Chapter 27 - Arvoren

At the break of dawn, I stand on the battlements, the wind whipping my cloak and my hair as I watch the four soldiers approach across the moat to my castle, seeking an audience with me. I have been anticipating their arrival since last night, when I was warned to expect them. They walk with the arrogant swagger of those who believe they hold the winning hand. Fools, all of them. They have no idea what I am capable of, what depths of fury they have awakened within me.

Across the squally black lake, my city curls upon itself, resisting the insistent battering of the wind.

As they draw closer, I see the emblems on the soldiers’ armor—the rose of House Bellrose, the crow of House Draven, the lion of House Morwen, and the serpent of House Vos. A united front, then.

They reach me and do not bow, do not even incline their heads. My rage is boundless. Their leader, the Bellrose soldier, speaks, voice as brittle and sharp as cracked glass.

I listen, hands clasped behind my back, absorbing the words: treason. War. Calliope, heresy, abomination, weakness. The words stir something dark and ancient in me, a bone-deep rage so fierce it nearly blinds me.

“Who is responsible for this charge?”

My voice echoes over the waters on either side of the moat, icy and precise, each syllable a promise of vengeance.

The spokesman, with his chest puffed up as though he’s suddenly a man worth noticing, stands taller, if only barely.

“Our lord, Ulric of House Szallitás, commander of the United Houses,” he announces, daring to meet my gaze with a thin, nervous smile. “Together, the rightful Draconic Houses stand as one, pledging themselves to the protection of the realm. You—both of you—have poisoned the throne. No longer shall it be permitted.”

The words fall like stones in an empty room. I can feel the fire clawing its way up from the hollows of my chest, each beat of my heart fueling its rage. They mean to take her from me—to take Millrath, my city, my throne, my kingdom. I force myself to breathe, holding back the torrent of fury. There will be time to unleash it, to bathe in it.

I raise my hand, and my guards step forward.

“Escort these soldiers beyond the city walls,” I command, the words cutting clean through the air, cold and unyielding. “Let them greet the beasts at the foothills of our picturesque mountains.”

The soldiers glance at each other, eyes widening in the stark realization that they’ll be left to die out there, to be torn apart by the very creatures they’ve come to fear. I don’t wait to watch them break; the guards will see to them. I turn and leave the hall as their curses and shouts echo behind me, each step reverberating with a satisfaction I haven’t felt in years.

But the satisfaction is short-lived, smothered by something darker—an old fear, a memory wrapped in pain. I can feel it twisting in my mind, a serpent curling around old wounds, forcing them open.

Betrayal has roots in Millrath. My family’s history is written in it, in blood and bone.

Now, I watch as history repeats itself.

It was a night like any other. I was still a boy, hardly on the cusp of manhood—I was in my chambers, poring over maps and treaties, trying to make sense of the tangled web of alliances and rivalries that made up the political landscape of Kaldoria. My father had been grooming me for the throne since I was old enough to walk, and I was determined to prove myself worthy of the crown that would one day sit upon my head. Ulric was still a young child, our sister younger still. I did not see them often, but I recall loving them dearly, the kind of childish love that did not survive within me.

The first sign that something was amiss was the sound of shouting from the courtyard below. I rose from my desk, frowning, and crossed to the window. What I saw made my blood run cold.

Soldiers and mages, dozens of them, poured through the gates like a dark tide. They wore the colors of the other houses, the houses my own parents had gone to great lengths to form close bonds with, and they moved with the deadly purpose of men on a mission. The mages' robes billowed behind them, their staffs already glowing with deadly intent. I will never forget the colour of their magic against the sky.

I didn't hesitate. I snatched up my sword and ran for the door, my heart pounding in my chest. I had to get to my family, to warn them, to protect them.

But by the time I reached the throne room, it was already over. The floor was slick with blood, the bodies of my father's guards littering the ground, some of them still smoking, all of them still bleeding.

There, in the center of the carnage, were my parents and my sister. My mother lay crumpled at the foot of the throne, her once-beautiful face frozen in a final expression of horror, her skin shredded apart by the dark spells that had torn through her. My father sprawled beside her, his hand still curled around the hilt of his sword, as if even in death he refused to surrender. His crown was broken above his bloodied head, shattered by either blade and spell; I could not tell.

And Elara ... sweet, innocent Elara, barely more than a babe. The mages had shown no mercy, their magic ripping through her small form alongside the soldiers' blades. Her tiny body bore the wounds of sorcery. Her eyes stared sightlessly at the ceiling, her blood pooling on the marble like a macabre painting.

Ulric staggered into the underchamber behind me. I recall the sound of his scream. I don't remember much of what happened next. I know I howled, a sound of pure, animalistic rage and grief that tore from my throat like a living thing. I could not yet transform into my dragon form, still too young. I know I charged the soldiers and mages, my sword flashing in the torchlight as I cut them down one by one. I know I fought like a man possessed, driven by a fury that burned hotter than any dragon's flame.

But in the end, it wasn't enough. They were too many, and I was just one boy, one prince with a broken heart and a shattered world.

They took me prisoner, dragged me before their leaders like a trophy. I spat in their faces, cursed them with every breath, swore that I would make them pay for what they had done.

