CHAPTER ONE
THE DRAGON'S CALL ( i. )

9 YEARS LATER

In the town of Osbrot, pounding hooves can be heard from miles away. Each passing second beckons the small army closer, like a swelling storm rolling in from the West. A mass of whispering, concerned citizens huddles together outside the local tavern, awaiting someone brave enough to step inside. A terrifying, dark presence looms at the door. The wood almost looks scarred, as if touched by brutal magic, and no one has the courage to push it open on creaking hinges and investigate the massacre behind the steady, jarring crack of the wind pushing it open and closed, back and forth, taunting every onlooker. There aren't any boot prints on the mud, even though constant rain has turned the ground into nothing more than a branching system of thick, brown pools.

The tavern is frozen in time. Pricked and prodded by the stench of death and the divine powers which allowed such horrid acts to take place. This could be no act of God, not even heavenly punishment for sin. No, not even God could have controlled what lies behind that closed door. Every townsperson knows, in their gut, this is the work of the Devil.

The sea of individuals parts for the group of riders baring the dragon seal of Camelot. A holy red that makes them breathe in relief as the rustling chainmail and unsheathing of swords calms some of their nerves. As a bold leader, Arthur Pendragon dismounts his horse, blonde hair sticking to his forehead in a mix of sweat and rain. The people extend their hands to touch his armored shoulder as he passes, as if that could save them from a similar fate which befell those unfortunate souls in the tavern.

This young Prince has seen death up close on the battlefield and in the tense duels of mortal combat. He's shoved his sword into other men's chests, watching as their eyes go blank and blood seeps around them. He's not a stranger to the brutality of the world, but when he bravely walks to the tavern door and pushes it open, his stomach churns so harshly he thinks he may lose his breakfast. Arthur holds up his hand to stop any other knights from entering as the molding floorboards groan underneath him. The Prince sucks in a breath, and takes in every, bloody detail.

All around the floor, men lie dead. Throats deeply slashed, chests cut open, wounds inflicted with the intent of excruciating pain. The once light brown floors are a dark crimson. The walls are splattered with the destruction. Not one man even looks like he was able to put up much of a fight. Arthur leans down to press his fingers to the blood-stained wood. Whoever did this is long gone.

When he stands, he walks further into the tavern, towards the back where a door is kicked off its hinges. Inside the storage room, a man lies dead against the wall with a clean slice to his throat. He tried to hide from his attacker, but nothing could have saved him. His eyes are dull and wide as he slumps against the wall with his execution etched permanently on his face. Arthur's eyebrows furrow when he notices one of the man's sleeves pushed up to his forearm while the other hangs loosely. It could be a detail of little importance, but he still takes note of it as he leans against the doorframe.

"Sire," he almost jumps when a knight speaks from the middle of the tavern, "the townspeople are claiming sorcery is responsible for this. How else is it possible for something like this to happen with no witnesses and no one hearing a thing?"

Arthur keeps his eyes on the man in the storage room, his life ended so suddenly and brutally. He wonders if he has a family or someone outside grieving his demise. The plane of death, so mysterious and haunting, hangs in the air of this place. As if lingering too long could cause someone to pass into it alongside these many victims.

"This was no work of sorcery," He finally draws his eyes away from the man.

"Sire?"

The Prince turns to the knights awaiting his judgement, "There's only one person in all of the Five Kingdoms who could have done this."

Yes, one cloaked figure. Equivalent to the silent shadows cast on the wall by orange torchlight. Tangible, but impossible to catch.

"The Red Dragon."

HOURS EARLIER
HORSESHOE TAVERN

Her hands are covered in blood.

Thick, dripping, red blood. She can feel it oozing, whispering the death songs of mournful souls drifting between heaven and hell. Hell. If hell is anything more than an abstract construct of mythical eternal fires and fury to scare men into worshiping a wrathful God, then it takes form in Calliope. Her blade is kissed with silver, crafted in midnight rage and poisonous sin—the sins that haunt her mind, following her with each echoing step. She can sew nightmares with her sword, deadly and consuming, they prowl through her victim's dreams long before a slash of silver casts them into an ending of chilling, hushed silence.

