Caldan's words hung in the air, a silken threat. He stepped back, his smirk returning, a cold, elegant twist of his lips. Arin felt a shiver, not of fear, but of challenge. This was a dance, a dangerous one, and she knew a little about dancing on the edge of a blade.
"A bold claim," Arin retorted, her voice cutting through the lingering tension. "Most people don't claim what doesn't want them. Are you so starved for entertainment, Prince, that you've resorted to kidnapping street rats?" She watched his eyes, searching for a crack in his carefully constructed facade.
He chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that vibrated through the chamber. "Starved? Hardly. Bored, perhaps. There's a distinction. The court here thrives on predictable lies and dull flattery. You, little rat, are anything but predictable." He paused, his gaze raking over her, making her feel as though he saw every bruise, every flaw. "And I find myself… tired of predictable."
"So I'm your new diversion?" Arin scoffed. "A commoner to poke and prod? Don't disappoint yourself, Prince. My tricks are for survival, not your amusement." She thought of the gold goblets, the scattered silks, the bruised courtier. This was a man who broke things, then found new ways to entertain himself with the pieces.
"On the contrary," Caldan murmured, moving towards a side table laden with decanters of dark liquid. He poured himself a glass of something thick and red, the liquid gleaming in the amber light. "I suspect your tricks will be very amusing indeed. And perhaps, even useful." He took a slow sip, his eyes never leaving hers over the rim of the goblet.
"Useful for what?" Arin pressed, her curiosity overriding her caution. "What could a Prince of Drakoryth possibly need from a girl who cheats at dice and stabs soldiers?" She tried to keep her tone casual, but her mind raced, trying to decipher his game. Was this about espionage? About her mother's past? The thought sent a jolt of cold dread through her.
Caldan's lips twitched. "Why, to keep me company, of course. To perhaps remind me that there's more to this kingdom than whispered treachery and dullards clinging to power." He took another sip, his gaze sharp, assessing. "Or perhaps, to clean up my messes." He nodded subtly towards the bruised courtier, who still knelt, unmoving.
Arin glanced at the courtier, a flicker of pity warring with her natural suspicion. "You leave quite a trail, Prince. Messes and blood. Are you sure you want a cleaner? Or just someone else to blame them on?" She saw the subtle shift in his eyes, a momentary flicker of something, perhaps surprise, before his mask slid back into place.
"A fair question," he conceded, his voice almost thoughtful. "And one I might allow you to answer for yourself, in time." He set the goblet down with a soft click. "But for now, your role is simple: personal attendant. You will be assigned to my chambers."
The door reopened, revealing a silent servant, cloaked in dark, heavy robes. He held a folded piece of parchment, his head bowed. His eyes, when they briefly met Arin's, held a flicker of fear.
"She's to be assigned to your chambers," the servant said, his voice flat and devoid of emotion. "As... personal attendant."
Arin blinked. Her earlier sarcasm evaporated, replaced by genuine confusion. "That's vague." Personal attendant. The words could mean anything. A scullery maid, a spy, a plaything. Her gaze darted to where the velvet girl had disappeared. Was that her fate? A life spent in the shadows of royal debauchery?
Caldan took the paper from the servant's hand. He didn't read it. He simply crushed it in his gloved fist, the parchment crumpling with a soft crackle, then tossed it carelessly onto the throne.
"They think I'll break you," he said, his molten eyes fixed on Arin, a challenge in their depths.
"They think wrong," Arin retorted, her voice firm, unwavering. The words were a shield against the knot of fear in her stomach.
"Do they?" His eyebrow arched, a slow, taunting gesture. He took a step closer, not quite touching her, but his presence was a physical weight.
He stepped around her once more, his movements slow, deliberate. She could feel him, the warmth radiating from his body, the faint scent of steel and sulfur that clung to him. But he never laid a finger on her. Never lingered. Just presence. Power.
"You'll sleep in the antechamber," he said, his voice a soft command. "Touch nothing. Obey no one but me. And don't ask questions you don't want the answers to." His eyes bored into hers, a silent warning.
"Why me?" she asked, before she could stop herself. The question burst out, raw and insistent. It wasn't just about survival anymore; it was about understanding, about the mystery of her mother's past, about the inexplicable pull of this dangerous, powerful man.
