Chapter 4 - Calliope

The soldiers’ grip on me is iron-hard, biting into my arms as they haul me through the labyrinth of halls and passageways that make up the heart of Millrath’s sole castle. I scream endlessly, violently—I throw my fists and feet and howl like a demon.

I refuse to go quietly. I refuse to make this easy for them.

After I have bitten two of the men holding me and I can taste blood on my tongue, one guard brings the hilt of his blade down across the side of my head. Stars explode across my vision. I stagger halfway to the ground before I am hauled up again.

The world swims around me in a blur of dark shapes and shadowy edges. Voices rise and fall like waves, seeming to reverberate inside my very soul, echoing through the corridors as I’m dragged along by rough hands.

The inside of the King’s castle is just as terrible as I imagined it would be.

No—worse.

The stone walls seem to shift and writhe in the flickering torchlight, the ancient draconic architecture almost monstrous in its sharp, gothic construction. Pools of shadow leer from spaces between intricate dragons, snakes, and griffins carved into the walls. Columns twist up around the walkway like the trunks of ancient trees, their surfaces carved with depictions of scales, wings, and gaping maws.

I catch glimpses of stained-glass windows. The image of a Dragon King long past stares back at me, his clawed hand resting upon an image of the globe, fingers splayed across its continents, palm obscuring Kaldoria completely.

Outside, the city of Millrath looms through the high, arched windows, a sprawl of stone and smoke, its towers clawing at the sky. Even through the glass, I can see the distant flicker of torches and the faint red glow of forge fires across the lake, their smoke rising like prayers to the God of industry—Nyxharra, I believe His name is, though I don’t take pains to familiarise myself with the Gods they worship in the south, where draconic power goes unmatched and unchallenged. The city pulses with the restless energy of a place on the brink of something terrible.

I have never been to Millrath before. I had never left the Great River region before I came here. I had never even left Essenborn.

I don’t belong here.

Now that Essenborn is a pile of ashes, I find myself thinking, I don’t belong anywhere.

“Keep moving,” one of the guards growls, yanking me forward when I stumble.

I bite back a gasp of pain, struggling to keep my feet under me. My head feels thick and heavy, my thoughts sluggish. Everything hurts: my head, my wrists, my ankles, the hollow ache of grief in my chest. Can a broken heart hurt you physically? Can it render itself into a kind of visceral, heart-stopping pain? Perhaps it’s selfish, but I am heartbroken for myself. For my future. For my freedom. I carry that loss like an open wound.

Shadowed chambers and long, winding corridors pass. We turn a corner and then another, ascend a flight of velvet-covered stairs, which I barely have the coordination to mount, and finally, we emerge into a narrow hallway lined with heavy oak doors. I barely have time to take in the sight before I’m shoved through one of them and into a large, dimly lit room.

I blink, desperate to find my bearings. The hands leave my arms and I sway, almost slumping to the floor. A low candle-lit chandelier dangles on an iron chain from the ceiling, its flames flickering faintly greenish. Beyond a tiny window, the black water of the lake churns beneath the mountain.

A flurry of movement erupts around me.

Women—maids, I think, though none of them will meet my gaze—swarm forward like a flock of birds, their hands fluttering over me in a blur of motion.

Fighting is no use. I’m too weak to even bat away a horde of drudges. I can barely keep up as they strip me of my ridiculous rags, the coarse fabric peeling away from my skin. My breath catches as the chill air of the room hits my bare skin, and I shudder, struggling to cover myself.

But the maids pay no mind to my nakedness, my shame. With deft, practiced efficiency, they lead me to a deep copper tub. They retrieve wet rags and begin to scrub every inch of me, their fingers scouring hard with rough cloths and harsh soaps that sting and burn. My scalp aches as they drag a comb through the tangles of my hair, yanking and pulling until tears prick at the corners of my eyes.

I grit my teeth and force myself to endure it. I will not cry in front of these women. I will not give them the satisfaction of seeing me break.

They pluck me, brush me, and scrub at me until I ache even more fiercely than before. They douse me in sweet-smelling oils and salves, scented like an imitation of flowers. I miss the herb garden behind my cottage so fiercely that it almost bowls me over. It’s probably rubble now.

By the time they’re finished, my skin is raw and flushed, tingling all over. I’m left shivering and exposed as they pat me dry with towels.

I barely have a moment to catch my breath before they sweep a gown over my head, tugging and smoothing the fabric until it settles around me like a second skin. A corset is laced tight around my waist, so tight I yelp.

Outside the closed door, I hear the muffled laughter of the male guards who dragged me here. I burn with resentment and shame, with fury and indignance.

The maids retreat to the entryway when they have knotted my hair into an intricate gathering of braids atop my head, a few loose pieces of softly curled hair dangling around my face. I breathe in hard, trying to savor the brief reprieve I have been allowed, before I catch a glimpse of myself in the long mirror in the corner of the room, and for a moment, I can’t breathe.

The girl staring back at me looks like a stranger.

