Chapter 31 - Arvoren

"Seven more dead in the night. Three children among them."

Darian's voice echoes off the black stone walls of the underchamber. Blood drips from a fresh cut above his eye—evidence of his latest encounter with the beasts that now prowl our streets.

I grip the arms of my throne, feeling the metal bend beneath my fingers. The green torchlight casts strange shadows across the chamber floor, making the bloodstains from previous audiences appear almost black. Around us, my commanders and councilmen shift uneasily, armor creaking in the tense silence.

"Where?"

"The western quarter, near the forges." Darian's expression is grim. "The beasts are growing bolder. This one broke through a stone wall to reach them."

As if in answer, a distant roar echoes through the castle, so powerful it makes the torches gutter. Several of my commanders flinch. Weaklings, all of them.

"My King." A new voice joins the chorus—one of my scouts, practically stumbling down the steps into the underchamber, his face pale with fear. "White dragons approach from the north, from Eldran. Of House Draven's forces, three of them. They've been spotted scaling the outer peaks."

Of course. Of course they would come now, when our defenses are stretched thin, when these godsforsaken beasts tear through my city like paper.

My brother always did have perfect timing.

I rise from my throne, descending the dais with measured steps. "How long?"

"Hours at most, Your Majesty. They're moving fast, staying low to avoid detection. And there are reports of more gathering in the foothills—House Bellrose, House Morwen…"

"Your Majesty!" Another interruption, this time a guard, practically tripping over himself in his haste as he staggers into the underchamber. "The people … they're gathering at the castle gates, at the moat. Demanding sanctuary. They say if we won't protect them in the streets, we must at least offer them shelter."

Before I can respond, I feel her presence.

Calliope appears at the top of the stairs that descend into the chamber, a strange vision in deep green silk, her chains catching the torchlight as she descends.

Every head turns to watch her approach, and I see the way my commanders straighten, the way their hands drift to their weapons.

"The catacombs," she says simply, her voice carrying in the hollow chamber. "Let them shelter there."

I bark out a harsh laugh. "The catacombs are sealed for a reason. The tunnels run too deep, too far. They're impossible to properly defend—"

"They're safer than the streets." She moves closer, and despite myself, I'm drawn to her like iron to a lodestone. "Your people are dying, Arvoren. Children are being torn from their beds. Would you deny them this small mercy?"

"Mercy," I spit the word like poison. "Mercy is what gets kings killed."

But even as I say it, I see the truth in her eyes. See the way she looks at me—not with fear or hatred, but with something deeper, more understanding, a penetrative stare. It makes my chest ache.

"Sometimes," she says softly, "mercy is what keeps kings alive."

A beast screams somewhere in the city, closer this time. The sound mingles with distant shouts, the clash of steel, the beating of massive wings against the mountain winds.

"The dragons are coming," Darian says quietly. "We'll need every soldier on the walls, every archer in the towers. We can't spare men to protect the civilians in the streets."

I look at Calliope, at the way the torchlight plays across her face, catching in her eyes like banked fire. Last night's passion is still fresh in my mind—the taste of her skin, the way she came apart beneath me, the soft sounds she made as pleasure took her. How she stared at me in the dark afterward, wordless, as I denied her all she asked of me.

"The catacombs are extensive," she continues, her voice steady. "They run deep beneath the castle, protected by stone and earth. The young, the elderly, the infirmed—they'll be safe there while your men defend the walls."

Another roar echoes in the far distance, amplified by the ring of the mountains around the lake, and this time I recognize it: the battle-cry of a rival dragon, drawing closer with each passing moment. Only a day away now, certainly.

My people might hate me, might curse my name in the streets, but they're still mine to protect.

"Very well." The words taste like ash. "Open the catacombs. But only the tunnels nearest to the castle. Any who venture deeper will be left to whatever horrors lurk in the dark."

Sheer, intense relief flickers across Calliope's face, so brief I almost miss it. She inclines her head gracefully, chains clinking as she moves. "I'll help organize them. The people trust me more than your guards—that goes to show how deeply they distrust your guards, doesn’t it?”

