels as much a part of this place as the stone itself. I focus on Calliope, feeling the pulse of magic thickening in the air, binding us in its threads. I can see her resisting it, every inch of her tense and unyielding. I wonder how long she’ll last before she breaks beneath it.

“You must speak your vows, then join hands,” Varya instructs, her voice calm and unshaken.

For a brief, thrilling moment, Calliope’s eyes flash. I know she’s weighing whether to bolt, to throw herself through the glass of this place and fall to her doom in the choppy waters far below if it means escape.

But she doesn’t. She just stands before me, and if I knew her even a little less than I do, I might have been foolish enough to believe she has been broken.

Of course, she hasn’t been. Not yet.

“Speak your vows,” Varya instructs.

I don’t take my eyes off Calliope. “From this night onward, you are mine, bound by blood and magic, your will entwined with my own. By the power of this ritual, I claim you as my queen. To rule by my side, to share in the legacy of Kaldoria until death takes one of us from this world.”

The words are harsh and cold, but there’s a promise woven into them, a promise that even I feel echoing within me. Does she feel it, too? Does it mean a single thing to her?

Varya turns to Calliope, her voice gentle but unyielding. “Your vows, Lady Calliope.”

Calliope holds my gaze, her expression hard, mouth set in a line of defiance.

“No.” It’s not a surprise. Her voice is low but certain, vibrating with the depth of her anger. “I won’t bind myself to you. I won’t be your queen.”

For a heartbeat, the room falls silent, her words echoing, defying the very walls of the sanctum. A ripple of shock passes through those assembled, even Varya’s composure faltering as she looks to me, awaiting my response.

“Vows or no,” I say eventually. A vow of its own. “Vows or no, Calliope.”

I reach to take her hands in mine.

The moment our skin touches, the world explodes.