Chapter 7 - Arvoren

The sun filters through the leaves, dappling the ground with patches of light as Ulric and I sit in the shade of the great oak tree outside the castle. In the memory, we’re both boys. I’m eight or nine years old. The air is warm, filled with the sweet scent of summer blossoms, yet the moment feels tense despite our youth.

“Stop being silly, Ulric,” I say, crossing my arms and leaning back against the rough bark. “When Father passes the crown, we’ll rule together.”

He pouts, his face scrunching up in frustration. “I don’t want to share! I want it all—every last bit! I’ll be the King, and you can be my… my advisor!” He throws his hands in the air, as if that will make his claim more valid.

“Why would I want to be just your advisor?” I shoot back, rolling my eyes. “That’s not how this works. We’re brothers, and brothers share. It’s our kingdom, not just yours. Plus, I’m older. If I want it, it’s mine. You’re lucky I let you share my things.”

His eyes narrow, and a spark of something darker flickers across his face. “You think you’re so special because you’re older. But I’m just as strong as you! I’ll be the greatest king this realm has ever seen!” His voice rises, turning the warm summer air tense with his childish anger.

I sigh, exasperated. “Listen. We can split it down the middle. I’ll take the East; you can have the West. That way, we both get what we want. And I get Fjordmarse—and Fjordmarse has the best fighters. And anyway, you get the Great River, which is the coolest.”

He shakes his head violently, his golden hair catching the light. “No! I want the whole kingdom! I don’t want half of anything! It’s not fair!” His tantrum escalates, and I can see the anger bubbling beneath the surface, a storm waiting to break.

“Fine,” I say, my voice lowering, trying to calm him down. “But you can’t rule alone. You need me. You’ll need someone to help you. Someone to—”

“No!” he shouts, his face turning crimson. “I’ll do it all myself. I’ll show everyone that I’m the best!”

There’s a moment of silence, and I can feel the weight of our words hanging in the air. I want to reach out, to comfort him, to remind him that we’re stronger together. But a part of me knows it’s futile. My little brother is impossible when he gets like this. He isn’t like our sister, who has the sweetest temperament of anyone in our fiery family.

“Fine, Ulric,” I say at last, my voice heavy with resignation. “You can try to do it all by yourself. Just don’t come crying to me when it all falls apart.”

He glares at me, and for a fleeting second, I see the boy he’ll become—the ambitious, ruthless king who’ll stop at nothing to get what he wants. But here, in the golden light of our childhood, we’re just two brothers fighting over a kingdom that feels far away.

“I don’t need you,” he mutters, turning his back on me, the sound of his footsteps receding as he storms off into the woods.

I watch him go, a knot forming in my stomach. I can’t shake the feeling that this moment is just the beginning of something much larger, a rift that will only widen as we grow. I turn my gaze back to the sky, where the clouds drift lazily, a stark contrast to the storm brewing between us.

Waking from the dream, I am still there for a moment, in my childhood, in the memory of that conversation. I’m not certain why I dreamt it, but I did. Despite myself, I linger in it for a moment, the sounds of my distant childhood echoing in the quiet of my chambers. But reality quickly tugs at me, pulling me back into the present. I shake off the memory, the bittersweet sting of nostalgia fading as I force myself to face the day ahead.

The room is dim, the light just beginning to filter through the heavy drapes. I rise from my bed and move across the cool stone floor.

As I cross the chamber, my gaze lands on a family portrait hanging on the wall, the colors faded but still vibrant in my memory. It captures a time when we were whole—Mother’s gentle smile, Father’s proud stance, my brother and I standing tall despite our youth, and my baby sister in my mother’s arms, her bright eyes sparkling. The image feels like a relic from another lifetime, one that has slipped through my fingers like sand.

I move past it. I do not like to linger upon sentimentalities like that for long.

Commander Darian arrives in the late hours, cloaked in the chill of Millrath’s thick fog. It seems to roll from the shoulders of his cape as he enters this place. I sense the chill of his presence long before he steps into my private study.