"You'll do no such thing." The words come out sharper than I intend. "You'll remain in the upper chambers where I can—"

Another messenger bursts into the underchamber, cutting me off. "Your Majesty! House Vos's mages have been spotted crossing the southern ridge, fifty miles away, approaching fast. Their dragons fly ahead of the main force."

The chamber erupts in a flurry of movement and voices. My commanders huddle over maps spread across the great table, arguing strategy, while runners dash in and out with fresh reports. In the middle of it all, Calliope stands like a statue, watching me with those storm-gray eyes.

"Let me help," she says again, softer this time. "Please."

Something in her voice makes me pause. There's an urgency there, an intensity I haven't heard before. But before I can question it, Darian approaches with a fresh report of beast attacks in the Eastern Quarter.

"Fine," I growl, waving her away. "But take guards with you. Those people wanted you dead mere days ago—many still do. And do not”—I catch her arm as she turns to go, pulling her close enough to whisper—"do not make me regret this."

She meets my gaze steadily. "Of course."

I watch her leave, the sight of her chains dragging against the stone floor oddly comforting. She is still mine, still bound. Still safe.

The next hours pass in a blur of reports and preparations. House Draven's dragons are visible on the peaks now, dark shapes wheeling against the gray sky, testing our defenses. By daylight, they know they will be shot down if they descend upon the city. They await nightfall. The beasts in the city grow bolder, and the sounds of fighting echo through the streets almost constantly. Screams echo into the underchamber, and I feel like a boy again, listening to the screams of my dying family.

I stand at the high window of the war room, watching as lines of people file into the catacombs—mothers clutching children, old men leaning on sticks, the sick and injured carried on makeshift stretchers.

In peasants’ clothes so as not to be recognised as what she is, Calliope moves among them like a spirit, helping, comforting, directing. Even from here, I can see how they look at her: with hope, with trust. They think she’s a common medic, a healer. It’s a position that suits her well.

Something twists in my chest at the sight.

"The outer walls are secured," Darian reports from behind me. "Every archer we can spare is positioned on the towers. But if all five houses attack at once …"

"They won't." I turn from the window, studying the maps spread across the table. "My brother is many things, but he's not foolish enough to risk friendly fire between rival dragons. They'll come in waves, testing for weakness."

"And the beasts?"

I bare my teeth in what might be a smile. "Let them come. Better they face me than my people."

A horn sounds from the northern watchtower—three long blasts. We are surrounded. It will not be long now.

"It begins," I murmur, already feeling the change rippling through my blood, the dragon within me stirring to life. "Sound the alarm. Get those people underground. And find my wife—"

But when I turn back to the window, Calliope is gone, swallowed by the crowd flowing into the dark mouth of the catacombs.

Something niggles at the back of my mind—a suspicion, a fear I can't quite name. But there's no time to dwell on it. Through the windows, I see the first of House Draven's dragons diving toward the city, its scales gleaming like fresh blood in the winter light.

I shed my cloak, my shirt, feeling my skin begin to change.

"Secure the gates," I command as my voice starts to deepen, to roughen. "Seal the catacombs once everyone is inside. No one enters or leaves without my express permission. Get our shifters to the skies—I will join them there.”

"Yes, My King."

I don't wait to hear more. I'm already running, my body shifting, growing, changing as I race toward the still-destroyed sanctum, its iron frame like a broken birdcage. By the time I burst through the doors onto the roof, I'm no longer a man but a dragon, my wings spreading wide as I launch myself into the battle-ready sky.

Let them come. Let them all come. I will teach them why they call me Tyrant.

But even as I rise to meet my enemies, that nagging doubt remains, whispering in the back of my mind: Something is wrong. Something is very wrong.

I push the thought away, focusing on the dragons mounted upon the peaks surrounding the city, their wings darkening the sky like storm clouds. They’re lying in wait. Now, we’re at a stalemate. There will be time for doubts later. For now, there is only the fight.

And I intend to win.