Chapter 18 - Calliope

The moment our skin meets, it’s as though the entire world fractures. The earth beneath us shudders, and with a sudden, violent force, power explodes from somewhere deep within me, raw and untamed.

Later, I know, I will not remember how any of this happened.

The sanctum’s walls of glass shiver, tremble, then shatter outward in a rain of gleaming shards. The light of a hundred flames flickers and dies as the glass catches the moonlight, each shard reflecting a thousand fractured, whirling pieces of the same moment, suspended in a storm of glinting edges. The fragments cut through the air, glittering with an otherworldly sharpness, their edges catching the light in jagged arcs as they spin and dance through the chaos.

The space erupts around me, raw energy tearing through everything. Cracks race outward from my feet, splintering the marble floor into jagged shards that jut out at sharp angles. All around us, the priestesses fall where they stand, crumpling onto the fractured stone, their ritual vessels shattering on impact and spilling dark oils that stain the marble.

Shards of glass whirl like a deadly storm, refracting fractured moonlight, while thick smoke and dust fill the air in an eerie, suffocating haze. Chunks of stone rain down as the sanctum’s walls fracture, flames flickering among the debris. Every symbol of power, every ancient marking, lies twisted and broken, shattered as thoroughly as the ceremony meant to bind me.

For an endless second, I feel suspended, as if floating in the center of a void of light and sound. My vision bleeds to white, the world silent, and everything—walls, floor, sky—falls away.

In this strange, endless moment, there is nothing but a heavy, pulsing energy, pushing outward from my chest in waves.

It’s only when the shockwave begins to fade, as the wildness of my pulse subsides, that I feel his weight.

Arvoren’s body is pressed against mine, solid and warm, his strong arms encircling me, shielding me from the storm of glass. His scent—iron and cedar, laced with the faintest hint of smoke—wraps around me as I come back to myself, my senses overwhelmed by the stark reality of him. I am trapped beneath him, pressed to the cold, hard marble, and I can feel the strain of his muscles as he curls protectively over me, as if I’m some fragile thing he can shield from my own power.

This is the new reality of us, I realize with a vague, unmoored kind of resignation. He protects me, and in doing so, he tethers me unyieldingly to the ground, to him.

Gradually, I become aware of the flickering light of a nearby fire, of the heavy air thick with dust and broken glass, the chaos of a room torn apart. Bits of broken marble and shattered torches lie strewn about, and a few flames still sputter, casting broken shadows on the walls. The remnants of shattered glass crunch beneath his knees as he shifts above me, and I feel the warmth of his hands steadying me, one on my shoulder, the other tangled in my hair, a tight, protective grip. His voice cuts through the ringing in my ears, hoarse but urgent.

“Calliope?” His face hovers above mine, tight with a rare, unguarded worry, his dark eyes frantic as they search my face.

I try to focus, to center myself, but my vision swims, flickering at the edges like the remnants of an expiring fire. My chest feels heavy, each breath a struggle. I don’t know what I’ve done—don’t know what this power is that tore free from me like an animal, raw and wild and consuming.

“Calliope,” he says again, his voice softer, a rare tenderness threading through his tone, as if he’s afraid I might slip away.

The heat of his hand on my face grounds me. His fingers are firm, and I realize he’s wiping something from my skin, maybe blood, maybe tears—I’m too far gone to know. I blink up at him, his face blurred but steady, as though he’s the only solid thing left in the world.

“What … happened?” I manage, the words thick on my tongue. My voice sounds distant, faint, as if it’s coming from somewhere far away.

He hesitates, his face shadowed, before he speaks.

“Your power,” he murmurs, his brow furrowed with something like awe. “It—” His words falter, and I watch his mouth tighten, his gaze flickering over my face as if he’s searching for something. “The sanctum … it couldn’t hold you.”

I try to rise, but his grip tightens, and he presses me back down, a fierce protectiveness etched into every line of his body.

“Don’t move,” he commands, and the authority in his tone is so absolute that I stop, too drained to resist.

But somewhere, deep in the pit of my soul, there’s a fire that still burns, that knows I must not yield. My voice is a faint whisper, defiant even in weakness. “Let me … go.”

A bitter smile touches his lips. “And where would you go, Calliope?” he asks, almost gently, though his words hold a darker edge. “You think you can outrun this? You think you can outrun the thing you are?”

I cough weakly. “I’m not a witch.”

Arvoren raises his head, looking at the destruction all around us. He laughs, a furious, barking thing, as if truly taken off guard.

Somewhere in the depths of me, a voice stirs, faint as a whisper yet clear as crystal. I close my eyes, and in the darkness, I see her face—my grandmother’s face. Her voice rises from the shadows, soft and wise, steady as the ground beneath my feet.

"Calliope, you are stronger than you know. You were born for this. Remember who you are, child. Remember what I taught you."

Her words drift through me, like an anchor, like a lifeline pulling me up from the depths. I feel a warmth in my chest, steady and insistent, a fire that refuses to be extinguished, no matter how tightly I’m held. It’s more than defiance; it’s a truth that roots itself in the very core of my being. I am no witch. Whatever I am, I’m more.

Arvoren’s hand on my cheek, the heat of his breath on my skin, the darkness of his gaze—suddenly, all of it feels too close, too confining. My pulse quickens, my breathing shallow as panic claws its way up my throat, tightening like a vice. I can’t be bound to him. Not this way.

As my vision darkens at the edges, my last thought is not of the shards of glass or the shattered sanctum. It’s of her voice, echoing through me, filling the hollow places with a warmth and strength I thought I’d lost.

And as her voice fades, as my body finally gives in to the weight of exhaustion, I find myself clinging to that single, lingering thought—one last, desperate hope, burning even as I slip into unconsciousness.

"You are stronger than you know."