Chapter 9 - Arvoren

I believe in the Gods as much as any other. After all, their influence is undeniable.

As well as that, I have always been the beloved of Iepehin, God of Beasts. He is patron of my castle, my city itself; I have always been favored by Him.

Tonight, he calls to me.

The castle is a labyrinth of silence and shadow. The torchlight, which normally burns steadily in the sconces lining the corridors, flickers uneasily, casting jagged shapes across the stone walls. My edifice holds its breath as I pass through its chambers and passageways.

Mere hours ago, I returned to the castle with Calliope. In her eyes was, again, that promise of hatred. She clung to me the entire ride home, hands still bound, the bundle of ropes hard where they dug into my stomach. I found I couldn’t say a word.

Whenever I close my eyes, I see her today, slipping away from me, her feet sliding in the black ice as her body fell out of my reach toward the chasm below. I cannot remove the image from my thoughts.

She could have easily died. The mere thought makes me want to rend this earth apart.

Outside, the wind moans through the towers, a plaintive, mournful sound. Above it all, there is the whisper of snow against the high windows, a soft shushing that grates on my nerves, the faint hissing of a thousand recoiling voices.

Restless energy coils beneath my skin, a feeling that is as foreign as it is unwelcome. I am never restless. I am never … uncertain.

But tonight, something is wrong. Perhaps Calliope’s humiliated rage has seeped into these ancient walls themselves. It was certainly ferocious. I can sense subtle shifts of the air, an electrical current, a heartbeat out of rhythm. The castle, a fortress of unyielding stone, feels almost alive on this night.

I wander the dim passageways. Cold leeches through the soles of my boots. The runes inscribed along the walls—magical sigils placed centuries ago to reinforce the castle’s defenses—hum faintly, as they always do, their faint glow an omnipresent reminder of power held at bay.

Yet tonight, their light is uneven, flickering erratically, as though reacting to some unseen disturbance.

I stop and lay my palm against the cold stone, feeling the vibrations that ripple beneath the surface like a heartbeat. The magic is agitated. It thrums with a new, barely contained energy. The runes seem to pulse as if possessing a life of their own. Those ancient symbols warp and twist in ways they should not be able to, ways I have never seen.

Something, or someone, is stirring them. Something that shouldn’t be able to.

My jaw tightens. There have been strange disturbances in Millrath before, but never within the walls of my own home. Magical disturbances and flares are commonplace in the slums, where wild magic runs rampant and criminals sell spellwork to the highest bidder. But I am the absolute ruler here. This palace is mine. Everything within it is mine. The very thought that some malevolent force might breach my stronghold floods me with a dark, simmering fury.

I think of every soul in my castle, each of them lurking in the dark recesses. My servants, my guards, my soldiers, my priestesses. The prisoners locked in the furthest depths of the catacombs, rotting far from the daylight. The witch in the tower whose fear betrays her.

As if in answer, a shiver runs through the wall beneath my fingers, a low, trembling vibration that seems to resonate deep in my bones.

The runes flare, bright enough to blind, before guttering back down to a dim, sickly glow.

I step back, breathing heightened, and stare.

Enough. Whatever has taken hold of this home of mine, this home of my ancient family, I will demolish it completely.

Turning sharply on my heel, I head for the lower halls, where the priestesses reside outside of their rituals. I need to speak with Varya. If anyone can decipher this … anomaly, it’s her.

The hallways stretch before me, narrowing as I descend deeper into the bowels of the castle. The light changes here, becomes muted, almost red, as if filtered through blood.

Priestesses and priests of the Gods are prevented from speaking from their moment of birth, taught language but forbidden from using it. Only upon ascending to leading figures of their respective cults are they permitted to use their voices.

Varya is a High Priestess, but there are dozens of cults represented in this city and this castle. Their work in my domain is to protect the city and throne from outsiders who would seek to intrude and from the tempestuous Gods’ fickle rage alike.

When I reach Varya’s quarters, the door swings open before I can knock. The priestess is already awake, her face cast in eerie half-light from the small brazier burning at her side, standing near the door, hovering like a bird of prey on a line.

Her eyes, dark and sharp as a hawk’s, regard me steadily. She doesn’t look surprised.

“Your Majesty,” she murmurs, bowing her head slightly. “I felt you coming.”

Beyond her narrow window, against which she is silhouetted, all is still and deserted. No soul dares approach this late, for fear of being shot by the guards stationed along the parapets.

“Something’s wrong,” I say bluntly, the words harsh in the stillness. “The runes … they’re behaving strangely. Distorted. Twisted.”