A shadow dances on the wall across from her, torchlight reflecting from the pools of blood around her black boots. She lifts her feet over the unmoving bodies in her path, their eyes dull and fixed on the paneled ceiling of the closed tavern. Thirty minutes ago, these dead men were enjoying a night of drinking as their boss counted his coin in the back. None of them could have predicted the storm coming for them—waiting just outside the dusty window for the perfect moment to strike. A snake, prowling, slithering in tall grass, her venomous fangs gaping until they clamp onto her prey, draining their life away.

The last man alive has locked himself into the storage room amongst barrels of ale and vegetables, as if they could save him from the wrathful end on the other side of the door. Her shadow seeps through the crevices like molten lava, destruction in its enflaming breath. Everything around him is quiet—too quiet. Sometimes, death is a prolonged flash of war and screams and thundering metal, but when Calliope deals the grim reaper's hand, it's simply an encompassing whisper of darkness, leaving no trace of her true identity except the scattered fallout of revenge.

A fretful whimper breaks the silence as Calliope draws back her foot and slams it into the door with all her might. The man cowering in the back of the room knows his end is near as he stares at the bloodied figure above the broken hinges. Her blade reflects in the moonlight that watches over them, anxious to claim another soul to it's hollowing flicker.

She doesn't rush to him. He has nowhere to go. Her steps reverberate through him, pounding into his every, panicked vein. The assassin halts, towering above him with her blade tickling his shoulder.

"Get up," her voice slices through the air, crisp and unforgiving.

"P-please," the man stutters, shaking, his eyes downcast. "I'll give you whatever you want."

Unsatisfied with his useless attempts to save himself, Calliope moves her sword to his neck, his throat bobbing with the fear that shoots through him, "I said, get up."

Ever so slowly, the man raises his hands in surrender. His legs wobble as he faces her, back pressed roughly against the wall and her blade pointed against a very important artery in his neck. One slice and he is dead in seconds.

Her cold, unwavering gaze drills into him, tinted with ice and malice as she grabs his right arm. In one swift motion, she yanks his sleeve up, but her breath hitches when all she sees is pale, white skin.

"I suppose I'm not the man you expected to find," her eyes return to his, dropping his arm with a narrowing gaze.

"If you're not the man I'm looking for, who is?" She leans closer. "Who is the man with the phoenix tattoo?"

Tattoos can be a dangerous thing; especially in Calliope's business, and yet, she has several of her own, her favorite being a dragon with it's long tail winding down her spine. It started as a simple dragon, and the tail grew longer and longer with each kill. Now it reaches all the way down to the lower part of her spine.

Scoffing, the man glances down to her blade, "You're going to kill me either way, so why should I tell you?"

"You're right," her answer is swift and unrelenting, "but how slowly—how painfully I choose to do so is still undecided, so if I were you, I'd think carefully about what you want to say to me next."

His choices are limited. In his final moments, he just shakes his head, the kiss of death inching towards his face, "He's as good as a myth. A man cloaked in shadow, destroying villages and sending chaos to every corner of the world."

"If he's such a myth, then how did you give him the location of my village?" Fear paralyzes him. He doesn't dare move under her blade. "You're the one who spread the rumor of a warlock hiding there, are you not?"

Every card he thought he might have up his sleeve to save his life tumbles to the floor and disappears, "Fine, fine, yes, but I never met the Phoenix. I sold the rumor for gold. It was an anonymous exchange. Please, I'm telling the truth. I swear—"

A choked gasp sputters passed his lips. Her blade slices deep into his throat, splattering the walls with his crimson blood. The man grips his gashed neck, stumbling as he suffocates, his body thudding against the floor.

