Page 7

Time moves strangely in Ulric's wretched tower. Days blur at the edges, marked only by the changing quality of light through the arrow slits and the irregular appearances of silent servants with meals I'm never sure I should eat. The ancient stones seem to absorb sound, creating a perpetual twilit hush that makes me question whether the world beyond these walls still exists at all.

My first week here passes in a haze of fever and exhaustion. The magic I unleashed fighting the mercenaries took more from me than I realized, leaving me weak as a newborn colt. I drift in and out of consciousness, aware only of my child's steady presence within me and the eerie silence that pervades the tower. When I'm lucid, I catalogue my surroundings: the chamber is circular, perhaps twenty feet across, with seven slits placed at irregular intervals in the walls, too narrow to see through well. The stones are old—older than Millrath's walls—and covered in carvings so worn they're barely visible. Sometimes, in the strange half-light of dawn, I swear they move.

Perhaps this place is older than even Arvoren’s family’s dynasty. But I know it is not older than the Windwakers. I don’t know how, but I know.

The servants who tend me never speak. A woman with burn scars across her throat brings breakfast at irregular intervals. A boy missing three fingers replaces the rushes on the floor. An ancient man with milky eyes changes the bedding. They are all draconic, but I know not where they hail from. Their silence feels deliberate, orchestrated, like everything else in this place.

Ulric visits daily, always at different times. Sometimes he brings books—histories of Kaldoria, treatises on magic, accounts of the old wars. I am reminded in these hours of his ruse, the man he pretended to be when I knew him in Millrath. He sits in a high-backed chair near my bed and reads aloud like we’re still in that library, his voice smooth as honey, weaving together fact and implication with surgical precision.

"Did you know," he says one gray morning, "that the first Dragon Kings were more beast than man? True shapeshifters, not bound by human morality or weakness." His eyes flick to mine over the top of a leather-bound tome. "Unlike now, when we chain ourselves with crowns and laws, pretending at civilization. I wonder often what a creature such as you might make of that.”

I recognize the bait but take it anyway. "You think your brother pretends?"

"Don't you?" He marks his place with a ribbon of deep red silk. "All that careful control, that rigid adherence to tradition—it's a cage he built for himself, then tried to force everyone else into. Even you."

The words hit closer to home than I'd like. I turn away, ostensibly to pour water from the pitcher beside my bed. My hands shake slightly. "You seem very interested in your brother's marriages.”

"Marriage, singular." His smile is razor-sharp. "There will never be another, you know. Not now that he's tasted real power. That's what draws him to you—not love, whatever he claims. You're simply the strongest weapon he's ever tried to possess, I believe. Power is the only vector by which he can see the world around him. He has always been this way."

"And what am I to you?" The question slips out before I can stop it.

His laugh is soft, almost gentle. "An ally, I hope. In time. I’d gladly have your friendship, Calliope. You know I would.”

By the second week, I'm strong enough to leave my chamber, though I suspect Ulric allows this only because he knows I'm still too weak to attempt escape. The rest of the ancient compound reveals itself slowly, like a puzzle box with too many solutions. Staircases spiral in impossible directions, and corridors that should connect instead dead-end in empty chambers thick with dust. Windows that face north in the morning somehow look south by afternoon, or perhaps I truly am going mad.

An ancient magic, almost dead now, lingers here. Some empire I will never know nor understand.

The few guards I encounter move like ghosts through the halls, their armor scuffed and antiquated, bearing no House colours, their eyes downcast. None wear Ulric’s sigil. When I pass them, they press themselves against walls as if afraid to touch me.

"They fear what you represent," Ulric tells me over dinner in a chamber whose ceiling vanishes into darkness. Candles float above the table, their flames perfectly still despite the draft that whistles through the arrow slits. "Power untamed by tradition. Magic older than our petty kingdoms."

"Your brother's soldiers never feared me," I say, watching his reaction carefully.

