Chapter 23 - Arvoren

Dinner is silent, but the air is nonetheless tight with unspoken words, Calliope seated across from me, gaze fixed on the small, half-eaten plate before her. The faint clink of her fork occasionally scrapes against the edge of the plate, echoing loud in the cavernous hall. I catch myself watching her fingers tense around the handle, watching her pause between bites as if weighing each morsel. She doesn't look at me. I suspect that’s on purpose. Her training this morning was grueling, perhaps even more than I’d intended. And yet, she met each of my commands without a single word of surrender.

In another life, Calliope would have made a fantastic war-mage, I think.

It strikes me, not for the first time, how her presence has upended things I’ve long taken for granted—obedience, for one; silence, for another.

My mind flickers briefly to this morning, her raw power pulsing like a living thing beneath her skin, fierce and untamed. She was formidably beautiful. That potential is more than I’d anticipated. I take a small sip of wine, steeling myself. The dark liquid has already stained her lips. I wonder what it would taste like to kiss her, then curse myself.

The doors at the end of the hall creak open, breaking through my thoughts. A tall, thin figure, clad in dark robes, sweeps forward, boots echoing on the cold stone. It’s Ridley, one of my eldest courtiers, a man with keen eyes that see further than my comfort abides.

Ridley bows deeply and with purpose, a careful, almost reverent deference. I nod to him, gesturing for him to approach. His face is stony. His gaze flicks to Calliope for only a second before he turns his attention back to me.

"My lord,” Ridley intones, lowering his voice. “Reports from the underchamber.”

“Speak,” I reply, setting my cup down, meeting his gaze. Ridley doesn’t flinch.

“Reports of beasts entering the city have begun to reach the Crownsguard. They have been spotted in the lower districts. The houses have received word of unrest here, with suspicions that Millrath is, in fact, under attack. The coalition grows—only House Sturmsen and House Caddel have refrained from joining the attempt to dethrone you. They seek to instate a king who is less … objectionable to the majority.”

Calliope raises her head, her expression shifting slightly—she’s listening intently. I wonder, not for the first time, how much she has heard since she arrived here. Her eyes meet mine briefly, a silent question in them, but I keep my gaze fixed on Ridley.

“Objectionable.” I grit my teeth. The man’s dry diplomacy doesn’t soften the words, nor does it hide the insult behind them. A coalition of rabble, vying for a throne they have no right to claim. The same grasping, sniveling, thieving wretches whose forefathers murdered my parents—and yet, none could secure the throne, too weak to rule.

They think this time will be different. They’re sorely mistaken.

“There is more, my lord,” Ridley continues, voice steady but dropping further. “Word has spread to Varya and her priestesses, where it is reported they have settled in the west, near the Great River. She has publicly allied with the enemy houses. And she’s denounced … Lady Calliope. They call her the Heretic Queen. A witch, seeking to entrap you.”

At this, Calliope’s head snaps up, her fork freezing mid-air. I glance at her, noting the set of her mouth, the way her eyes darken, narrowing. The tension in her grows still more taut, the word heretic hanging heavy in the air between us.

She has spent all her life being called a witch, being made an outcast. Even now, she refuses to cover the scars on her face. There is a strength in that, I realize for the first time, an indomitable power. Now, against her will, that power is aligned with the power of my house, its standing within my kingdom.

“And Varya condones this?” I ask Ridley. “She asks that her followers turn against their king?”

“Yes, sire,” he replies, lowering his eyes. “The notion is popular. It has a certain … force behind it.”

The insult is brutal in its simplicity. It damns Calliope not only for her history or origins but for her very essence. The insinuation is plain: Calliope is not only unworthy, she is a threat. And though I’ve yet to decide if I agree with that assertion, the damage is undeniable.

Calliope lets out a harsh, mirthless laugh, surprising Ridley, who glances her way. Her expression is one of pure contempt, a smile of bitterness pulling at her lips.

“So I’m a heretic?” she asks, scoffing. “Is that all they could come up with?”

She stands abruptly, her chains clattering, the sound cutting through the room like the snap of a whip. I open my mouth to speak, not certain what I might say, but she’s already moving, hands balling into fists, stepping back from the table.

“This kingdom”—she spits the word like poison—“has called me worse.”

Without another word, she turns on her heel, leaving the table with her head held high, the chains dragging against the floor in a steady, defiant beat. Ridley watches her go, his expression carefully neutral, but I see his thinly veiled surprise, the faint glimmer of apprehension. Even the courtier, a man well-versed in the shadows of this castle, recognizes the gravity of what she is. Or what she could be.

As her shadow vanishes through the doorway, I exhale, letting out the tension I hadn’t even realized I’d been holding in. Ridley clears his throat, as though to speak, but I lift a hand to silence him.

“That will be all for now, Ridley,” I say, my tone dismissive.

The moment he leaves, my gaze falls to the place where Calliope had sat, the empty chair still bearing a faint, lingering reminder of her presence. I’m not sure whether I’m imagining it, but I swear I can still smell her, the scent of herbs and earth and magic. This kingdom has called me worse.