They dragged her from the haystack with blood still on her hands and a smirk on her face. Her back screamed from the rough handling, but she ignored it, focusing on the heavy boot pressing against her ribs. Rain had plastered straw to her ragged tunic, but it did little to hide the crimson smears.
"A clever girl," the soldier said, gripping her by the chin like he was selecting meat. His thumb dug into her jaw, forcing her head back. She tasted copper, a mix of her own blood and something else, something richer, still clinging to her tongue. "His Highness likes clever."
She didn't flinch. Didn't beg. She only tilted her head and spat a gob of blood at his boot. It landed with a wet plop, a stark red stain on the dark leather. "Then His Highness has terrible taste."
A growl rippled through the soldiers. They'd been searching for hours, cursing her name, slogging through the muck around the livestock pens. She saw the exhaustion etched on their faces, the frustration warring with a grudging respect in some of their eyes.
Just that morning, the sun had been warm, lulling the off-duty soldiers into a lazy stupor. Arin had found them near the stable, sprawled around a rough-hewn table, their minds on coin and ale, not a scrawny girl's sleight of hand. She'd joined their dice game, a double-sided coin hidden beneath her calloused thumb.
Loaded dice were tucked into the sleeve of her tunic. It was an old trick, one her mother had taught her before she vanished. A whisper of a flick, a feigned clumsy toss, and the outcome was hers. She'd learned early that rules were for the weak, and survival meant bending them until they broke.
The pile of silver grew steadily, ration vouchers and dried meat appearing as if by magic. She collected them with a casual grace, her grin wide and innocent. The soldiers, thick-headed from cheap ale, roared with laughter, oblivious. Until one, a hulking brute named Kael, saw the tell-tale glint of metal.
"She's cheating!" he bellowed, his voice curdling the air. His hand shot out, grabbing her wrist, twisting hard. The silver coins scattered across the dirt. His dagger, sheathed at his hip, was within easy reach, its polished hilt gleaming.
Arin moved like a striking snake, faster than Kael's ale-muddled reflexes. A blur of motion, a swift grab, and the cold steel was in her grip. Kael screamed, a raw, animal sound, as the blade plunged into his thigh. The metal found bone, scraped, then settled. He collapsed, clutching the wound, his eyes wide with shock.
She vanished into the chaos, scrambling beneath the nearest haystack, burying herself deep in the dry, prickly warmth. The scent of hay and fear filled her nostrils. She heard the shouts, the frantic footsteps, the angry curses echoing above her for what felt like an eternity.
Hours crawled by, each one a slow torment of dust and dread. She listened to the distant shouts of the soldiers, their voices growing hoarse with frustration. They kicked at straw, prodded at shadows, but never quite found her. Arin held her breath, willing herself to be part of the earth.
Then, a sudden silence fell, broken only by the chirping of crickets. She thought they'd given up. A false hope, a cruel trick of the quiet. The next thing she knew, a rough hand had plunged into her hiding spot, clamping onto her ankle.
They dragged her out like a rat from its hole. Her muscles screamed in protest, stiff and sore from hours of cramped hiding. She squinted at the grey light filtering through the clouds, the damp chill biting at her exposed skin. Her hands still tingled from the escape, a phantom echo of the steel.
They shackled her, the cold iron biting into her wrists and ankles. The bruises were already blooming across her skin, dark blossoms against her pale flesh. Yet, the defiance hadn't left her eyes. She still wore a faint, insolent smirk.
"Why cheat, girl?" a burly guard asked, his voice rough but curious. He was younger than Kael, his face unscarred by battle. He nudged her with his boot, not quite a kick, but enough to make her shift.
Her smirk widened, showing a flash of white teeth. "Because honest work doesn't feed girls like me." She lifted her chin, meeting his gaze squarely. "And gods don't bless bastards."
The burly guard chuckled, a dry, humorless sound that brought a flicker of amusement to his eyes. But the others around him remained tense, their faces grim and unreadable. They exchanged quick, furtive glances amongst themselves, a silent language. Whispers of secret orders seemed to hang in the air, a thick, unspoken cloud.