Something dark flashes across his face. "My brother's soldiers are trained dogs, nothing more. These men? They know of the old ways. The true ways." He gestures to our surroundings. "This tower stands on the bones of the first dragons' strongholds. The very stones remember what real power feels like."

I've noticed how the tower seems to respond to my presence. Frost patterns appear on windows I pass, spreading like delicate lace. Temperatures drop in chambers where I linger. Sometimes, late at night, I swear I can hear the stones whispering in voices that sound disturbingly like my grandmother's.

The child grows stronger too. I feel them moving more now, responding to my magic in ways that both thrill and terrify me. Their power mingles with mine, making it harder to control but also more potent.

One morning, after a particularly vivid nightmare about Arvoren, I wake to find my entire chamber encased in ice.

Ulric finds me there, huddled in the center of the frozen room. His breath fogs in the air as he picks his way across the rime-covered floor.

"Remarkable," he murmurs, reaching out to touch one of the ice-sculptures that have formed from the furniture. "Do you see now? This is what he fears. What he'd destroy if he found you."

"You're wrong about him." But the words sound hollow even to my ears.

"Am I?" He crouches beside me, his voice gentle. "Then why did he chain you? Why did he never tell you about your own power, your true heritage? He knew what you were, Calliope. Knew what you could become. And he tried to keep you weak, contained."

I think of the cursed chains around my ankles, the way Arvoren would watch me with equal parts desire and wariness. Had he known? Had he sensed the magic growing in me and chosen to keep me ignorant?

"His armies move north," Ulric continues softly. "Did you know? Burning villages, torturing anyone who might have seen you. He claims it's to protect you, to bring you home safely. But we both know what happens to threats to his power."

"Prove it," I challenge, though my voice shakes.

His smile is sad now, almost pitying. "Come with me."

He leads me through the tower's twisting corridors to a chamber I've never seen before. Maps cover the walls—detailed renderings of Kaldoria and its territories. Markers show troop movements, colored pins indicating different Houses' forces. And there, spreading north from Millrath like a crimson stain, are Arvoren's armies.

"Reports come in daily," Ulric says, handing me a stack of papers. "Eyewitness accounts, military dispatches, letters between commanders. Read them yourself."

I do. For hours, I pore over accounts of villages searched, refugees questioned, suspected sympathizers executed. The pattern is clear, methodical, terrifying. Like a noose slowly tightening.

“How can I know this is real?" I ask finally, my throat tight.

“I respect you enough not to lie to you, Calliope.” He places a hand on my shoulder, and it takes all my willpower not to flinch away. "That child you carry? It could reshape our world. Break the cycle of violence and control that's ruled Kaldoria for centuries. Or…" He lets the words hang in the air.

"Or become another weapon in the king’s arsenal," I finish.

"Precisely." He squeezes my shoulder once before letting go. "Think about it. About the future you want for your child. We'll talk more later."

When he leaves, I stay in the map room, tracing the paths of armies across paper territories. The child shifts restlessly within me, responding to my turmoil. I press my hand to my stomach, feeling that precious warmth.

"He's lying," I whisper, though I'm not sure which 'he' I mean anymore. "Or at least…not telling the whole truth."

Because that's the key, isn't it? Ulric's words are too perfect, his evidence too convenient. He's playing a game—a game where my child and I are merely pieces to be moved across the board. But this time, I won't be the naive village girl swept up in dragons' schemes. This time, I'll be smarter.

I turn back to the maps, memorizing details, noting inconsistencies. I'll learn his game, learn its rules and rhythms. I'll let him think he's winning, let him believe his honeyed words have swayed me. And when the moment comes…

"We'll win," I promise the child, my voice barely a whisper in the tower's eternal twilight. "Whatever it takes, whatever I have to do. This time, we'll win. I’ll be smarter than I was in Millrath.”

But as I make my way back through the tower's impossible geometry, I can't shake the feeling that I'm being watched by more than just Ulric's silent servants. The very stones seem to hold their breath, waiting to see which dragon's game I'll choose to play.