He’s been away for days, taking care of my cities for me. Eyes open in search of revolt, insurrection, unrest.

Heavy boots strike against the flagstone beyond my doors, reverberating through the stillness. It’s a sound I’ve come to associate with him: steady, unwavering, reliable. Yet, tonight, there’s a subtle shift to his gait, a faint hesitancy.

I have been king of this land long enough to recognize the sound of bad news.

Squaring my shoulders, I turn from where I stand by the window, gazing out over the spires of my city, the beating heart of my kingdom. It’s a view I’ve seen a thousand times, but tonight there is some wavering fragility in its visage, a brokenness.

I glance back as Darian enters, his silhouette broad and formidable against the flickering firelight, unmistakably draconic. The commander of my forces has been in his position for as long as I have been king. While I avenged my parents’ deaths, he stood silent at my shoulder. We have known one another almost our whole lives.

“Your Majesty,” he greets with a bow, his voice low and grave. He straightens, but his eyes flicker with something unspoken. “I bring news from Whiteraid.”

“Then speak.” I cross the room with measured steps, hands clasped behind my back. “I’m in no mood for ceremony.”

Darian’s expression tightens. He somehow looks older than when I saw him last, deep lines creasing his brow beneath the steel of his close-cropped hair. His uniform, still dusted with the dirt and salt of travel, hangs on him like an ill-fitted shroud.

“Word has spread farther than we anticipated,” he begins, choosing his words carefully. “The unrest has grown beyond whispers. There is word the houses of the outer cities—Draven, Morwen, even Vos—are rallying their forces. There’s talk of forming a coalition against you, my lord. They intend to challenge your reign at its first sign of weakness.”

I study his face in silence, absorbing the weight of his words. Like distant tremors beneath my feet, the rumblings of rebellion have reached me for months now. It has been years since the lords were contented with my position. I doubt they ever have been. But to hear it spoken aloud, confirmed by my most trusted commander …

“They intend to dethrone me,” I say softly, my gaze shifting to the flames dancing in the hearth. “Interesting. Their gall beggars belief. Who leads them?”

“House Draven of Eldran,” Darian replies. “They’re pushing the hardest. They’ve garnered support from the other lords, promises of lands and titles if they succeed. I’ve intercepted letters detailing troop movements. They’re not bluffing, Highness. This is more than posturing.”

The room seems to constrict around me, the air thickening.

A coalition. The mere thought of it is laughable. They should know better than to stand against me.

I will grind them to a paste, take their land, their cities, their houses, their families. I will burn all they have ever loved, then crumble its ash in my fist.

“Let them come,” I murmur, eyes narrowing. “I’ll crush them all. Burn their cities to the ground if I have to.”

Darian doesn’t flinch at my words. But when I look at him, I catch the briefest flicker of something in his eyes. Concern, perhaps, or trepidation.

“You have already ordered half our forces be relocated south to manage the rioting in Brittletale, my Lord,” he says quietly. “And the Grimkeepers at the Fellveil are stretched perilously thin. Commanders of Fjordmarse are speaking of a military coup. Nothing has been said to me, but we all hear things.”

I stiffen. “And you think their people will listen?”

“Who knows what lengths they’ll go to?” Darian’s voice is grim. “We only have so many men. They can only do so much. And less than half of our troops can shift in battle, leaving the rest vulnerable to attacks by concentrated forces from the East—”

“They’ll regret it,” I growl, a low, dangerous sound. “I’ve allowed those vermin to linger in this land long enough. If the houses want to play with fire, I’ll show them what it means to be burned.”

“My Lord,” Darian says, with some level of frustration. “My Lord, I understand your anger, and you are justified in it, but I believe you don’t …” He hesitates.

“Speak your mind, Darian,” I command impatiently.

He clears his throat. “We must not take lightly the position of this stronghold. The truth of it is plain, Arvoren. We are surrounded by enemies. And without tactical acumen, we will fall, My King, and this city will crumble along with its throne.”

A silence falls between us, heavy with his words, his fear, my rage, my quietude. I turn away, staring out the window once more. The city gleams beneath me, a jewel in the mist.