Calliope stands over him as he takes his last breath, "And what is that gold worth now?"

The assassin leaves the tavern, her gaze staring into the shadows of nightfall as she walks away from another dead end, feeling a numbness in her bones that she can never seem to cure.

♛ ♛ ♛

The Gray Fox is alive with music and robust laughter–men clinking their wooden glasses of ale together in front of an inviting fireplace while tavern maids struggle to keep up with their ability to drink the place dry. No doubt, the stores in the back are running low. Calliope quietly sips on her own glass, picking at the lone piece of warm bread on her plate. She isn't very hungry, her latest failure makes her stomach churn. She can't stop seeing that last man choke on his own blood and die, his eyes paling into lifelessness.

But most of all, her eyes are heavy, and all she wants to do is lie her head on the table and close them for hours on end. But, sleep is never friendly–at least, not to her.

Calliope forces the rest of the bread down. She'll need her strength for her next journey. The one here was hard enough, through rain and mud and thunder. Her horse nearly collapsed, but she refused to stop. Getting as far away from Osbrot as possible was the only thought in her mind. Now, she can sit here and think. Go through her options and plan for a better few days. The most appealing thing to her is laying low. Sometimes, she has to settle for a few weeks or even months so the trail following her goes cold. Dying out like wildflowers in the winter chill. Avoiding capture isn't always easy, especially when soldiers are poking around and asking questions, but Calliope has become an expert at blending in.

Her eyes droop, and she inhales a long breath. Calliope shakes her head, banishing the tiredness away. She'll sleep, eventually, but right now she needs a plan. As soon as light filters over this tavern, she needs to be long gone. Even though Osbrot is over a two day's ride away, it's still too close for comfort. Hearing that the Knights of Camelot were there only puts her more on edge, looking over her shoulder more than usual.

Standing, she weaves through the crowd of dancing individuals, swaying their hips to the fiddle and lute. When the assassin stops at the bar to get another drink–knowing she can never flag a tavern maid down in these conditions from her table in the back–voices catch her attention.

"–a complete bloodbath, I'll tell ya'," says a stout woman to the men around her. "If you ask me, it's the work of the Devil. Demons possessing people to kill."

"It's no demon. It's the Red Dragon, and we all know it," Calliope rests her elbows on the bar, looking away from the conversation.

"He is a demon," the woman insists. "Leaving bodies across all the Five Kingdoms, like some deranged animal."

"Riders from Camelot have been searching for any trace of him. No luck yet, but I have faith in the King to bring this man to justice."

A maid spots Calliope, raising her eyebrows, "Another ale."

Moments later, she throws a few pieces of silver down, takes her new cup, and swallows a big gulp, "The question is why–why does he do it?"

"Surely not just for gold."

"–And surely not for one of the Kings."

Calliope stares at the liquid in her cup, tilting her head to listen, "Well, that's just the mystery isn't it? But, I think it all comes down to one fact," the men around the stout woman lean closer, and she sighs. "Some people are just evil."

The assassin grips her cup and moves away from the bar. She doesn't go back to her table. Instead, she finds the staircase across the tavern and makes her way to the room she paid for tonight. Inside, her worn satchel and belt of weapons sit under the narrow bed. The mattress is thin and likely only stuffed with straw. A single, circular window gives her a perfect view of the streets below. There is a light drizzle of rain which taps onto the tainted glass, enough to lull her to sleep the second she allows her body to rest.

Calliope reaches inside her boot, where a small dagger has been concealed, and she moves it underneath the thin, navy pillow. Then, she reclines on the bed and stares at the ceiling, everything she heard from the people at the bar coming back to her thoughts, even though she wishes it wouldn't.

