Chapter 5 - Arvoren

In the memory, I find myself in a grand chamber, sunlight streaming through stained glass windows, casting colorful patterns on the polished marble floor. The castle is beautiful, bright and full of life. The air is heavy with the scent of polished wood and ancient tomes, a rich tapestry of history that seems to whisper secrets from the past.

I stand before my father, King of Kaldoria, head of House Szallitás, an imposing figure wrapped in the regal garments of his station. His presence fills the room, a force of nature that makes me feel small yet awestruck.

“Father,” I say, my voice a mixture of excitement and reverence, “are we really the greatest house in all of Kaldoria?”

He turns to me, his deep-set eyes piercing but softened with a hint of amusement. “A bold claim from a boy, Arvoren. But yes, we are. Our family has ruled this Kingdom for centuries, against all odds.” His tone shifts, becoming more serious, the weight of his words pressing down on me like a heavy crown. “And it will be your duty one day to ensure that House Szallitás remains at the helm of Kaldoria.”

I swallow hard, the gravity of his statement settling in my chest like a warm ember. “I will, Father. I promise!”

The thrill of his expectations ignites something within me, a flame of ambition that makes my heart race.

Sometimes, Mother takes us to Dornath's shrine while Father is with his council, seeking the Gods’ wisdom in strategy. Being from the human settlements in the north, Mother grew up knowing few of the Gods, but she has taken pains to familiarise herself with them all. We pray for a long time on those days. Ulric always fidgets through those prayers, but I find comfort in their rhythm.

He moves closer, leaning against the great wooden desk adorned with maps of the kingdom, each mark telling tales of victories and betrayals. “Our family has always fought fiercely to maintain our position. The other houses have been relentless, always seeking to unseat us. But time and again, we have prevailed.”

I nod, my mind racing with visions of knights clashing, banners waving in the wind, warrior-dragons battling in the sky, and the pride of our house standing tall above all others.

“I want to be just like you!” I declare, almost breathless with admiration. “I’ll lead our armies and protect our people!”

A rare smile breaks across his face, and he lets out a small, genuine laugh that resonates like music through the chamber. “Oh, my son, if only it were that simple. You may find that your role as king will be easier than mine.”

“Easier?” I echo, confusion crossing my brow. “How can it be easier? You’re the king!”

He straightens, the light shifting over his sharp features. “Right now, your mother and I are working to foster better relations with the other houses and lords. We seek peace, Arvoren. We don’t want to do what our ancestors have always done—we want to find some way to be better. Strength, but unity, too. We want to build alliances instead of just fortifying walls.”

His voice is rich with ambition, yet I catch a hint of weariness beneath the surface, a burden that feels far too heavy for my young shoulders.

I furrow my brow, intrigued. “You think that will work? That they’ll listen?”

He shrugs, the weight of a King’s responsibility showing in the slight sag of his shoulders. “It’s a risky path. Many will doubt us, and the history between our houses is stained with blood and betrayal. But if we can bring them to the negotiating table, perhaps we can change the fate of this place, which has known such death and bloodshed.”

“Do you think they’ll ever love us like the humans love the Lords of House Caddell?” I ask, my voice small.

He pauses, considering, then shakes his head. “Love is a luxury, Arvoren. Respect and cooperation are what keep a kingdom together. Humans love because they are afraid. It is our duty to ensure that respect is never lost.”

I look up at him, eyes wide. “Then I’ll make them respect me! I’ll be the greatest king!”

He kneels, bringing his face level with mine, his expression serious yet proud. “You must remember, my son, that above all else, maintaining our good name is paramount. It will take all of your strength and wisdom to keep our house secure. And when the time comes, you must be ready to act. Someday, you, too, will have a son. And you will teach him precisely the same lesson.”

The weight of his words sits heavy in my chest, yet I feel exhilarated by the prospect. I nod vigorously, my heart swelling with ambition. “I will be ready. I won’t let you down.”

“Good,” he says, his voice warm and filled with a pride that fills the air like a comforting blanket. “And remember, you are not just my son; you are a Szallitás. The blood of rulers flows through you.”

As he rises, I feel a surge of determination welling within me, igniting a spark of ambition that promises to illuminate my future. I cannot yet see the shadows lurking beyond the bright promise of this moment—the betrayals, the challenges, the inevitable darkness that will threaten to engulf us. I cannot see what will happen next. All I can feel is the light of his faith, guiding me like a beacon, and the thrill of a destiny that lies just beyond the horizon.

