Chapter 36 - Calliope

I come to in pieces.

Consciousness slips in slowly, fragment by fragment, the world around me thick with shadow and heat. My whole body aches, pulsing with pain in a rhythm that matches the distant thunder of explosions and dragon roars. I can’t breathe, not deeply. Each inhale is shallow, choked with ash and smoke that scratches my throat like broken glass. I have the vague sense that I’m actively dying.

For a while, I don’t know where I am. I don’t know if I’m alive, or if I’ve drifted into some dark corner of whatever lies beyond. My mind fights to place itself, casting desperately through fog and pain until the memory of falling—the bone-rattling snap of the beam, the shattering stone, Ulric’s flames and Arvoren’s roar—floods back in a horrible rush.

I should be dead.

Hands—rough but warm—grip my shoulders, lifting me from the pile of rubble I’ve landed in. I feel floaty, unreal. A voice I can’t quite catch murmurs something, low and urgent, in my ear. The stranger tilts my head back gently, pouring a draught of something cool and bitter down my throat. The liquid settles like fire in my belly, sparking with an unfamiliar heat that pulses through my limbs, knitting something inside me back together. A little life returns, enough that I can draw in a ragged breath. A healing draught. The kind I once brewed for the people of Essenborn, in another life.

I blink, my vision sharpening. I see them—a figure cloaked in green, their face half-hidden by the hood. The stranger drags me to my feet, one arm slung around my shoulders, half-pulling, half-carrying me toward the cover of an alcove that miraculously hasn’t been swallowed by flames.

We stumble out of the worst of the smoke, and I feel the ground firm up beneath me, though I’m still too weak to do much more than lean against the wall.

When I finally focus on the person’s face, a spark of recognition flares in my chest. Her face is pale, her eyes shadowed with exhaustion, but there’s no mistaking her as she leans over me.

“Lyra?” My voice is a cracked whisper, barely audible.

But her eyes lift to meet mine, widening with relief. And just like that, it’s real—she’s alive. Somehow, she’s survived the night so far.

She throws her arms gingerly around me, limbs weak. I cling to her, desperate and disbelieving, wrapping my arms around her as tightly as my strength will allow.

“Lyra, you’re here. You’re alive,” I whisper, a broken laugh slipping out of me. “I thought I’d lost you—I thought …”

She lets out a soft sound, almost a laugh, but it’s thin and brittle. I pull back, and the faintest hint of a smile flits across her lips. But there’s something hollow in her eyes. Pain? Perhaps. It’s too dark for me to see much of her. But she’s shaking.

“Calliope,” she says, her voice trembling, the name barely escaping her lips. Her gaze is desperate, a flicker of agony and something darker that I can’t yet place. “Listen to me—there’s something you need to know. Linus … he isn’t who he told you he was.”

The words settle into me slowly, their reality seating itself in my stomach. It isn’t a surprise. Of course it isn’t.

“What do you mean?” I rasp.

Fire rages around us. In the sky high above, dragons screech. I hear wailing and the clashing of swords in the streets not far from here, where we lie at the foot of the castle, clinging to life, miraculously surviving.

“He’s a traitor,” Lyra whispers, her voice rough with the weight of the word. “I found out what he was doing, his plans for you. He plans to leave you for dead here. When I confronted him, he … Calliope, he left me there to die. He didn’t want me to warn you.”

I wish I was more surprised by it. I’m not, of course. I trust my instincts, but clearly, I have not trusted them enough.

Something cold and visceral sinks in, then. For a moment, I’m not sure what it is.

It hits me in a rush. “Left you—are you okay?”

My gaze snaps back to Lyra. I squint desperately against the firelight, hands reaching again for her. That’s when I see it—the deep crimson spreading across her side, the way she’s been holding her cloak closed. Her hand is slick with blood, and her skin is too pale, her breaths too shallow.

“No …” The word chokes out of me as I grab at her, my hands fluttering helplessly over her wound, as though I could somehow hold her together, keep her here.

I pull her into my arms just as she collapses forward, holding her torso in my lap, her head on my stomach. I try to stop the bleeding. But I’m a healer. I know when someone is too far gone to be saved.

And she used that healing draught—likely brewed by me, likely the last thing she had left of Essenborn, saved all this time—on me.

“I’m sorry, Calliope,” she whispers, her face pale, her bloody lips trembling with the effort to speak. “I wanted to reach you sooner … to warn you …”

“Lyra, please.” My voice breaks. The life is draining from her too fast, spilling onto the cold stones beneath us. The heat of her blood saturates my torn skirts. I feel hot tears streak down my cheeks, each one a searing burn against the ice-cold terror settling inside me. “You’re going to be fine. I’ll get you help, I’ll—”

But she shakes her head weakly, a soft, pained smile slipping across her lips.