This day marks exactly nine years since that one, horrible night. Nine years since her village was destroyed—since her father was murdered—since her mother was kidnapped. The memories flash, even as she squeezes her eyes shut and tries to chase them away, no amount of steel or blood could cure this pain, it's coarse unrelenting as it cracks through her chest. The thick ash, the smoke filling her lungs, the smell of blood and destruction all around her. A little girl, lost and alone and broken. Everything had been ripped away before she could even comprehend it. That night, it always haunts her dreams. Like she's a wayward traveler in her own mind, forced to see it all unfold night after night. And after all these years, it still stings the same.

She thinks that perhaps, she has just grown accustomed to it. Like an unwanted shadow. She wishes she could say her parents would be proud. That if they were alive to meet the person she's become, they wouldn't see a stranger. She isn't sure how to save that girl who chased blue jays and daydreamed of flying with them. I killed her, Calliope thinks. And the person who replaced her...the Red Dragon, is someone she had to become to survive. To keep moving. It's her lifeline against the past.

And maybe she has received solace in her vengeance. Knowing that almost all of the men from the raiding party are dead does bring her some peace of mind. They were all pieces of shit, and the world is a better place without them. But, does that make her evil like they say–a demon, possessed to kill and destroy? Has her humanity truly fallen that far away, tumbled and dissolved into the blackness below?

The persona she's fallen into is harsh and clean-cut. To the world, there's no blurred lines or uncertainty about whether or not the Red Dragon is good or bad. There's one answer, one perspective, and it hasn't mattered much to Calliope. Let the world think what they want and come up with their ideas about things. She has her mission. Finishing what she started; getting her revenge, it's all that matters now.

Calliope turns to lay on her side, and her hand reaches under the pillow to clutch the smooth and familiar handle of her dagger. She stares at the rain-kissed window and wonders what to do next. So many dead ends looking for the man with the phoenix tattoo–for her mother. She can't handle another one, not so soon anyway.

Yes, it's time to lay low.

And she knows the perfect place to hide. In plain sight, just another common girl working in the city. Right under their royal noses.

Calliope became a ghost nine years ago, and she's all too familiar with how to disappear.

♛ ♛ ♛

The castle of Camelot is visible from the edge of the forest; so tall and wide like the mountains around Calliope's old village. The crimson flags of the kingdom, adorned and stitched with golden dragons dance in the brisk winds of nightfall—tinged with the sweet aroma of dawning summer. The moonlight beckons to her as Calliope draws in a breath. She slings her small bag of belongings over her shoulder and begins the last part of her trek to the city she hasn't visited in over three years. It houses the one person left in this world that she carries any affection for. The one person she can always count on to let her in when she knocks at the door. However, she hates burdening him with her presence. She is, well, a wanted fugitive. And he knows the full extent of her life, even the Red Dragon.

Her hands pull on the hood around her shoulders until it covers her face and her ice-kissed hair. Calliope blends in with shadows around the quaint houses and markets of the low town. The people who live here are the backbone of the kingdom; because of them, Camelot thrives above many other cities. The people are loyal to their King—humble servants with enough blind faith to move mountains—but sometimes, faith is foolish.

A passing patrol causes her to duck behind a large barrel. The torchlight fades as they wander further down the dirt path towards the edge of the city, and she moves swiftly towards the castle once it's clear. The gates of the courtyard are all that stand between her and an easy path to the physician's chambers. Two guards stand watch, long spears in their hands. Calliope considers her options, one of which that crosses her mind is using her sword or daggers, but she's not here as an assassin. She's here to lay low.

Instead, Calliope picks up a rock and tosses it near a large bush. The sound echoes to them, and both perk up, exchanging a quick glance. Her heart pounds as they walk in the direction of the sound, turning their backs to her just long enough for her to slip into the courtyard.

She could come during the day and get into the palace grounds by speaking with guards and answering their questions, or maybe even being pulled before the King for him to approve of her presence in the city, but she doesn't have much patience for those types of things. Calliope uses her own methods as she crosses the courtyard, her boots silent against cobblestone. The previous time she was in Camelot flashes through her mind—years ago when she spent almost a month with Gaius—the last time she remembers feeling any semblance of peace. It was during the summer too. She had helped him around the castle with his work, delivering potions and wrapping injuries, like she was as normal as everyone around her.