The gown is … beautiful. There’s no other word for it. It’s palest ivory, the color of young elderflower wine, with a low square neckline and long, fitted sleeves that trail to my wrists. The bodice is embroidered with delicate gold thread, the pattern forming intricate, twisting designs that catch the light and shimmer faintly with each movement. The skirts are full and heavy, falling in soft, sweeping folds to the floor in a short train behind me. My narrow shoulders catch the light. Even my heaving chest looks full and healthy, my thin torso sculpted by the boned corset.

I almost look … regal. I look healthier and cleaner than I ever have, or at least since my grandmother died. My delicate hands are clean, their nails unsullied by potting soil and ash. My chin is tilted upward, and whatever they have dashed across my face to enhance my features offers me a haughty look, a sharp, tapered slant.

Their powders and salves have completely covered up the scars on my face, too.

I look like a noblewoman.

The door opens behind me, and I am pulled from this vision of myself, the world it offers, and plunged into the cold water of reality.

Heavy iron cuffs encircle my ankles, the metal cold and unyielding against my skin. The guard who fastens them doesn’t speak, but he meets my eyes briefly—just long enough for me to see the pity and contempt mingled there.

His lip curls as he locks the chains in place with a series of quick, sharp clicks. The chain is short, too short, forcing me to take small, careful steps.

“You’ll find these are cursed,” he murmurs, his voice low and almost mocking. “You try to leave the bounds of this castle, and they’ll weigh you down until you can’t move an inch. It would take the power of a thousand mages to break.”

I swallow hard, the weight of the chains already dragging at my legs. Every movement feels slow and cumbersome. Is this what his plan is? Chain me like a bird in a cage? Restrict my movement until I can no longer walk?

My heart sinks, but I force myself to lift my chin, refusing to show any sign of weakness.

“Is that all?” I ask, my voice surprisingly steady.

The guard’s smile is a thin, cruel slash across his face.

“That’s all, my lady,” he says mockingly. “Dinner with the king will commence shortly. You’ll be escorted from your chambers by armed guards.”

I nod. Then he’s gone, leaving me alone in the dimly lit room— my room.

The door slams shut behind him with a heavy thud, and I flinch at the sound. The silence that follows feels like it could kill me. It’s so final. Like a death knell for the rest of my life. For everything I wanted.

I take a shaky step forward, the chains rattling softly with each movement. The room around me seems almost to shimmer under the cold light. It’s small and sparsely furnished, with a narrow bed pushed against one wall, a single wooden chair, and a barred window low to the floor. The walls are bare stone, cold and unwelcoming.

Beyond the barred window, I can deduce that this wing of the castle is a wide, winding tower over the water. In its shadow in the black waters below, I can see that it stretches far higher than my quarters. Who else lives in this wing? How might I use them to escape?

I take a deep breath, my gaze drifting back to the mirror.

For a moment, I let myself really look at the girl staring back at me.

Beneath the finery, she looks fragile. There is woundedness etched into her every inch. Pale and bruised, with shadows smudged beneath her eyes and a faint sheen of sweat on her brow, she isn’t beautiful. Her dark hair offers her a mournful, lonely look. No king would ever want her.

No king but this king.

I reach up, brushing my fingers against the cool glass of the mirror.

“I will not break,” I whisper, the words a vow, a promise. “Not for him. Not for anyone.”

Tears well up in my eyes, hot and unwelcome. I squeeze them shut, fighting the sob that threatens to break free.

I won’t cry. Not now. Not after everything.

But like all disastrous things, the tears come anyway, spilling down my cheeks in silent, shaking sobs. I sink down onto the narrow bed, curling in on myself as the weight of everything I’ve been through in the past week crashes down on me all at once. The burning of my home. The long, painful journey by wagon to the capital city, miles from where I grew up. The mockery of the soldiers who brought me here, their unkind hands and words. The cruelty of the king. The promise that I will never again be free.

I cry for the girl I used to be. I cry for the safety I’ve lost. I cry for the life that’s been ripped away from me.

But I only allow myself a few moments—just enough to release the worst of the pain—before I force myself to straighten, wiping my tears with the backs of my hands.

“I won’t come quietly,” I warn, though I don’t know who I’m telling. The girl in the mirror. The monster who wants me to submit. Every ear listening through the walls of this awful place.

My tears have dislodged some of the makeup on my face. I scrub furiously at my skin with my hands until my scars are again visible, the harsh slashes down my cheek, the gouges through my temple. Twin lines traveling downward.

I will not be beautiful for him. I will never be what he wants of me.

***

“… Your defiance is adorable, little sparrow, but it is beginning to wear thin.”

The king’s voice cuts through me like I’m made of paper. I have to fight not to shudder.

The chamber is almost too dark to make out the details of the walls. Over our heads, candles burn, suspended from the ceiling, but at the outskirts of our space, guards linger in pools of shadow, weapons holstered, heads low.

Arvoren’s black eyes fix on me from across the long, lavishly set dining table, glinting with a mix of dark amusement and something colder. His features are so sharp that they could have been carved of marble, his jaw tight, his dark hair swept back from his face. The shoulder plates of his royal dress are forged of darkest iron, embossed with fields of flame. In the flickering glow of the candles above and between us, his sharp eyes and sharper teeth glint menacingly.