***

The great hearth in my study—the very study my father once frequented—spits and crackles, casting shadows that leap and flicker across the high stone walls like restless spirits. I stand before it, staring into the heart of the flames, my thoughts a maelstrom of frustration and rage. My fingers tighten around the crystal decanter, knuckles turning white. The other hand hovers near the small glass I’ve yet to fill.

The girl. Calliope . Calliope Windward of Essenborn.

Her face rises unbidden in my mind: eyes like pieces of polished silver, bright with defiance. Lips curved in a smirk that borders on insolence. She’d looked at me like I was the one brought low. Like I was nothing.

I drag in a slow breath through gritted teeth, but it doesn’t help. The taste of tonight’s humiliation lingers like bitter ash on my tongue. I’ve fought battles and crushed armies—subjugated this entire land through sheer force of will—yet somehow, I let her get under my skin. A girl who should have been trembling at my feet, cowed and afraid.

But she stood there, spine straight, chin high, daring me to force her into submission.

My teeth grind together.

“Damn her,” I mutter to the empty room, my voice rumbling with fury. I’m not sure if I’m really cursing her or myself.

With a vicious motion, I slam the decanter down onto the table, the heavy clink of glass on wood reverberating sharply through the silence. For a moment, I brace both hands against the table’s surface, drawing in deep, measured breaths.

I knew she would resist. I knew breaking her would require time, patience. But I didn’t expect her to meet my gaze with such unyielding contempt. To throw my words back in my face with that cool, calm smile.

Her words taunt me. I can still hear them now.

She’s a fool if she thinks she can outlast me. I’ll tear down every shred of resistance she has, if I have to. I’ll make her beg for the comfort she obstinately forsakes.

My hand curls into a fist on the table’s edge. Weakness. That’s what it is. To let a simple girl— her of all people, human, lowly, frail—make me retreat like some chastened schoolboy. The thought sets my blood boiling.

A knock at the door jolts me from my spiraling thoughts. My head snaps up, fury flashing like a blade through me.

The heavy oak door creaks open, and one of my courtiers, Keldan, steps inside with all the hesitance of a man approaching a predator in a cage.

“Your Majesty,” he murmurs, bowing low. His gaze darts to my clenched fists, then quickly away. In one gloved hand, he holds a rolled parchment sealed with a crimson wax emblem. “A message has arrived from Brittletale.”

I stiffen, tension coiling tighter. Of all nights, now? I gesture sharply, and Keldan steps forward, laying the letter on the table before me. I snatch it up, breaking the seal with a flick of my thumb. The parchment unfurls, revealing the elegant script of Lord Alistor—one of the Iron Master of Brittletale, and the most insufferable of them all.

His Excellency, King Arvoren, Sovereign of Kaldoria, Lord of House Szallitás,

There is unrest in Brittletale once more. The miners and factory workers grow insolent, emboldened by recent whispers of rebellion spreading through the slum districts. They have been put down with force, but discontent festers like a wound. It is only a matter of time before their dissatisfaction spreads to the wider region. I advise increasing the military presence here to ensure order is maintained. The strength of your reign depends on the strength of your hand …

The rest of the letter blurs together as I skim through it, my fury deepening with every word.

Another uprising. Another festering pocket of resistance that needs to be crushed. Brittletale, the Iron City, isn’t far from Millrath, and is our main supplier of industrial trade.

Alistor’s thinly veiled warning burns like acid in my gut. This isn’t just a report; it’s a test. A reminder that my enemies are always watching, always measuring how far I’m willing to go to maintain my hold on Kaldoria.

I crumple the parchment in my fist. T he strength of your reign depends on the strength of your hand. As if I need some bloated, self-important industrialist to remind me of the price of power. As if I don’t know acutely what must be done. It’s a message, plain and simple: show us your strength—or we’ll see its absence as weakness.

I cross the length of the room, the long folds of my cloak billowing behind me. My eyes are drawn, almost against my will, to the window set high in the northern wall. Beyond it, Millrath sprawls like a slumbering beast beneath a shroud of smoke and fog. The distant lights of the forges flicker faintly, the only signs of life in the oppressive darkness. Beyond the foothills surrounding my city lie countless enemies who pray to whichever Gods may be listening every night for my demise.

I can almost feel them watching me now, whispering.

Keldan shifts uneasily behind me, clearing his throat softly. “Your Majesty—”

“Leave me,” I snap.

He bows quickly, murmuring an apology before slipping out and closing the door behind him.

The silence that follows is thick, almost suffocating. I need to think, to breathe. But I can’t see beyond the red mist of my fury.