That feels like a lifetime ago now.

Calliope arrives at the steps just as a loud clanging sound reverberates through the air. Her hand darts to her belt, ready to draw steel, but then, she sees what had caused the commotion. Entering the courtyard are two men—two drunk men. Calliope jumps behind a thick stone pillar, pressing her back against it as she listens to their steps coming closer, adrenaline beginning to spike in her veins.

"You only won because I'm too drunk to aim."

"Perhaps you're simply a sore loser who cannot accept defeat."

They chuckle—and stumble around for a moment. Calliope wants to laugh, and she bites her lip, clasping a hand over her mouth. They might not even notice her if she steps out.

"I'll see you bright and early for training."

"Shit," the other groans.

"Try not to hurl your guts up."

One pair of footsteps fades away from the castle. The other man sighs, and she hears him lean against the same pillar she's hiding behind. Calliope turns, peeking out just enough to spot the back of his head. Dark blond hair, and a muscled back. It's all she can see, but then, he whips his head around. Calliope scolds herself for being curious as she ducks away from the moonlight, praying he hadn't seen her. Stupid, she should have just kept walking, but something unspoken had tugged her to stay.

"Is someone there?" His voice is appealing, even through the slight slur from his drunkenness. Calliope thinks about knocking him out. He'd just blame it on the ale.

Just as she grabs her sword to use the blunt end to make him see stars, he steps away from the pillar and moves around it. Calliope inhales a sharp breath as the man stands before her, his eyes going to the arsenal of blades at her belt—the belt her hand is reaching for.

"Who are you?" He asks, drawing his own blade. The sound of it ricochets around them.

She can't explain why, but instead of pulling out her own sword, her fingers grip the fabric pooling around her head, shielding her face from him, and she lets it fall to her shoulders. Her hair cascades in waves, framing her soft features for him to see.

The man freezes, like he's trapped within himself, his deep, blue eyes meeting hers, and his arm falls back to his side. The man doesn't speak. He just stares in a distracted awe, and if she wanted to kill him, he'd be on the ground, bleeding out. He'd given her several lethal seconds, but Calliope doesn't move either. The wind howls around them, their eyes locked in surprise, curiosity, and a delicate veil of trickling moonlight.

"Sorry if I startled you," Calliope is still on edge, but her voice is smooth.

The man blinks several times, seeming to break himself out of a trance, "It's alright," he says. His eyes shift from her to the empty courtyard. "What are you doing out here?"

"I'm a friend of Gaius," she answers. "I was just walking to his quarters."

"In the middle of the night?"

Her lips quirk, "And what's your excuse for wandering around at this hour?"

The man extends a finger away from the castle, swaying slightly. She afraid he's going to lose his balance and fall right into her, "I've just returned from the tavern."

"That much is obvious," If not from his behavior, she'd know because of the stench of ale in his breath.

He raises his eyebrows, "Are you calling me a drunk?"

"Well, you're definitely not sober."

"You're right," he puts a hand on the pillar to steady himself. "If I was not under the influence of ale, I'd give you a proper greeting, which a Lady deserves."

"I'm no Lady."

"What are you then?" Their eyes meet again, and Calliope finds herself flashing him a smile. "Who are you?" Calliope slowly shakes her head, taking a step back, but he takes one forward. "I must know your name."

Laughing as he struggles to stay on two feet—he's few inches too close—Calliope answers, "Even if I told you, you won't remember any of this tomorrow."

Their gazes dance as if they are intertwined by some invisible thread, "I'll remember you."

Calliope takes a breath, stepping back, "We'll see."

"I will," she hears him say as she turns in the direction of Gaius's chambers. "And I will find out your name!"

She doesn't answer him. Calliope keeps walking, but she feels his eyes watching her until she is completely out of sight.

