Chapter 22 - Calliope

It’s so cold that my breath mists in front of my face as I step into the courtyard, my skin prickling against the briskness of the chilly dawn. Wisps of mist still linger around the base of the castle, wrapping around the stone columns and archways that surround me. I breathe in the faint metallic scent of magic—a lingering trace of the ritual which led to this, still etched into the air, sharp and unsettling. My pulse quickens, unsettled but resolute.

I’ve promised myself that, for today, I will begin to learn to use this power, or break trying. The weight of that oath, of this place, bears down on me, yet I keep my shoulders straight, refusing to show even the smallest crack.

Either I will attempt to escape this place sooner or later, or I will stay. My uncertainty itself is a point of shame. Either way, I rationalize, if I can harness my power, I’m more likely to survive whatever happens next.

So, I will train, as the King demands.

Arvoren stands at the edge of the stone platform in the center of the courtyard, watching as I approach. I regard him in the hard, cold light of dawn, assessing the faint tiredness in his face, the still-severe set of his strong, dark brow, the tightness of his sharp jaw. His dark hair is somewhat disheveled. His gaze is cold, assessing, with none of the openness I glimpsed last night. Whatever walls he’d lowered then are now fortified, his stare a challenge I refuse to shrink from.

A breeze shifts his dark hair across his face, and he brushes it back, eyes narrowing slightly as I come closer.

"Ready, are we?" His voice is even, but I catch the faintest hint of something beneath—amusement, perhaps. Maybe doubt. Maybe annoyance. These days, they seem to all become one when he speaks to me.

“Hope I didn’t keep you waiting,” I reply evenly, holding his gaze.

His lips press into a dull smirk as he nods toward a circle of etched symbols on the ground, glowing faintly blue under the strengthening light of sunrise. “This will amplify your energy. It’ll draw on the raw magic in the atmosphere surrounding you to awaken your natural strength. It’s how all mages of this castle and my armies are trained, and now, it will train you.”

He says it calmly, as if he isn’t asking me to unleash forces I don’t understand.

I glance at the symbols, then back at him. “And what if I can’t control it?”

“That’s what I’m here for.” His gaze darkens, a hint of something unreadable flitting through his eyes. “I’ll restrain you if necessary, pull you from the dais. But I expect you to try.”

I swallow, fighting back a surge of irritation. Everything from him is a command, a demand. I wonder if he even knows how to speak without it.

Darian, who I hadn’t noticed was nearby until now, steps forward. His uniform, the finery of Arvoren’s royal army, is perfectly pressed. He doesn’t look at all like a man who has been woken far too early, though I can tell he’s still somewhat bleary-eyed. His expression is a study in neutrality, his gaze flicking between Arvoren and me.

"Calliope.” He says my name with plain, undecorated finality. I enjoy hearing it when it doesn’t sound like a curse. “Your power is raw, unformed, but that is exactly why it is potent. Try to feel it as a part of you, not something to restrain. Magic responds to intent. Let it feel your purpose." And then, when he catches me staring, slightly surprised: “My sisters are both mages. They went through this very same thing. Now, they fight in the king’s army.”

Draconic mages. They live comfortable lives, I bet.

No time for resentment or regret now. I draw a breath, focus narrowing to a thin thread as I step into the circle. The air hums faintly, vibrating under my feet. I feel the power inside me shift like a restless creature, heavy and huge and hot.

I close my eyes, letting my senses extend beyond my own body, as Darian instructed.

The first rush of energy rises easily—too easily—and the warmth floods through me, overwhelming. Like a tide, trying to pull me under. It’s overwhelming. I try to direct it forward, to control it, but it swells, wild and chaotic, expanding, a force of nature that doesn’t care for boundaries. The ground shudders slightly beneath me, a raw and reckless power surging toward the edge of the circle. I gasp, struggling to rein it in, but it slips through my grasp like sand.

"Focus," Arvoren says sharply. "You’re letting it run loose.”

“I am trying .” I grind my teeth, struggling to hold the force back, to keep it from spilling out entirely. It only grows stronger, straining, pushing against me as though testing my will. I feel the earth tremble, and my heart races, a mixture of panic and defiance sparking within.