I know where I can find clarity.

The climb to the upper sanctum from my administerial wing is winding and steep, each step a reminder of the weight of the kingdom resting on my shoulders. In the cold, empty quiet of my castle, my boots echo with resounding force on the stone steps. The higher I ascend, the heavier the air becomes, charged with a peculiar energy that seems to thrum through the very walls.

The door to the sanctum is already ajar when I reach it. I push it open, stepping into a wide, circular chamber teeming with shards of refracted light which coalesce into strange shapes like shades of the underworld, the ghosts of this castle’s past, all splayed across the floor. The walls and ceiling are composed of hundreds of tiny, delicate sheets of crystalline glass, all positioned so as to reflect and refract the light of the stars hundreds upon hundreds of times, creating a soft, eerie glow.

The woman on the other side of the huge chamber knew I was coming long before I entered, but she still does me the decency of acting surprised.

Priestess Varya turns slowly as I enter, her pale face serene beneath the heavy veil that obscures her hair and shoulders. She is a slight, almost delicate figure, but the air around her seems to hum with a strange, unsettling power. Her eyes—dark, fathomless pools that seem to see far more than I’d ever care to reveal—lock onto mine the moment I step inside.

High Priestess of the Cult of Iepehin, she has been my closest advisor since I first took the throne, when I was only a boy.

“Your Majesty,” she murmurs, her voice a soft, velvety whisper that cuts through the silence like the edge of a knife. “What troubles you tonight?”

I stride across the chamber, stopping just short of the low altar in the center. My gaze sweeps over the array of objects laid out before her: bowls filled with dark, shimmering liquids, bundles of herbs, small vials of substances that look as if they’ve been harvested from the earth’s deepest, most forbidden places.

Varya’s sanctum is as much a place of mystery as it is of power. I long since stopped trying to untangle the line between her wisdom and her manipulation.

In the human settlements that scatter my Kingdom, they cling to their minor gods—Maerika of healing and motherhood, Sylraith of merchants, Voresh of shadows—finding comfort in deities who demand little and promise much. But here in the great cities, in places of true power, the major Gods align themselves with courts and bloodlines like players in an eternal game. Their machinations are near-impossible to understand. I hardly trust the words of men and beasts; I cannot trust the words of the Gods. Yet, I must accommodate their influence upon my world, and the games I, too, must play.

Once upon a time, this sanctum was the throne room of my forebears. My parents ruled from here. But I have long since relocated the focal hub of my rule to the undercity, where I hold court in the unbroken darkness. Varya was left the impossibly bright sanctum for her rituals. It’s better that way. Each draconic city has its divine patron—Nyxharra of the Forge rules in Brittletale, forever at odds with our own Iepehin over matters of trade and territory. It is a delicate balance, this dance of divine power, as fragile as the peace between houses. Perhaps that is why Varya's warnings about the Gods' displeasure with Calliope trouble me more than I care to admit.

“The Iron Masters are growing … restless,” I say at last, after a lengthy silence, my voice tight. “Not to mention the House Lords. They believe me weak. There’s been another uprising of the rabble in Brittletale.”

Varya’s eyes narrow slightly, though her expression remains serene. “And what do you intend to do, My King?”

“Crush them,” I respond instantly, teeth gritted. I hear the low rumble of my voice rattle through the space. “Send a message they can’t mistake. But … if I send troops south, I’ll have to pull them from the Grimkeepers, the only defence at the border. We can’t afford that risk. Not with the threat of beasts at our northern ridge—”

“The threat at the Fellveil has remained unchanged for decades,” Varya interrupts, her tone soft but firm. “The danger, as always, lies not at the Wall itself but in the hearts of those within your realm. Your parents knew this. You know it, too. You must show strength where it matters most—within your own borders. Bolster your presence in the cities. Remind the people who rules them.”

I shake my head, frustration boiling over. “You want me to pull our forces inward? To abandon the Wall? If the creatures—”

“Those godless creatures have been held at bay for generations by far fewer men than you have now,” she says smoothly, her eyes never leaving mine. “And what good is defending your boundaries if the core of your kingdom rots from within? Your enemies are here, My King. Within your walls. Within your cities. If you do not act now, you risk losing far more than a few outposts.”

Her words coil around my thoughts, then tighten like a vice. I hate that she could be right, but I fear she probably is. I can’t afford to let the lords, or anyone else, see me falter. Not now. Not when it seems my dynasty dangles from such a delicate edge.