“It’s … it’s too late for that.” Her voice is soft, each word labored, slipping out in gasps. “Just promise me … you’ll make him pay.”

The rage burns through me then, a pure, unbridled fire. Linus . His name cuts through me, a jagged blade. Lyra didn’t deserve this. None of it. She should be safe, laughing with me, sharing stories over a quiet fire in a world not filled with this endless chaos.

“Calliope …” Her voice draws me back, weak and barely audible. She meets my gaze, her eyes wide and dark, flickering like a dying flame. “I never told you … but you were the only one who ever made me … laugh. Back in Essenborn. Remember? You were … so kind to me…”

She breathes in once, then again, and then her chest stills. She slips away, the light in her still-open eyes fading.

I pull her into my arms, my tears falling against her hair, her face, mixing with the blood on her skin. The fire crackles and roars around us, but for a moment, all I can hear is the silence that fills the space she’s leaving behind.

The village square bustles with life, filled with the shouts of merchants and the laughter of children darting through the crowd. I stand alone, clutching a bundle of herbs close to my chest, trying to stay hidden in the shadow of the blacksmith's shop. But they see me anyway.

"Look, it’s the witch!" jeers one of the older boys. His friends snicker, kicking dirt in my direction. "What are you doing here, Calliope? Out to curse us all?"

My cheeks burn, and I hug the herbs tighter, looking down at my feet.

“Just … leave me alone,” I manage to mumble, but they only laugh harder, stepping closer.

My grandmother died months ago. The scars on my face still have yet to heal. I’m wrapped in bandages like a plague victim. Every day, I am more ashamed of my face.

"Or what?" another boy taunts, grinning meanly. "Gonna cast a spell on us?"

Before I can answer, a voice slices through the crowd—sharp, fierce, and unmistakable.

"Get away from her!" Lyra steps forward, planting herself between me and the boys. She’s small but unwavering, her hair catching the sunlight like a crown, her eyes alight with a fire that dares anyone to challenge her. "If you don’t leave her alone right now, you’ll regret it."

The boys hesitate, glancing at each other, their confidence cracking.

"Oh, yeah?" one mutters, trying to sound tough. "What’re you gonna do, Lyra?"

She lifts her chin, unafraid. "I’ll tell every mother in Essenborn exactly what you’ve been doing at the schoolhouse," she says, her voice steady and fierce. "And they’ll know who the real cowards are."

It’s enough. Their bravado deflates, and they mutter under their breaths as they slink away, not daring to meet her gaze.

When they’re gone, Lyra turns to me, her fierce expression melting into something soft and kind.

"You okay?" she asks, reaching out to place a gentle hand on my arm.

I nod, though my heart is still hammering in my chest. She gives me a warm, encouraging smile.

“Come on,” she says, her voice filled with that bright, unbreakable confidence I wish I could hold onto. “Those idiots don’t know anything. Let’s go to the river—I found a whole bunch of frogs hiding in the reeds."

And just like that, she slips her hand into mine, pulling me away from the square. Her laughter is bright and warm, wrapping around me like a shield, making the world feel safe, even if just for this moment.

I don’t know how long I sit there, holding her body. I press my forehead against hers, whispering promises that she’ll never hear, vowing vengeance against the man who took her life. Vengeance for all the world has taken from us—from me.

When her warmth finally fades in my arms, something inside me snaps.

How I manage to stand, I’m not certain. The world is fuzzy with pain, my body alight with it with every movement. Nonetheless, I make it to my feet and begin my trek toward the underchamber. I stagger through the dark, empty maw of its entryway—the entryway through which I was first formally presented to the king. It feels like lifetimes ago now, though I know it has barely been a season.

Somehow, the entire world seems to have taken on a new quality since I got to this place. I am not the same person I was before I was taken.

Around me, the cavernous chamber is broad and silent. Empty now. The councilmen are probably hiding, fleeing with their families. The commanders may all be dead by now. I try not to think of Darian as I stumble forward, stumbling over shattered stone and charred wood. Ascending the stairs takes almost all the strength I have left. As I rise, the air around me thickens with smoke, embers swirling around my feet, stinging my eyes and filling my lungs. Every breath feels like a struggle, my body heavy with grief and yet blazing with rage.

I keep moving even when it feels like I will keel over, every step fueled by Lyra’s last words, by the memory of her bloodied smile.