"Because," he said, pausing in the doorway, his hand resting on the dark wood, "I tire of cowards. I wanted something with teeth."
*~*
After Caldan dismissed her, another silent servant, this one a stern-faced woman with a heavy ring of keys at her belt, led Arin through the labyrinthine corridors of Caldan's private wing. The scent of incense faded, replaced by the cool, dry smell of ancient stone and faint dust. The vast space was a maze of shadowed corridors, whispers seeming to cling to the heavy silk wall hangings.
"This way," the woman mumbled, her voice flat, devoid of warmth. She moved with purpose, her keys jingling softly. Arin followed, her eyes darting, absorbing every detail. She noted the subtle shifts in the floor tiles, the pattern of cracks in the plaster, the faint echoes that suggested hidden passages. Her mother had once told her: know the house you live in, even if it's a cage. A cage always has weaknesses.
They passed by a small, unmarked door. From beyond it, Arin swore she could hear a sound, deep and ancient, like breathing. A low, rhythmic thrumming that resonated in her chest. It was the sound of something vast, something asleep, yet immensely powerful. His dragon, she thought, a chill running down her spine. Vaelrix, the Night Dragon of Judgment, said to be a disgrace to Caldan's name, now sleeping under the palace, watched by red-robed flame-priests.
The woman stopped before a heavy wooden door, simple compared to the ornate entrances in the main palace. She unlocked it with a practiced click. "This is your room," she stated, pushing it open. "The antechamber to His Highness's sleeping chambers. You are to be here when he calls."
Arin stepped inside. It wasn't a cell, but it wasn't comfort either. The room was sparse, a single bed covered with a thin blanket, a small wooden table, and a solitary, unlit oil lamp. There were no windows, the walls thick and unyielding, effectively cutting her off from the outside world. On one wall hung a mirror, framed in black iron, but it didn't reflect her face, only a murky, distorted grey. A scrying mirror? Or just old and clouded? she wondered, a prickle of unease touching her.
The servant woman lingered for a moment, her gaze sweeping over Arin with an unnerving intensity. "His Highness dines alone tonight. You will not disturb him. Your meals will be brought to you." With that, she turned and left, the heavy door thudding shut, the click of the lock echoing with a sense of finality.
Arin was alone. The silence was profound, broken only by her own breathing and the faint, persistent thrumming from deep beneath the palace. She ran her calloused fingers over the rough blanket, then walked to the black mirror, peering into its depths. Still no reflection, just a swirling grey. It felt ominous, a warning that in this place, she might lose herself.
She spent the remaining hours before nightfall exploring her small prison. She tested the strength of the door, though she knew it was futile. She ran her hands over the walls, searching for any loose stones, any hidden cracks. She found none. The room was solid, unyielding, built to hold secrets. She tried to light the lamp, but it had no oil. They intended for her to spend the night in darkness.
Frustration simmered, but she suppressed it. This was not the time for reckless defiance. This was a time for observation. She listened, straining her ears for any sound from beyond the walls. She heard distant footsteps, the murmur of voices too faint to discern, and then, a long, drawn-out shriek that vibrated through the very foundations of the palace. A dragon's cry. Closer this time.
The thought of Prince Therain, Caldan's uncle, and his feral dragon Morgrar, the Blood Maw, briefly crossed her mind. Was that his dragon she heard? Or Caldan's own Vaelrix, stirring from its slumber in the Crucible Pits, the ancient caverns beneath the city? The idea of a dragon stirring so close sent a cold shiver down her spine.
She paced the small room until her muscles ached, her mind racing, turning over every interaction, every veiled threat. Why was she here? What game was Caldan playing? He wanted something with teeth, he'd said. She had teeth, yes, but what good were they against a prince with a dragon and a kingdom built on fire?
Night finally fell, though Arin only knew it from the dimming of the already muted light that filtered into the antechamber from the distant main corridors. She hadn't seen Caldan again since their confrontation in his throne room. The thought lingered, unsettling her. He was unpredictable, and unpredictability in this place was a greater danger than outright cruelty.
As she lay down on the hard bed, the rough blanket doing little to soften the surface, Arin whispered to herself, a fierce vow against the oppressive darkness: "I cheated death twice this week. Let's see if I can outplay a prince."
From beyond the wall, in the utter silence of the princely suite, she heard laughter. Low, resonant, and chillingly familiar. His.