“I need your guidance, Varya,” I murmur, my voice low and strained. “I can’t afford to make a mistake. If you believe me to be making a mistake, you must tell me.”

Varya’s lips curve into a faint, enigmatic smile. “Trust me, My King. Send your border troops south. Quell the unrest. Remind them all what happens when they dare to challenge your reign. And when the threat is dealt with, you will do well to focus upon the other destabilizing forces closer to home.”

I know what she means without her having to say it.

“Speak,” I boom nonetheless. I will not allow my subjects to disrespect me. Not even her.

Varya’s gaze sharpens, her smile slipping to reveal a thin, unreadable line.

“There is … another matter, Majesty, and you know this,” she says, voice low and deliberate, as though she treads upon forbidden ground. “The Gods whisper, disturbed by your choice to bring the girl here. The witch. They find her presence … distasteful.”

My jaw tightens, but I keep my face still, refusing to let her see the flicker of annoyance her words ignite. She forgets herself, forgets her place.

She steps closer, undeterred by the tension in the air between us. “You are a king of unmatched power, destined to unite not just lands, but legacies. Your union should reflect that destiny. This girl is neither noble-born nor worthy of bearing your line—she lacks the blood, the rank, the virtues the Gods demand.”

I feel the familiar surge of fury swell within me, but I force myself to remain silent. I know Varya far too well to take her words at face value. The Gods had never meddled in the royal bed before. Why now? And why with such fervor? I can’t shake the sense that there's something more behind her sudden insistence. Perhaps Calliope’s defiance had unsettled her—or maybe Varya harbors ambitions I’ve yet to see.

But I hold back, my tongue burning with the urge to speak, to confront. Varya inclines her head, her expression smoothing once more, unreadable as glass. Instead of speaking, I turn, gaze sliding from her, and take a step back.

I can feel her watching me as I leave, the lingering force of her words following after me like an echo in the cold chamber.

On my way back to my chambers, the tower in which I sleep sparsely and irregularly, I approach the pass which leads to her room, spotting the guards lingering sleepily at the end of the hallway. She’s being kept not far from me, in the chambers just below my own. Easy access.

I am about to move past, the guards unmoving behind me, when a shadow shifts by her door. A shape slips silently into the corridor’s faint moonlight—a figure, slender and cloaked in shadow, edging toward the open hallway.

Calliope.

For a moment, she doesn’t see me, her focus intent on slipping through the still shadows of the castle like a wraith. I almost let her go, just to see where she dares tread. Perhaps I’ll wait until she spots me.

As she steps fully into the moonlight pooling from a high, narrow window, my gaze snags on her, unbidden. Her eyes, wide and silver in the dim light, catch the gleam of the stars outside, while her lips, parted slightly in concentration, lend her an edge of forbidden beauty, wild and unattainable. For a moment, her bold defiance sears through the haze of my frustrations.

Her gaze lifts and locks onto mine. She freezes, only a breath between us, the soft rise and fall of her chest the only sign of her shock.

The silence crackles.

Without a word, she whirls, attempting to flee. My arm snaps out, and in one swift motion, I catch her around the waist. She gasps, fighting against my hold, but I ignore her fury, hoisting her up and slinging her over my shoulder, her fists beating against my back. I stride down the corridor, her weight slight and fiery as she writhes, cursing me in muffled snarls.

We reach her chamber, and I push the door open with one booted foot, crossing the threshold and tossing her unceremoniously onto the bed. She tumbles into a heap on the thick velvet coverlet, her hair wild and eyes ablaze with unspent rage.

I could have her, right here, right now. Even the mere thought is enough to make me shudder. Damn her, for this power. Damn her for her beauty, the delicate lines of her face, the searing potency of her fury.

No. Not tonight.

I turn, stepping back, hands flexed in restrained anger. I know she’ll find her way past the lock again soon enough, but tonight, I’ve drawn the line. I close the door behind me, snapping the lock with a finality that dares her to defy me again.

As I make my way back to my chambers, her furious pounding and howling echoes through the empty corridor after me. Her muffled shouts thread through the air, sharp and unyielding, growing fainter as I cross into the dim hall beyond, retreating into the cold sanctuary of my rooms.

The rumble of my discontented city across the dark, impossibly deep waters of the lake calls to me all night. I do not sleep a wink. I think only of the bronze statue in the underchamber, the breadth of the Iron Masters’ fury at those doomed rebels, the lords plotting to kill me the moment they have an opening—and I think of Calliope, my sweet, foolish caged bird.