And pay they did.

It took me years, but I bided my time. Even as my brother vanished, cloyed by drink and the promise of forgetting what we had seen, I watched and I waited, gathering allies and resources, plotting my revenge with a cold, ruthless precision that would have made my father proud.

And when the time was right, with Darian at my side, I struck.

I killed them all, every last one of the traitors who had dared to betray my family. I took back the throne that was rightfully mine, and I made sure that the whole of Kaldoria knew the price of crossing House Szallitás.

But even now, all these years later, the memory of that night still haunts me. The sight of my family's broken bodies, the sound of Elara's final, gurgling breath, the taste of blood and ashes in my mouth.

I was powerless then. But I am no longer powerless.

The flash of memory ignites something feral in me, a reminder of why I’ve fought so fiercely for Millrath, for every inch of it. I claimed this throne with my own hands, wrested it from those who thought they could deny me my birthright. I alone reclaimed our name, reforged our legacy.

And now, Calliope. Beautiful, dangerous Calliope, the flame that illuminates the darkest corners of this place, the one who’s come to haunt my waking thoughts, who’s come to mean … far more than I could ever admit.

I can’t afford weakness. Not now.

If I killed her now—if I myself destroyed her, rid this place of her—could I protect my family’s legacy from again coming to ruin?

The thought almost makes me sick.

My heart pounds as I storm through the castle, each hallway a blur. Stone faces from my ancestors look down at me with empty eyes as I pass, accusing. They stand immortalized in the statues that line the corridor, watching as I walk the same path they did, as if daring me to falter. Each set of eyes calls to me with the same silent demand: uphold what they died for, or lose everything.

My sister is watching me—my mother is watching. My father is watching. I feel his imperious stare even now. They urge me to maintain my power, to protect their legacies, to keep close to my chest what had cruelly been stolen from them. Their voices are so very loud, almost drowning out the fierce drumming of my pulse in my ears.

I turn a corner sharply, my gaze hardening as I near Calliope’s and my chambers. I know what I should do, what is necessary to protect my throne. I must end this; I must banish her to the wilderness, let her face the fate of those who came before her, who dared threaten what is mine. It’s what they all want, what they expect.

Yet as I draw nearer to her door, the truth of it claws at me, the truth of what I cannot bear to do.

I am too weak to kill her. I probably always was. From the moment I first laid eyes on her, I could not have killed her if I tried.

Her voice comes to me then, a whisper in my mind. What am I to you? The question she’s never asked, but always lingers between us.

I push open the door with more force than necessary, and there she is, seated near the window, bathed in the first light of dawn. She looks up at me, surprise flickering in her gaze, and my resolve wavers, then cracks, an edifice crumbling at its foundations.

She rises slowly, her gaze wary, as if sensing the storm within me. “Arvoren—”

“Enough,” I cut her off, my voice harsher than I intend. I can’t look at her, not directly. She is a spark, and I am dangerously close to igniting. “The houses have formed an alliance. An army in the North, under my brother’s command. They’re coming for us.”

She blinks, her expression guarded, yet her eyes—damn those eyes—hold an unerring softness that makes something twist and shatter within me. She isn’t surprised. I knew she wouldn’t be. Calliope seems to notice every small thing.

“What will you do?” she asks, her voice careful, as if sensing that one wrong move could undo me.

The question grates against my pride. I feel the anger rising again, directed at the world, at the houses, at her—at myself for the weakness that keeps me frozen, for the need that makes me hesitate.

“What I should do,” I answer, though the words feel hollow. My fists clench, the tension radiating up my arms, threatening to consume me. “What I must. You’ve seen what they think of you, what they would have of you. They’ve come for me because of you, Calliope. Do you understand what that means?”

She doesn’t flinch, but I see the flicker of hurt in her eyes, the brief, fragile slip of her mask. “And do you really believe it’s so simple? That I wanted any of this?”

I step closer. My anger is an open wound inside me, bleeding, pulsing, making itself known. My fingers brush her cheek, and she doesn’t pull away, though her breath catches. “Do you realize what it would cost me to keep you here? What I would give—what I would destroy—to protect this kingdom?”

She leans into my touch, just barely, and it’s enough to break something in me. I pull her close, unable to resist, and she presses her forehead to my chest, her breath warm against my skin. The tension melts, leaving only a brittle fragility I cannot ignore.

“Arvoren,” she whispers, her voice threading through the silence, her hands fisting in my shirt. “I know you believe you have to choose, but this—us—it doesn’t have to end in ruin. I choose another way. And I value my choice here, our choice, not to be what we were destined to be, not to hurt one another. You should do the same.”

Her words sink in, burrowing deep, and I am left without an answer. I can feel the weight of my family’s legacy pressing down on me, demanding I make a choice, that I either banish her or lose everything I’ve fought for.

But here, at this moment, I can’t bring myself to let her go. I pull her closer, our lips brushing. For a heartbeat, the rest of the world fades away.

In that silence, I allow myself the luxury of hope, if only for a moment. Then, the second passes, and it is gone, and I am back in the castle they seek to destroy, holding all the mistakes I have made, waiting for the ax to fall.