Chapter 26 - Calliope

The catacombs beneath Millrath are a labyrinth of damp stone corridors, carved deep into the bedrock beneath the castle. I have only visited them once before, but still, they bear an eerie familiarity. Each step I take sends muted echoes through the walls, and a faint chill seeps up from the earth, wrapping around me like a shroud. I’ve learned to move almost silently down here, winding strips of cloth around the chain-links at my ankles to deaden their sound. The magic-torches lining the walls burn a dim, flickering green, their light twisting into shapes that slip into the corners of my vision.

Arvoren would not kill me for wandering. Not anymore. But still—he cannot know of this. Not if I want Lyra to live. Not if I want the revolutionaries to succeed.

Do I want the revolutionaries to succeed? I am no longer sure.

The air tastes stale, as though it hasn’t moved in centuries, and carries an earthy scent laced with decay. Somewhere far above, the world slumbers, oblivious to what schemes brew below its foundations.

At last, I reach the meeting point: a small, shadowed alcove behind a collapsed arch. It’s barely a room—only a narrow, coffin-shaped chamber. Not far from the tomb of Arvoren’s family. The stone niches carved into the walls, where the ancient dead once lay, are now empty, abandoned. A single torch glows faintly in its rusted sconce, casting a meager light that clings to the darkness instead of chasing it away.

Lyra is already there, wrapped in a rough, patched cloak, her arms drawn close to herself as if warding off the cold. I approach silently, but still, she seems to sense my presence.

Her eyes widen when she sees me, and she steps forward to pull me into an embrace. I can feel her bones beneath her skin, sharp and brittle as glass. She’s always been small, but now, with hollow cheeks and sunken eyes, she looks gaunt. Scrappy and wiry, her unwashed blonde hair hangs in matted strands around her face, and her cheeks are smudged with dust and shadows.

Her voice comes out in a harsh whisper as she pulls away, her gaze darting around us.

"You shouldn’t be here, Calliope. I didn’t think you’d actually risk it. If they catch you …" Her eyes shine with worry, but there's also a flicker of admiration there, a spark that ignites something dangerous in me. The last time we spoke, she imbued me with the courage that led me to the top of the castle’s highest tower the following morning. Her faith in me is dangerous.

"I can handle it, Lyra," I reply, injecting a confidence I don’t quite feel. I study her face in the dim light. "Are you safe? Are you getting enough to eat? Do you have somewhere to sleep—”

Lyra glances away, but before she can answer, a darker shape steps forward from the edge of the shadows nearby. Linus emerges, his movements liquid, unhurried. He moves with the sort of smooth, practiced stealth that feels almost unnatural, like a cat weaving silently through tall grass. His presence is a cold wave filling the room, and even the dim light can’t soften the sharp lines of his face.

Gone is the smooth, attractive young man I knew. The dim torchlight glints off his wiry frame, emphasizing his lean, almost skeletal build, his clothes hanging loose as if he’s simply too hungry to fill them out. The bones of his face cast angular shadows, and his hollowed eyes gleam with something dangerous.

Clearly, it has not been easy for the rebels of the city.

"Our fearless queen," he says with a too-sharp smile, voice slick and silken. "How gracious of you to join us."

He steps close—too close. I feel his eyes roving over my face and form. His fingers graze my wrist, lingering a beat too long. I can’t tell what his desire is for—me, or my newfound power.

I resist the urge to recoil, feeling the thin scrape of his nails against my skin. I offer a tight smile and pull my wrist free, my discomfort festering into a low burn.

He’s not what he seems—that much, I’m sure of. The way he’s always watching me, always too close … there’s something in him that stirs a primal wariness deep in my gut.

I hold the information I do have close to my chest: he’s certainly lying about something. He spoke a big game about revolution, and yet his family is withholding from the revolting coalition. He is surely no longer welcome as a diplomat in the city, and yet, he remains; he’s certainly hiding from the king now, covering up, nowhere to go but underground.

The man is desperate. And whatever he wants from me, he’ll do anything to get it.

"What news?" I ask, making sure my voice is steady, cool.

Linus lets the moment stretch, as if amused by my restraint, before finally answering.

"War," he begins, voice dropping into a dramatic whisper. He paces in the narrow space, his gaze darting between me and Lyra. "Though I’m sure you know that part. The noble houses in the North rally their forces against Arvoren, finally seeing through his tyranny. They wait for us to act, to send them a sign—a show of strength." He stops, looking at me with a predatory glint. "And the people … they’re restless. Fearful of the witch-queen in their midst. They need a savior."

I catch the word like a barbed hook, but I keep my expression blank. Linus, pleased, leans closer.