"Silence," one of them growled, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. He was older, his face a map of old scars and harsh lines. "No talk. You heard the captain. Nothing about where we're taking her."
Arin felt a prickle of unease, a cold sensation coiling in her gut. "Where are you taking me?" Her voice was sharper than she intended, but curiosity gnawed at her. "His Highness? Which one? The King? Prince Jorgan? Or the other one?"
The guards exchanged another look. The burly one shrugged, a slight movement. "Orders are orders, girl. Just 'His Highness.' You'll know when you get there."
"Don't be daft," Arin scoffed, a dry laugh escaping her lips. "Someone stabs a royal guard, they usually end up in the gallows. Or worse. Why would 'His Highness' want me?" She tried to keep her tone light, but her mind raced, piecing together fragments of rumors she'd heard. Royals didn't just want commoners for no reason.
The older guard snorted. "Heard you're a slippery one. Good with your hands, they say." He eyed her calloused fingers. "Maybe he wants a new stablehand. Someone to polish his horses' hooves real quick."
"A stablehand?" Arin raised an eyebrow, a flicker of genuine bewilderment crossing her face. "For sticking a knife in your comrade's leg? Seems a bit extreme, even for royal mercy." She thought of the whispers, the tales of Prince Caldan, one of the dragon –bonded and the reputation for strange, dangerous whims. Her stomach tightened.
The burly guard shifted, his boots scuffing the mud. "Don't ask questions, girl. We're just following orders." He seemed more uneasy than the others, his eyes darting to the distance, as if checking for something.
"Orders from who?" Arin pressed, her voice lowering, trying to pry. "Someone important enough to keep a knife-wielding street rat alive? That sounds like a powerful person. Someone who doesn't care much for rules." Her gaze fell on the scarred guard, trying to read him.
He glared, but a flicker of something—frustration, maybe even fear—crossed his eyes. "Doesn't concern you, girl. Just know it's high-ranking. And what he wants, he gets. No matter how many men you stab."
The cart jolted violently, pulling her from her thoughts. It creaked and groaned as it rattled along a winding, unpaved path, the wheels sinking into the thick mud. Rain began to fall again, a fine, cold mist that clung to her face, mingling with the sweat on her brow. The sky overhead was a bruised purple, heavy with unspoken storms.
Through the narrow bars of the cage, the world outside was a blurry, desolate landscape. Twisted, skeletal trees clawed at the sky, their branches like bony fingers. A sudden gust of wind brought with it a new, potent smell: smoke, bitter and acrid, mixed with something else, something metallic and sickening that caught in her throat.
The cart slowed, rumbling past a village. Or what was left of one. Smoking ruins smoldered against the grey light, skeletal timbers reaching for the heavens like desperate prayers. Flames still licked at the remains of a few structures, painting the air with a sickly orange glow. The ground was blackened, scorched earth stretching as far as she could see.
Arin watched them, her eyes narrowing, the smirk gone from her face. It was the mark of dragon fire, she knew. The same kind that had, decades ago, razed the lands near her own village, an act of brutal assertion by the royal Dragonlines. This wasn't just a village; it was a grave, a warning.
Soldiers moved through the wreckage like ants over a carcass, their dark uniforms blending with the charred debris. They prodded at rubble, their movements devoid of emotion. Her gut churned. What could a simple village have done to earn such swift, absolute destruction? It introduced a chill far colder than the rain.
She thought of the whispers from the taverns, the hushed tales of dragonriders and their unforgiving lords. Dragonlines, they called them, bloodlines traced back to ancient tamers, their power absolute. If this was the consequence of defiance, then her own small act of rebellion felt like a mere whisper in a hurricane. She wondered what unforgivable act had sparked such fury.
She whispered, her voice barely a breath against the steady beat of the rain on the cart's roof. Her gaze fixed on the smoldering remains. "Was that one too clever?"
A soldier nearby, the grizzled veteran with the scarred cheek, shifted uneasily, his hand instinctively going to the hilt of his sword. He didn't look at her, his gaze fixed on the smoldering village, a grim shadow crossing his face.
"No. Just loud."