The throne is empty. Awaiting its king, or its conqueror. I see my husband’s face in shadowed statues, torn paintings. My vision swims as I rise to the upper floors, a ruin of collapsed walls, shattered columns, and bodies strewn across the floor. The remnants of our fight lay scattered here, broken as if all life has been drained from the stones themselves. Those still battling are in the sky high above the castle now.

I force myself to keep going, ignoring the stabbing pain that flares through my abdomen with each step. I surely have at least a few cracked ribs. Every instinct, every breath, pulls me toward the farthest, darkest wing of the castle. It’s as if something inside me knows the way, knows that this final thread of my life has led here.

The air grows colder as I pass through shadowed halls, through rooms once grand and glittering that now lay twisted with ruin. Torn drapes billow weakly in the corners, and the flicker of far-off flames casts shifting shadows that stretch like claws over the walls. I pass the faces of past kings etched into the cracked stone, their eyes lifeless and hollow, their visages crumbling under the weight of shattered history. This place—the place where oaths were sworn and legacies burned—seems to bleed the memory of all it has lost.

A noise reaches me, barely audible over the rumbling explosions from the skies and the crumbling stones around me. It’s a low, rhythmic chanting, mingling with sharp, cruel laughter.

I freeze, listening, letting the sounds guide me forward, past marble pillars and overturned statues.

Continuing on is the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do, but at the same time, I cannot stop myself, cannot halt the dogged march of my feet onward. Perhaps I really am a dutiful wife. I press my hand against the wall to steady myself, pushing through the pain, my vision spinning as I press on, moving toward the growing sound of voices. The chanting grows louder, words I can’t quite make out but that hum with an ancient malice, like some dark hymn sung to invoke terror.

Finally, I reach a vast, open hall where the ceiling has collapsed, its stones crumbling into the darkness below. Through the shadows, I glimpse movement—a flicker of firelight illuminating twisted forms, the glint of armor and the sheen of sweat on faces twisted in devotion to some dark command.

And there, in the center of it all, stands the man I know must be Ulric, his gaze fixed on Arvoren, who kneels bound in chains, his head bowed.

Arvoren’s brother is smaller than him, though no less intimidating. Ulric stands tall and lean, his golden hair falling in waves that catch the flickering light, glinting like molten metal. His eyes, a shade darker than Arvoren’s, are filled with a calculating gleam that matches the arrogant smile curling at the edges of his mouth. He wears dark armor traced with gold, polished to a deadly gleam, his stance relaxed as he stands over his brother, yet coiled with a readiness that speaks of his draconic strength. There’s an unsettling calm to him, a predator’s poise. He thinks he’s already won.

The sight rips the air from my lungs. Arvoren’s fierce gaze is dimmed, flickering like a flame struggling for its last breath. He looks defeated, desperate, wretched with grief. Ulric, holding a sword aloft, stands poised to strike, his blade glinting in the firelight.

“ Stop! ”

My voice breaks from me in a raw scream, desperate and furious.

Ulric turns slowly, as if he’s almost amused. He raises a brow, his mouth twisting into a smirk that reeks of disdain. “Well, look who managed to crawl up from the depths. Quite a surprise—though you never did know when to give up, did you, Calliope?”

Arvoren’s head snaps up, his gaze locking on me. I watch as a storm of emotions surges across his face—raw shock that widens his eyes, freezing him in place as if he can’t believe I’m standing there, alive; then relief, so powerful it steals his breath, softening the rigid lines of his face for the briefest moment. But in an instant, his relief darkens, shadowed by a fierce, protective rage as his gaze drifts over the cuts, bruises, and blood on my skin, taking in every mark and injury as though each one has been carved into his own body.

When his eyes meet mine, the distance between us vanishes. In that single heartbeat, a fierce understanding flows between us—unbreakable, undeniable, a silent promise that we’re not finished yet.

I turn my eyes back to Ulric. I have no sword, no strength left in my body. But I know I must stop him. I just know.

“Where is he?” I demand. “Linus. He was working for you. I’m going to kill him.”

Ulric stares at me for a single moment. Then, he laughs, a startled, vicious sound.

“Gods,” he chortles, as if I’ve told the funniest joke. “I knew you weren’t the sharpest tool, Calliope, but this is just sad.”

He flicks his hand in the direction of one of the mages surrounding my husband. Her hand rises from her cloak, moving in an intricate pattern through the air. A faint glimmer of magic surrounds us—and I see Ulric’s visage transform. His long, well-groomed golden hair shortens, shrinking back to his chin, becoming unkempt and mussed, as if with stress and lack of sleep. His face narrows, body growing shorter and slighter, fine armor shifting into a long, dark coat. His silver eyes gleam a pale, unnatural blue.