Varya’s gaze sharpens, her brow furrowing. “Show me.”

We move quickly, our steps echoing off the stone walls. As we reach the corridor where I felt the worst of it, I see her tense, her hands clutching the small, fang-shaped talisman at her throat. The runes flicker again, flaring with a sickly, unnatural light that makes my skin crawl.

“By the Gods …” Varya breathes, fingers brushing over the closest sigil.

She closes her eyes, murmuring under her breath, and I watch as the rune briefly stabilizes before twisting back into its chaotic state.

“It’s His doing,” she whispers, stepping back as if burned. “Iepehin’s influence.”

I thought as much, though I did not want to believe it. “God of Beasts,” I reiterate. “Patron of this city. What quarrel could He have with me?”

Varya’s gaze is far away, unfocused. “He must be trying to warn us. My God seldom intervenes directly, but … when He does …” She trails off, shaking her head as if trying to clear it. “It means there’s something coming. Something violent. Perhaps another wave of insurgent activity in the outer settlements. The omens—”

“Are irrelevant to me.” I cut her off sharply. “What is relevant is how to stop this interference. This is my castle, Varya. Iepehin or not, I will not have it corrupted by anyone. Even a God.”

And—though I would not say it to her—I suspect Varya is wrong about the doings of her God, or there is something she is failing to tell me. Iepehin does not trouble Himself with the squabbling of mortal, human men, violent or otherwise. He is the God of Beasts, God of Dragons, God of the Hunt. His is the cult of unfettered, mindless, instinctual violence. The cult of my people, my House, my city.

Whatever has stirred him is more than a revolt, more than even a war.

She blinks, seeming to come back to herself. “His will is … difficult to interpret. Be cautious, your Majesty. Gods have long memories. And they do not take kindly to defiance. Remember what I told you. They are displeased by her presence—”

I don’t bother with a reply, dismissing her with a flick of my hand to descend once more into the darkness where she resides. She knows me well enough to understand that I have no patience for superstition.

Nonetheless, Varya’s words echo in my ears as I retreat back through the winding halls, up toward my private quarters. The castle is colder than it should be, the air thick with the scent of frost and dust, the sensation of static and heat. The runes have not cowed to my clear show of heedlessness. Their angry glow follows me all the way back to the East Wing, the tower upon which my private quarters are perched.

I exhale slowly, tension easing slightly from my shoulders. Perhaps Varya will have an answer by morning.

As I approach my chambers, ascending the winding steps of the tower, a faint sound reaches me through the walls. It’s tiny at first, so distant that I pay it no mind, but as I climb, it grows louder.

Muffled cries. Soft, desperate.

I pause, ears straining to locate the source. It’s coming from behind one of the doors down the hall. Two guards stand stoic and still before it.

Her door.

I hesitate, then curse under my breath and move closer, gesturing for the guards to make themselves scarce. They vanish from my path.

The sounds become clearer as I linger close to the door: whimpers, gasping breaths, the occasional incoherent murmur. A nightmare.

Pushing the door, I peer inside. Through the gloom, it is hard to make her out for a moment; then I see her. The girl is writhing in her sheets, tangled up like a trapped animal.

I shouldn’t care. It’s no concern of mine.

Yet I find myself stepping closer, drawn by something I can’t name or understand.

Her face is pale, twisted in fear, her skin glistening with sweat despite the cold. Dark hair is flung across her pillow, unkempt with the violence of her movement. I watch, torn between frustration and curiosity, as she thrashes against the imagined threat, thin arms straining against her sheets, nightclothes riding up over her shaking limbs.

One of her hands lashes out into the air. She gasps hard, a sob escaping her heaving chest.

“Enough,” I murmur softly, the word slipping out before I can stop it.

She jerks awake, eyes wide and unfocused, gasping for breath. For a moment, she doesn’t see me—doesn’t see anything but whatever horror chased her through the dark.

Then her gaze sharpens, locks onto mine, and I see the panic in her eyes morph into something else, raw and guarded. The furious and uncomplicated intensity of her hatred consumes her as if it never left. She is all hard edges, but even beneath them, her flushed, wet lips are slightly parted, her clothes ruffled, her eyes wild.

She’s beautiful. She’s almost inhuman in the dull glow of reflected moonlight.

I don’t move. I don’t speak. I simply stand there, watching her struggle to even her breathing. She watches me right back, chest rising and falling fast.

She doesn’t move an inch until I retreat, silent, from her bedchambers, closing the door behind me.