"It’s remarkable," he continues, his voice now a low murmur. "You’re something they fear even more than the lords, the houses, their armies and pawns. Someone willing to embrace darkness, to destroy the pillars of power that have enslaved us all.”

“That’s not me,” I say, and I believe it, though perhaps I am a fool for it.

Linus looks at me as if I missed his point. “They want a heretic, Calliope. Be their heretic. Burn their kingdom to the ground. Nobody is born murderous. We become this way. In this kingdom, it is beaten into us.”

The words wrap around me like a snake, binding tight and cold. Linus is in my space now. I don’t pull away, not wanting to give him the satisfaction. The flicker in his gaze is unmistakable, though; he enjoys testing boundaries. He enjoys the power, the thrill of control. It’s unsettling, his twisted fascination with me.

Yes, I’m certain now. Something has happened that has unhinged this man. He’s either terrified or manic. Perhaps both.

"Is that what you want, Linus?" I ask, voice sharper than I intend. "A puppet to dance on your strings?"

A dark look crosses his face, but only for a moment, quickly smothered by his charming, chilling grin.

"A queen with teeth," he murmurs, his voice like silk slipping over steel. "One with the strength to seize her destiny."

He paces back into the shadows, his silhouette stretching tall and thin against the wall.

"You have the power, Calliope. Arvoren’s defenses are strongest against external forces, against armies and assassins. But against magic? Against someone with your strength, someone already inside his walls?" He spreads his hands, a look of triumph in his eyes. "You’d be unstoppable. And you know it. You’re not stupid. You know it’s your chance at freedom. You know it’s the only way out. If you don’t act, the other lords will soon rip him to shreds, and his people will kill you. They’ll tear you apart.”

I turn to Lyra, searching her face for some measure of reassurance. But she only nods, her expression anxious and watchful.

"With your magic," she says softly, "you could smuggle us in—Linus and the others. We can bring in allies from the rebellion. Once inside, we’ll have a mage waiting who can finally break your chains." She glances down at the cloth-wrapped metal around my ankles, a slight frown creasing her brow. "But it’ll take a risky diversion. You’ll have to keep Arvoren distracted—keep his attention off the lower gates."

A mage who can break my chains. I’m not na?ve enough to believe it; promises from Linus come with hidden blades. But he thinks I’m desperate, thinks he can keep me on his string with the barest scraps of hope. And maybe I am desperate … or maybe I will become so someday soon, if the king keeps his chains on me for much longer.

“You’ll kill him, then,” I say in a small, flat voice.

Lyra chews her lip. “We …”

Linus interjects. “Yes.”

At the very least, despite his cruelty, his unsettling viciousness, his schemes and untruths, Linus will not tell me white lies.

I nod, feigning a soft, hesitant surrender. "When the time comes, should our alliance have held, I’ll open the entrance from the castle into the catacombs. But I want more information first. Names, numbers, locations. The logistics of my escape. Proof of my immunity. No surprises."

Linus’ expression twists briefly, a flash of something annoyed. But then his smooth, predatory calm returns, his grin widening.

"Of course, My Queen," he replies. "We’ll send word soon. And remember…" He steps close once more, lowering his voice to a whisper. "Eventually, you’ll have to make a choice. You can’t stay loyal to him and save your people. You can’t cling to the dragon and pretend you’re anything other than his captive."

"And what about you, Linus?" I ask, unable to stop myself. "Where do your loyalties lie?"

His eyes flash with something I can’t describe. "To myself. To the future. Now, if you’ll excuse us, I have to meet with allies outside of the city by dawn.”

When Lyra and Linus finally disappear back into the shadows, I’m left standing alone in the cold chamber, clutching the book Linus pressed into my hand. My fingers are shaking as I flip through its pages—a mixture of guard patrols, map sketches, and security details, all scrawled in hasty script. The hardcover, torn from another book, reads, The House Szallitás Family Tree Through the Ages. I slip it into my dress, feeling the cold of it press against my skin.

As I climb back to the upper levels of the castle, Linus’s words coil like a snake in my mind, hissing louder and more insistently with each step. He thinks I’ll be his willing weapon, his means to power. But if I play him, if I maneuver this game right, he may become my weapon instead—a contingency, a way out if Arvoren turns on me again.

But if Arvoren doesn’t—if he does free me, if he is the gentle man I knew last night …

I cast the thought from my mind.

Silent, I slip into Arvoren’s chambers—our chambers—and pause just inside the doorway. He sleeps deeply, his face softened, the usual fierce tension gone from his jaw. I lie beside him and study him in the moonlight, the rise and fall of his breathing steady and calm.

Incessant, for hours, I ask myself whether I could really do it, whether I could kill this man. I find no answer within myself. Eventually, I fall into an uneasy sleep.