Chapter 25 - Arvoren

Dawn creeps into my chambers like a thief, pale light seeping through frost-rimmed windows. Calliope slumbers beside me, her dark hair spilling across my pillow, skin alabaster and appearing almost moonlit in the weak morning glow. Even in sleep, there's something stormy about her, untamed and wild. The chains at her ankles glint dully, the metal appearing frosted where it touches and reflects the brightness of her skin. Her wrists and throat are marked with light bruises from our night together, delicate patterns I want to trace with my tongue.

I barely slept a wink. I wanted so badly to take her again, to feel her around me, to see her ecstasy, that it kept me awake, listening to the lilt of her breathing, feeling the warmth of her against me.

Even now, it is almost unbearable. I reach out, running my fingers along the curve of her shoulder. She is warm despite the chill in the air, despite the heavy snowfall beyond my windows which casts strange, rippling shadows across the floor. The fire in the hearth has burned low, leaving only glowing embers to illuminate the pre-dawn gloom. My chambers are a world of their own in these hours, a place between sleeping and waking where anything feels possible.

This is dangerous, this wanting. This need to wake her, to claim her again, to lose myself in her. My hand drifts lower, tracing the dip of her waist. She makes a soft sound in her sleep. For a moment, I allow myself to imagine what it would be like if she were truly mine—not bound by chains or fear or duty, but willing. Wanting.

Last night, for a single moment, she wanted me. Then, it was gone.

A knock breaks the silence. I stand from the bed and robe myself. Duty never stops.

Darian enters at my command, his expression grim in the half-light. Behind him, in the hallway’s high window, dawn has begun to paint the sky in shades of steel and blood, gray and red.

"The council awaits," he says quietly. His gaze flickers to Calliope's sleeping form, then back to me. "There have been … further developments. Our time grows shorter, My King."

The walk to the council chamber is long and cold. Winter is coming to Millrath. Soon, my city will be white with ice and snow; now, the halls of the castle are perpetually chilly. My boots echo against stone floors.

Everywhere, evidence of the beast's attack lingers—claw marks scoring the walls, tapestries torn and hanging askew. It killed three maids before it found Calliope in the library, rampaging through my castle on its hunt for her. The thought makes my blood boil. Servants scurry past with their heads bowed, refusing to meet my gaze. Their fear is a tangible thing, thick in the air like smoke, its scent distinctive.

Through narrow passing windows, I catch glimpses of the city across the dark water. The first snow falls in thin, blustering curtains over the lake, but even through the white haze, I can almost see the restlessness in the streets. Tiny as ants from here, small crowds are gathering at the port despite the early hour.

The underchamber, when I reach it, is thick with tension. My advisors cluster around a long table beneath my throne like crows at a feast, their faces drawn and pale in the weak morning light. A fire roars in the hearth, but its warmth doesn't reach the corners of the room where shadows gather like conspirators.

"Word from Brittletale," one advisor begins without preamble. "The Iron Lords demand action. They will not tolerate this any longer.”

A voice pipes up. “The coalition—”

"The beast breached our innermost defenses," another adds. "The people say—"

"I know what they say," I cut in. The torches flicker as my temper rises. "What do you expect me to do about it?"

Darian steps forward. "They want protection. Assurance." He hesitates. "Some suggest removing the … source of their fear."

"You mean my wife."

Silence falls heavy as a blade. Outside, a crow calls into the thin morning air, sharp and mocking.

"The chains may not be enough anymore," an older advisor ventures. "Her power grows stronger. The Gods themselves—"

"The Gods can rot." My voice drops to a dangerous whisper. "I will not be dictated to by ancient spirits or fearful peasants."

Even as I say the words, I know their foolishness. I know I am losing that which I most greatly rely upon—the trust of those who command my armies, my factories, my districts and people.

But I think of Calliope, pale and vulnerable in my bed, and I cannot bear to toss her to these wolves.

The quiet is broken when a guard bursts in through the outer doors of the underchamber without knocking. Blood streams from a gash on his forehead.

"My King,” he gasps, “fighting in the lower city! They're calling for the witch's head—"

I'm moving before he finishes speaking. I sweep down from my throne and across the chamber in a heartbeat. My hand finds the fool’s throat, claws lengthening as I lift the soldier from the ground. The council chamber falls silent but for his choking gasps and the soft crackle of the hearth.

"She is your queen," I say softly, watching the blood from his throat drip onto my fingers. His eyes go wide as my grip tightens, and I feel the delicate bones of his neck beginning to crack. "The next person who calls her witch dies slower."

I crush his windpipe with a sharp twist, letting his body crumple to the floor like a discarded doll. Without looking at my stunned advisors, I stride from the chamber, leaving them to deal with the corpse cooling on their pristine marble floor.

Behind me, the council erupts in a clamor of voices, but their words fade to nothing against the thunder of my pulse.

When I return to her, Calliope stands at the window of my chamber, fully dressed, her fingers tracing patterns in the frost on the glass. The morning light catches in her hair, turning the dark strands to liquid shadow. She's beautiful and terrible, a storm given flesh.

She is looking out upon the port on the other side of the lake, where townspeople gather in the pale, sheer light of the snowy dawn. She cannot see them clearly from here, but she must know what the people’s unrest means.

"They're afraid of me," she says without turning. It's not a question.

"Fear is a powerful weapon." I move closer, drawn to her like iron to a lodestone. "One that can be wielded."

Now she does turn, and something in her expression makes my chest tighten.

"Did last night change anything?" I ask, my voice low. "Your … resistance to this place?"

She considers this, head tilted slightly. "I'm not certain yet."

"We could always try again." The words slip out before I can stop them. "To help you decide."

To my surprise, she laughs—a real laugh, bright and unexpected as sunlight breaking through storm clouds. The sound transforms her face, softening the sharp edges of her beauty, and for a moment, I glimpse what we could be.

But then there is a soft, faint thud, gentle as the sound of a shoe dropping on carpet. In the distance, a column of black smoke rises beyond the window, in the heart of the city, thick and ominous against the pale morning sky.

The smile dies on her lips as we both watch it curl upward, a stark reminder of the chaos her presence has brought to my city.

It takes some time for her to speak again. I know she has seen the blood on my hands. I know she will not ask what it means.

"You may be my husband," she says quietly, moving closer until I can feel the heat of her body, smell the lingering scent of our passion on her skin. "But if this is to be my kingdom, too, I should like to have some part in working against its doom. And I do not know if you're to be its doom, Your Majesty. Arvoren." My name on her lips sends a shiver through me. "Because this is certainly not my doing. Whatever I am, I am still no witch, no wench, no temptress, no omen. And if Kaldoria should fall, it will not fall to me."

She reaches for my bloodied hand, and cups it within her own, my palm turned toward the ceiling. We both know what she means without her having to say it.

Not yet has her rebelliousness faded from her.

She leaves before I can respond, the chains at her ankles chiming softly as she goes. The sound echoes in the empty chamber long after she's gone, a delicate counterpoint to the distant sounds of unrest rising from the city below.

I remain at the window, watching the smoke rise, wondering if she's right—if the doom approaching my kingdom comes not from her presence but from my own inability to let her go.

Outside, the snow continues to fall, and somewhere in the city, another fire begins to burn.