I hold his gaze, refusing to look away, refusing to let him see how deeply his words sting.

“I’ll take that as a compliment, Your Majesty,” I say, my voice steady despite the venomous current running through it. “It has often been said that my defiance is one of my principal virtues. And little else entertains.”

I gesture to the room around us, an opulent display of wealth and power. Golden candelabras burn steadily along the table’s length, casting a warm, flickering glow over the dark wood. The air is heavy with the scent of roast meats, spiced wine, and the faintest whiff of some unidentifiable incense that cloys at the back of my throat. I smell spices and herbs I’ve never smelled before. Every surface on the table gleams under the candlelight—polished silverware, crystal goblets filled with crimson wine, dishes piled high with more food than I’ve ever seen in my life.

But I’m not fooled. This isn’t a meal; it’s a performance. Every single detail, every subtle extravagance, every bead of condensation on the fine wine glasses, has been orchestrated to demonstrate his unbroken control over me.

King Arvoren leans back in his high-backed chair, his lips curving into a bland, uncompromising smile that chills me more than any amount of open hostility could. He looks perfectly at ease. He’s enjoying this, toying with me as one might toy with an unruly hound before breaking it to heel.

“A compliment?” he murmurs softly, his eyes never leaving mine. “It seems you have a talent for twisting words, as well as stubbornness. But even songbirds must learn when to still their wings, such that they might avoid being snapped up.”

The hiss and bite of his consonants rings in the silence. I force myself not to flinch, not to look away. Instead, I reach for my goblet with a calm, deliberate hand and take a slow sip of the wine. It’s rich and heady, bursting on my tongue with layers of flavor I’ve never tasted before.

He watches me, waiting. I wonder if he expects me to be awed by something as banal as a fine vintage.

“Still my wings?” I echo, raising a brow. “Forgive me, Your Majesty, but sparrows have no business stilling their wings for anything. Their flight allows them to survive.” I will survive, I try to convey silently with my eyes. I will survive you.

Something dark flickers across his face, so brief I almost miss it. But when he speaks again, his voice is icy.

“And how long do you think you’ll survive like this, little bird? Peering up at a hawk, thinking your fluttering will keep you out of its claws?”

“I suppose we’ll see, won’t we?”

A beat of silence stretches between us, vibrating with tension. The King’s fingers drum once, twice against the edge of his goblet, the soft sound somehow as sharp as the clink of a dagger against stone. He tilts his head slightly, studying me like one might an insect caught in a jar—something small and irritating, but still deserving of some curiosity.

“You should be grateful I haven’t simply broken you in half yet,” he says, voice low and dangerous. “Grateful for my … leniency.”

“Leniency?” I can’t help the bitter laugh that escapes me. “You burned my home to the ground. You took me from everything I’ve ever known. You dragged me here in chains and clothed me like a doll for your amusement. If that’s your idea of leniency, Your Majesty, I would hate to see what your cruelty looks like.”

His eyes narrow, a flicker of heat flaring behind the cold exterior.

“Careful,” he warns softly. “Or you will.”

“What is it you want from me?” I ask, letting the words spill out in a rush. “What possible use could you have for a broken girl from the backwaters of your kingdom? What makes me worth dragging here, dressing up, feeding me this—” I gesture to the feast in front of me, to the empty platters I haven’t touched. “You may as well throw me back into the fire you pulled me from. Because I assure you, I will never give you what you want.”

For a long moment, he doesn’t respond. His gaze burns into me, scorching and relentless, as if he could bend me to his will through sheer force alone.

I refuse to look away. If he wants me to submit, he’ll have to beat me into the ground first. Even if I’m on my knees, I’ll still find a way to spit in his face.

Then, abruptly, he stands. The motion is swift and graceful, but his movements are taut, coiled—like a wolf about to lunge.

“You think you’re clever, don’t you?” he breathes, voice soft and deadly. I realize just then how low his voice truly is. It rattles inside my chest like a war signal, the horn of a distant ship. “You think you can rile me up with your sharp tongue and wounded pride. But you’ll learn, little sparrow. You’ll learn what it means to kneel before a king. You’ll learn to sing when I command it.”

The words are a promise, a threat. They chill me to the bone. But I hold his gaze, my chin tilted defiantly upward, refusing to let him see my fear.

“Then I suppose you have your work cut out for you,” I say softly. “I won’t do a thing for you, Tyrant.”

His lips curl back in a snarl, and for one heart-stopping moment, I think he might strike me. But then he laughs, a sharp, humorless sound that echoes harshly off the walls.

He turns abruptly, striding toward the door.

“You’ll sing,” he says over his shoulder, the words clipped despite their amusement. “You’ll sing, and you’ll beg for it before this is over.”

With that, he slams the door behind him so hard the goblets on the table rattle and my chains jangle softly at my ankles. I sit there in stunned silence, my heart hammering wildly in my chest.

The room feels colder without him in it, as if he’s taken the very air with him. But I know even now that I have spoken only the truth. If he wants to hear me sing, he’ll have to rip the words from my throat.

I look down at my empty plate and smile grimly.

Let him try.