If he were any other soul, I’d kill him for his cheek. But I cannot. Not when he is right.

“What of you, Darian?” I ask quietly. “Should I fall, which house might have you?”

I see his reflection shift in the glass, then steady. “Yours, my Lord. You know I am of your house to my death.”

It’s the answer I wanted. Nonetheless, it does little to comfort.

I clear my throat. “I assume you’ve something else to report?”

Darian hesitates, a rare thing he has apparently taken the habit of. It angers me, but I do not speak it.

He shifts, the leather of his gloves creaking softly as he removes them, tucking them into his belt. “There are already … whispers, my lord. About the young mistress.”

My shoulders tense at the mention. “Calliope.”

“Yes. The men … they’ve started calling her the Young Mistress. There’s speculation. People are curious about your intentions with her.” He pauses, choosing his next words with caution. “I … can’t say I blame them. We thought you were taking a bride. But she is, if the word is to be believed, some common slave, and yet the word of her presence in your castle has spread.”

“And what are your thoughts?” I ask coolly, turning to face him fully. “Do you think I’ve lost my mind, Darian? That I’ve grown weak? That I must take some concubine to retain my senses?”

“No, Your Majesty. Never.” His reply is steady but fervent. “But I know you. And I know when something preoccupies you. She’s …” He trails off, searching for the right phrase. “Is she what you were seeking?”

I cut in, voice sharp. “Speak plainly.”

He meets my gaze, unwavering. “Will she give you an heir?”

In his question are a thousand broken rules, a thousand disrespects. Of all my commanders, servants, courtiers and advisors, Darian has always been the one to challenge me, to question my motives without fear of reprisal. He knows where the line is, but now, he is toeing it.

I don’t have to ask to know who he is thinking of. My only living kin is my brother, and neither of us would live to see him king—we’d sooner kill him than allow that.

But without an heir, either my house dies with me, or Ulric takes my throne, enemies or no, insurgence or no.

I turn away once more to study the glass of the window as it captures the candlelight before me. So fragile. An inch of miscalculated tension from breaking.

“I don’t yet know,” I admit quietly. It’s the closest thing to vulnerability I’ve shown in years, and it makes my skin crawl. “She intrigues me. I can’t explain it. There’s something… something I can’t quite grasp. She’s not like the others.”

“Because she defies you?” Darian’s tone is gentle, almost probing.

“Perhaps,” I murmur. “She looks at me as if I’m a beast—yet not a monster. She is fearless. No human woman I’ve yet met has been so.”

“You want her to fear you,” he says softly.

“Yes,” I whisper. “And she does not yet.”

Silence falls between us again. I would not ask my closest commander—my only friend—to condone my weakness, and he knows it. He will not lie to me. And my silence is a clear invitation that he may speak.

“If you think she’s worth the risk,” he says slowly, “then pursue it. If you believe she can give you what you need—an heir, a wife, whatever it is you’re seeking—then take it. But be cautious, Arvoren. You know how quickly these tides can turn. You know how treacherous trust can be.”

I nod, though the gesture feels heavy. “Indeed.”

Both of us know better than most the consequences of blind trust.

Darian bows his head slightly, stepping back. “If there’s anything more you require of me, you need only ask.”

“There is one thing,” I say quietly. “I want a closer watch on House Draven. Send spies to their borders, and warn them not to be so cautious. I want them to know they’re being watched. If they so much as breathe wrong, I want to be made aware. And … have your guards keep a closer eye on Calliope. I don’t want her wandering too far, and my library has been entered in the night; it’s clear she intends on walking the halls at night, lock or nay.”

He dips his head in acknowledgment. “As you command.”

I watch as he leaves, his form swallowed by the darkness beyond the doorway. Alone again, I turn back to the window, my reflection staring back at me from the glass.

Calliope. Her name haunts me. I have not visited with her or permitted her presence in my chambers in two nights. She has, by all accounts, spoken to not a single soul in that time.

Now, I believe, is the right time to try my hand once more at gaining her respect. And I have some idea of how I might go about breaking her now.