Page 6

Weeks bleed into one another like blood running thin in rain, losing their colour and shape. From my throne, detached from it, I watch as winter tightens its grip on Millrath, each day bringing fresh reports of disaster. The Great River has frozen utterly solid for the first time in recorded history, its surface a mirror of cracked ice that reflects the perpetually gray sky. None of the westerly cities can export or import food. If this keeps up, they will be starved out. Trade ships sit trapped in the harbor, their hulls slowly being crushed by expanding ice. Reportedly, the bombastic sound of splintering wood carries across the water at night, loud as eerie demolitions, as if the city itself is groaning in pain.

Every morning, more petitioners crowd my castle gates. Merchants whose caravans are stranded in the mountain passes. Farmers whose winter stores have frozen and burst. Fishermen who can no longer feed their families. Their voices blend into a constant murmur of desperation that echoes through the castle halls.

I receive them all, dispensing what aid I can while searching their faces for any hint, any whisper of news about Calliope. If it weren’t for my desperation to find her, I would cast them all away. But if they know anything, fear keeps them silent. The common folk whisper that she's become some kind of winter spirit, stalking the northern forests and freezing anyone who draws too near. Others claim she's gathering an army of her own, preparing to return and claim the throne for herself.

Let them whisper. Their fear is nothing compared to the ice that grows in my own heart.

The Lords circle like vultures, growing bolder with each passing day. They send missives full of thinly veiled threats and demands for action. Bellrose writes of unrest in his territory, of peasants who blame the crown for their suffering. Morwen speaks of trade routes that must be reopened, no matter the cost. Even Sturmsen, usually of steadfast neutrality, sends firm and unsympathetic warnings of rumblings of rebellion in the border towns, of skirmishes with Fort Caddell.

Only Lord Caddell himself remains silent, though his human city in the north must be suffering worst of all. His silence worries me more than the others' complaints.

I spend my nights pacing the castle battlements, watching the endless snow fall. The guards have learned to keep their distance when they see me coming, steam rising from my skin as I fight to contain the dragon's rage that builds with each day she's gone. Sometimes, in the darkest hours before dawn, I swear I can smell her on the wind—that crisp sweetness that always clung to her skin, now turned sharp as broken ice.

Darian tries his best to maintain order, to keep me focused on the immediate needs of the kingdom. But his voice of reason grows fainter with each passing day, drowned out by the howling storm in my head. My dreams are filled with visions of her lost in the wilderness, alone and afraid. Or worse—not alone at all.

The castle feels like a tomb without her. Servants whisper that the very stones know their queen is missing, that the ancient magic woven into the foundations yearns for her return. In our chambers—my chambers now—the bed remains untouched. I sleep instead in my study when exhaustion finally claims me, surrounded by maps marked with every reported sighting, every rumor of her whereabouts.

None of it makes sense. The patterns of the storms, the movements of troops in the north, the whispers of rebellion—there's a shape to it all that I can't quite grasp. Like a word on the tip of my tongue, or a shadow glimpsed from the corner of my eye.

Until today.

The spy was caught trying to access my private correspondence—specifically, letters between myself and Lord Sturmsen regarding troop movements near Fort Caddell. Darian found him, severed his hand almost clean off. A minor breach of security, ordinarily. But something about the timing, about the specific documents he sought, nags at me like a splinter under the skin.

I've left him to stew in the dungeons for three days now, letting the cold and dark work on his resolve. The dungeons beneath Millrath were built long before my time, their walls blackened by centuries of dragon-fire, mere feet above the crypt, the tombs. Water seeps eternally through cracks in the ancient stone, leaving mineral deposits that gleam like teeth in torchlight. The air down here tastes of rust and old fear, thick enough to coat the tongue.

It has been some years since I last carried out an interrogation myself.

Now, as I descend the worn steps into that eternal darkness, each torch I pass flares higher, responding to the rage that simmers beneath my skin. The guard at the interrogation chamber door snaps to attention, but I barely notice him. My focus has narrowed to a knife's edge, honed by weeks of frustration and fear.

The spy hangs suspended from iron chains, his feet barely touching the floor. He's young—probably no more than twenty-five—but his eyes are old, hardened by whatever training turned him into this tool of the Houses. Despite three days without food or water, he watches my approach with unnerving calm.

"Let's not waste time with preamble," I say, keeping my voice conversational though smoke curls from between my teeth. "We both know how this ends. The only question is how much pain you endure before we get there."

The spy's laugh is dry as dead leaves. "You know how this ends, my king. Kill me now, if you are so merciful. At least these dungeons retain some warmth.”