I grit my teeth, gathering my strength to wrestle the power back, and I catch Arvoren’s gaze, dark, intense, unyielding. His eyes lock onto mine, a silent reminder that he’s here, waiting to see if I fail. I resent him for it, for watching with that veiled expectancy as if it’s his right to see me struggle, to test me.

“Stop staring and do something useful,” I snap, the power thrumming at the edge of my restraint.

He arches a brow, a mocking smile playing at his lips. “Perhaps if you focused less on me and more on the task at hand, you’d have better luck.”

My jaw tightens, and I wrestle the power back, redirecting it inward, trying to bottle it up again. But it fights me, and a pulse of energy escapes, jolting out in a flash of light that sends Darian stumbling back. Arvoren, however, stands unmoved, his gaze still locked on me, cool, unflinching.

“Again,” he orders, his voice soft, but it carries a hard edge that digs under my skin.

Heat flushes through me, this time from anger as much as from the magic.

“It’s not as if I can just decide to control it,” I snap, the power flaring out as I speak.

“Then stop fighting it,” he says, stepping closer, his voice low but intense. “Let it be what it is. Don’t restrict it; shape it.”

His closeness sends a shiver through me, a frustrating distraction that I try to ignore. But his words sink in, resonating with the part of me that longs to own this power, to make it my own. I close my eyes, taking another breath, this time reaching out to the magic without resistance. I allow it to flow through me, welcoming it, and the force steadies, a faint warmth pulsing through my veins, waiting for my lead.

Slowly, I open my eyes, catching a faint flicker of approval in Arvoren’s gaze, though he masks it quickly.

“A little better,” he says, his voice barely a murmur. “Now use it.”

The air between us crackles, heavy with anticipation. I feel my pulse quicken. I hold his gaze, a silent challenge rising between us. I want to prove him wrong, to show him that he’s not the only one who can command this force.

I lift a hand, feeling the magic swirl within me, and direct it outward in a steady stream, letting it spread through the circle. A faint light pulses around us, casting a cold glow on Arvoren’s face, illuminating the sharp angles of his features, the dark intensity of his eyes. There’s a thrill in seeing it work, a strange power in knowing he’s watching, that he’s witnessing my control.

But he steps forward again, closer than I expect, his gaze narrowing as he reaches out and touches my hand. The contact is sudden, electric, and the magic wavers, a surge of energy slipping through me in response.

“Hold it,” he says, his voice low and rough.

I fight to steady the power, to channel it without losing control. His hand lingers on mine, strong, warm, grounding, yet the pressure is more disorienting than comforting. I glance up, meeting his gaze, and find him watching me with a strange intensity that sends a pulse of heat through my already-frayed senses.

For a long moment, neither of us move, tension sparking between us like the faint glow of magic in the circle. I feel his breath, slow and measured, the weight of his hand pressing against mine. His gaze holds a question, unspoken yet clear, and I find myself unable to look away, to break the strange connection forged in this silence.

Darian clears his throat behind us, and Arvoren drops his hand, stepping back, his expression unreadable.

“Good,” he says, his voice steady but colder now. “It’s a start. But you’ll need more than a few flickers of light to protect yourself.” He gestures to Darian, who steps forward, holding a small crystal vial filled with a dark, swirling liquid.

“This,” Darian says, holding the vial up so that it catches the light, “will temporarily enhance your connection to the magic. It can’t increase your power, just your connection to it. It will feel … overwhelming. But it is necessary if you’re to learn to wield it fully.”

I take the vial reluctantly, glancing from Darian to Arvoren, who nods with that same intensity. Refusing to allow myself to hesitate, I uncork the vial and tip it back, the liquid cool and smooth and tasting of nothing.

Within moments, a surge of power floods my senses, magnifying every pulse, every whisper of magic in the air around me.

The world sharpens, colors brighter, sounds clearer, and the magic within me roars to life, a force both exhilarating and terrifying.

The power surges up, threatening to tear free. But I hold on to it, drawing on every ounce of my strength. I close my eyes, feeling the magic swirl, each pulse of energy an echo of my heartbeat, and with a final, steadying breath, I let it flow outward, shaping it as I’ve seen Arvoren do, as he instructed.