♛ ♛ ♛

Calliope sits in Gaius's chambers early in the morning before he stirs, sipping on a glass of water and flipping through one of his books. She had easily picked the lock on the door and slept on the extra cot Gaius keeps in the corner of the room. Her arrival hadn't even stirred the mice.

Her hand twiddles with the silver locket around her neck—the only belonging she's had with her since birth. The pendant hanging from the chain is a half-moon. Gaius told her it was with her when he found her as a baby. It's the only thing that's been with her through everything. One constant she can always count on. Even though she knows nothing of the people who left it on her, she grips it like it's the best possession in the world, and she never goes a day without wearing the necklace.

"Bloody hell!"

A loud, shocked voice rises from the room across from the bench. Calliope sees Gaius standing there, his mouth agape. He looks the same as she remembers. Shoulder-length, white hair and a kind face. She drops the pendant from her grasp and smiles.

"How did you get in here—wait, I don't even want to know the answer to that."

She nods, "You need to get a better lock."

Gaius walks across the room as Calliope stands, and he gives her a quick hug, "Calliope, it's been years!" he pulls away. "Your visit is long overdue."

"I know, and I'm sorry for my absence. Things have been...complicated to say the least."

"Well, you're not my only visitor," he says. "Hunith's son, Merlin, has come to Camelot. He's staying in the extra room. He arrived yesterday."

Her eyes wander up to the broken railing around his upper bookcases, "He have anything to do with that?"

Gaius scratches his head, "Ah—yes, he saved me from a terrible fall." Her eyebrows furrow, and Gaius leans forward. "You know a thing or two about keeping a big secret, as does he." She can put the clues together, nodding. Magic. It's the most dangerous secret to have in Camelot. Outlawed by King Uther twenty years ago, anyone caught practicing it faces certain death. Even amongst the whispers of nightfall when Calliope moved through shadows, she heard talk of an execution which had happened just before she arrived. A man, his head chopped off, and his mother in the crowd promising revenge on the King.

When her village was destroyed, Calliope obviously suspected Uther's men responsible for the massacre, but after years of hunting down several involved, each man seemed to be part of some kind of anti-magic group. None of them had ever even seen the royal court. That was for sure.

"Go ahead and put your things in my room. I can sleep out here during your visit."

"Thanks, Gaius."

Calliope slings her bag over her shoulder, walking into the room just as she hears the sound of someone else stirring. Muffled voices drift through the air, and Calliope examines the room. There's a small bed, a bookshelf, and a bedside table, along with an old rug on the floor. There's a single window which overlooks the city, and Calliope gazes out of it for a few moments before turning her head when someone opens the door.

A boy peeks his head inside her room. He has raven-colored hair and blue-green eyes filled with mischief and curiosity. The boy gives her a cheeky smile and shifts his weight as he tries to think of what to say.

"It's Calliope, right?" He finally says,

"Cal," she corrects. "Calliope is a mouthful, isn't it?"

"Yeah, it kind of is." The assassin sits on the bed "So, how do you know Gaius?"

Merlin crosses the room to join her as she breathes out a sigh, "Now that is a very long story. The short version is... He saved me when I was a child."

"How?"

Calliope shifts her eyes to his, "Do you always bombard people you just met with questions?"

Merlin blinks awkwardly, his gaze avoiding hers when he realizes he's being too nosy, "I'm sorry, I didn't mean—"

"It's fine. Maybe one day I'll tell you the whole story."

An expression flashes across his face, as if he senses that Calliope has thousands of deep secrets within her, like a puzzle no one ever seems to be able to solve. She keeps her pieces broken and scattered on purpose. She doesn't want anyone to solve it; she may let them try, but their efforts are always futile. She only gives them enough information to keep trying.

But maybe soon, someone will finally put all her pieces together.

this chapter is:
edited [X]
unedited

for anyone wondering how to pronounce calliope's name:
kuh·ly·uh·pee
you're welcome :)
graphic by sixty6ix