I pace the length of the chamber, my boots echoing on stones worn smooth by generations of my bloodline. Various implements of persuasion are laid out on a table, though I doubt I'll need them. Sometimes the oldest methods are best.

"You were caught trying to access sensitive diplomatic correspondence. Letters between myself and Lord Sturmsen regarding troops’ movements in the north." I stop directly in front of him, letting him see the dragon in my eyes. "Why?"

He stares back, unflinching. His resolve would be admirable if it weren’t so infuriating.

"The north holds many interests these days, Your Majesty." His voice is steady despite his cracked lips. "What with the endless winter and all. They say the storm follows your witch queen like a loyal hound."

My claws emerge involuntarily, scoring deep marks in my palms. "Careful."

"Why? Going to kill me for speaking the truth?" A smile splits his dry lips. "The whole kingdom knows she's fled. Knows you can't control her. Can't even find her."

The urge to tear his throat out is almost overwhelming. I turn away, moving back to the implements of persuasion. My fingers trail over them, considering options. "You seem very interested in my wife's whereabouts."

"Me? No." He coughs, the chains rattling with the movement. "But others…well. Let's just say there are those who'd pay handsomely for information about the Queen. Especially given her supposed…condition."

I go very still. "What condition?"

"Oh." His laugh turns into another wet cough. "You don't know? Now that is interesting."

Moving faster than human eyes can track, I grab his throat. Scales ripple beneath my skin as I fight the urge to transform fully. "Speak plainly, or I'll tear the words from you piece by piece."

"Your brother sends his regards."

The words hit like a physical blow. I tighten my grip, feeling his pulse flutter beneath my fingers. "Ulric is dead."

"Is he?" The spy wheezes out another laugh. "Then who leads the army gathering in the northern mountains? Who rallies the dissatisfied Lords to his banner? Who shelters your runaway queen?"

"You lie ."

But even as I say it, doubt creeps. The reports from the north have been confused, contradictory. Scant facts reach us here in the south, where at least we can still move, may still travel upon the frost-hardened roads.

And Calliope…

I release his throat, stepping back. "My wife would never align herself with a traitor."

"Wouldn't she? After what you did to her?" The spy's voice is raw but triumphant. "Face it, my king. You're losing everything. Your kingdom fractures, your queen runs wild, and your brother rises again. How long before—"

His words cut off in a gurgle as my claws open his throat.

Blood sprays across the stones in an arc of crimson. For a moment, the only sound is that eternal dripping of water, keeping time with the spy's weakening heartbeat. Then silence.

I stare at my bloodied hand, at the scales that have emerged fully now, glinting red in the torchlight. The spy's final words echo in my mind, feeding doubts I've tried to bury since Calliope fled.

Would she truly ally with Ulric?

After everything he did, all his lies and manipulations? But then…after everything I did, all my attempts to cage and control her, would I blame her if she did?

A sour taste rises in my mouth. I feel strange, lightheaded, like a sort of fever.

"My king?"

I turn to find Darian in the doorway, his expression carefully neutral as he surveys the scene. Blood has splattered across my formal clothes, ruining the expensive fabric.

"Get rid of that." I gesture to the corpse. "And send word to our agents in the north. I want confirmation of every rumor, every whisper about my brother. If he lives…" My claws scrape against stone as I clench my fists. "If he has her…"

There is no mercy in my soul left for my brother. I knew this already. But now…

My bloodlust is infinite. I’ll kill him impossibly slowly if he has hurt her. If he has taken her.

"Your courtiers await above," Darian reminds me gently. "They expect you to address the grain shortage—"

"The people of this wretched place can rot." Smoke fills the air with each word. "My brother plots against me while my wife's power grows stronger by the day. The grain shortage means nothing if we don't—"

"It means everything," Darian cuts in, with the authority of decades of service. It is unusual for him to be so forward. "Your people freeze and starve while you hunt shadows. The Lords see weakness in your obsession with finding the queen. If you ignore them now—"

"What?" I whirl on him, letting my rage show fully. "They'll rebel? Plot against me? They already do! At least with Calliope by my side, they feared me. Feared us. Her power is the key to everything—you saw what she did that night. What she was capable of."

And if I don’t get her back, if I don’t find her, I’ll gladly burn this kingdom to the ground. I know it with an innate, terrifying ferocity.

Darian doesn't flinch from my anger. "And if the spy spoke truth? If she's truly allied herself with your brother?"

"Then I'll kill him." The words come out in a growl that's more dragon than human. "I'll burn every fortress, search every mountain cave until I find them. And then I'll show them both why the Dragon Kings have ruled for a thousand years."