A soft, shimmering light fills the courtyard, surrounding us. I hear Arvoren’s breath catch, a faint sound that brings a strange thrill. When I open my eyes, he’s watching me, his expression unreadable but intense, eyes sweeping over me, consuming me totally.

“Better,” he murmurs, his voice low, almost … admiring. “But don’t let it make you arrogant. Magic isn’t your ally yet.”

He takes a step closer still, his gaze locked on to mine as if daring me to push further. I can almost feel the heat of his body now. Part of me wants to meet his dare, to gamble, to confront him, to show him that I am more than he can possibly understand. But the power still roars within me, and I force myself to stay steady, to resist the challenge.

But as he steps back, his gaze lingering on me, I realize I’ve already crossed a threshold, one that has nothing to do with magic or kingdoms. And for the first time, I’m not sure which battle I’m fighting: the one against his power, or the one against my own undeniable, reckless pull toward him.

That night, I dream of my grandmother.

I drift into a dream, the familiar scents of earth and greenery wrapping around me like a comforting blanket. I’m back in our herb garden, the sun warm on my skin, the vibrant colors of plants bursting forth in a riot of life.

I’m no older than six or seven, kneeling in the dirt, my hands gripping the stems of the little herbs I planted days ago.

“Grow,” I whisper, my voice a fragile plea against the gentle rustle of leaves. I squeeze my eyes shut, willing the tiny plants to sprout faster, to leap from the earth as if they can hear my desperate wish. I stretch out my fingers, willing the magic to flow through me, to pour into the ground and quicken the roots.

But nothing happens. Frustration bubbles up inside me like a storm, and I huff out a breath, kicking the dirt in exasperation. “Why won’t you work?” I mutter to the herbs, as if they can hear me, as if they care.

A soft chuckle breaks through my frustration, and I glance up to see my grandmother standing beside me, her silver hair glinting in the sunlight like spun gold. She wears her usual warm smile, her eyes crinkling at the corners, and I can’t help but feel a flicker of warmth at her presence.

“Ah, my little Calliope,” she says, kneeling down beside me, her hands brushing against the tender leaves. “Trying to rush nature again, are we?”

I pout, crossing my arms. “I just want them to grow faster! It’s taking forever, and I want to use them for the stew tonight.”

She laughs softly, a sound like the chiming of delicate bells, and I feel my irritation begin to fade. “Magic is a fickle mistress, my dear. It only comes when it knows it’s needed. You can’t force it. You have to be patient.”

I huff, my childish defiance flaring back up. “But why? It’s not fair! What if I need it now?” I can’t help but frown, the memory of my mother flitting across my mind like a shadow. “Mom had magic, but she still … she still …” I can’t finish the sentence.

My grandmother’s smile falters, just for a moment, before she masks the pain behind a gentle expression. “Magic will protect you, my sweet girl. It’s wise, and it knows when to show itself. It won’t let you get hurt.”

“But she got hurt,” I retort, my voice rising, tinged with childish anger. “She died. And she was supposed to be special! If she was one of us, why did she die? We can’t be magical if the magic let her die, Grandma.”

I say it like it’s so obvious. I am a tempestuous child, ruled by my certainty that I am always right.

The laughter in my grandmother’s eyes dims, replaced by something deeper, something that stings the air between us. “Magic is not everything, Calliope. It can be unpredictable, just like life. Sometimes we don’t understand why things happen, but you must trust that magic is always watching over you.”

I look away, unable to hold her gaze, anger and confusion swirling inside me. “I don’t want to trust it!” I exclaim, the words sharper than I intend. “I just want to make things better!”

She reaches out, placing a comforting hand on my shoulder. “And one day, you will. But not today. For now, let’s tend to these herbs together. You may not see it yet, but the magic is there, waiting.”

As her hand rests on me, I feel a warmth spread through me, calming my frustration. I allow myself to breathe, letting the soft sounds of the garden fill the air around us. The vibrant greens and the delicate fragrance of the herbs surround me, and despite my earlier outburst, a flicker of understanding begins to settle in the corners of my mind.

I lean into her touch, finding solace in her presence as we tend to the plants together, planting the seeds of patience, the promise of growth. But even as the sunlight bathes us in warmth, I can’t shake the feeling that perhaps I don’t trust magic. Perhaps I never will.