Before me stands Linus Caddell—my tenuous ally, the man I trusted might offer me a sheer, slight hope of freedom.

But, of course, he never existed at all.

My hands tremble, fists clenching so tightly I feel my nails dig into my palms. “This … this was all a lie,” I choke out, barely able to hold back the storm building inside me. “You were using me.”

Ulric’s smirk widens, his voice dripping with cold, triumphant satisfaction as he takes a step closer, sword still raised above Arvoren.

“Oh, you were more than useful,” he sneers, as if savoring the revelation. “You made this whole thing so much easier. A queen, parading around with her misguided notions of freedom, vying for my sympathy while I played her like a fiddle. Guarded entrances, sealed exits … How else do you think we made it this far? I could not have sneaked my mages into this wretched place without your help, Queen Calliope. And dear Varya’s, of course. She was more than willing to offer her support to my cause once she heard it would leave you dead.”

Arvoren’s face flashes with anguish. He lowers his head. I can tell without seeing his expression that he is agonized.

All the while, Ulric’s eyes flash, reveling in my horror, in the betrayal he’s unfurling with every word. He still wears the face of my ally, the ally I now know never was.

“I needed you distracted, helpless. You needed to be sympathetic to the rebels’ cause—sweet little Lyra helped with that, though of course, she wasn’t long for this world.” He laughs softly, a bitter sound, each word pressing the knife deeper. “I expected more from you, Calliope. I thought you'd be clever enough to suspect something, to see through me.” His gaze hardens, the disdain sharpening, a knife-edged finality in his tone. “You were so eager for freedom, so pathetically hungry for a scrap of hope, that you walked yourself right into my plans. You gave me exactly the opening I needed. So thank you, my dear. With your help, I’ll finally kill my dear brother and seize the throne.”

He raises the blade, his eyes glinting with cruel satisfaction.

"But don’t worry—you’ll be joining him soon enough.”

Words pour from me without my permission. I’m not certain where they’re coming from, just that I mean each and every one of them.

“Spare him,” I beg. “Please, Ulric. He’s your brother. Spare him, let him live—”

Ulric’s face morphs back into his own, that face so similar to his brother’s. He gestures to Arvoren, his tone mocking and laced with venom.

“You want to save him ? The monster who started this all? Calliope, you’re a fool. You always were.”

I swallow the ache rising in my throat. Lyra’s final words ring in my ears, her voice promising me the truth, warning me with her last breath. “It ends this way, then? You kill me, you kill him—just like you killed Lyra. Just like you’d kill anyone, human or not, who opposes you. Is this how you hope to rule? They called your brother a tyrant—Gods know what they’ll call you.”

Ulric shrugs, unfazed. “The wench was in my way. Just like you are now. If you had stayed out of it, she’d still be alive. You want to blame someone for her death? Look in the mirror.”

The words hit me like a physical blow, knocking the air from my lungs. The rage that’s been simmering inside me rises, searing and unstoppable, burning away every fragment of fear and pain.

I feel something ancient and untamed rise within me, more powerful than anything I’ve ever known. Ulric’s lies twist through my mind, shattering into nothing, leaving only one thing in their wake: the truth.

All at once, I remember a thousand things. I feel time slowing around me.

The heat of Arvoren’s hand against mine, steady and strong, grounding me when the world felt like it was falling apart.

The press of his forehead to mine in the quiet dark, his breath warm against my skin, whispering promises I didn’t yet understand.

The way his gaze softened, fierce and unguarded, as he touched my cheek, thumb brushing away a tear with a tenderness I’d forgotten could exist.

His arms around me, a fortress against the chaos, his heartbeat echoing through me, a rhythm I wanted to carry forever.

The searing intensity in his eyes as we became one, his whispered words lingering against my lips like a vow.

The fury in his roar when I was hurt, the way he looked at me like I was worth every battle he’d ever fought.

The truth is like a knife’s edge, bright and clear: I love him. I still don’t know what that means. But I know it’s true as well as I know my own name, and I know I am a Windward, a warrior, a survivor.

Ulric raises the sword, his face a mask of sadistic triumph as he prepares to strike the killing blow on Arvoren.

“ No! ”

The word rips from my throat, and my whole body surges with raw, uncontainable energy.

As Ulric’s blade descends, something explodes from deep within me. I feel it before I see it, a tidal wave of power surging up from my bones, building in a blinding light that tears through my veins. Heat courses from my core, spreading to every corner of my being, searing through the hall in a storm of brilliance, raw and furious.

The world goes white as my power surges outward, unstoppable, obliterating everything in its path.