The echo of Caldan's laughter lingered in the silence of her antechamber. It wasn't the sound of genuine mirth, Arin decided, as she pushed herself up from the hard bed. No, it was too sharp, too deliberate. The kind of sound a predator makes, testing the air, asserting dominance. It grated on her, a forced amusement that mocked her precarious situation.
Her stomach let out a pathetic growl, a stark reminder of her last meal, hours ago and meager. She paced the small room, her bare feet silent on the cold stone floor. "So," she muttered to the unreflecting mirror, her voice dry and laced with sarcasm, "the great Prince Caldan intends to starve his new 'personal attendant.' Is this a new form of royal punishment? Or perhaps," she scoffed, a bitter smile twisting her lips, "a way to soften me up for whatever twisted game he's planning next?" The thought of being a toy, a plaything for his cruel whims, made her skin crawl.
A faint click at the door made her spin around. The stern-faced servant woman from earlier, the one with the jangling keys, entered without knocking. Her gaze, cold and disapproving, swept over Arin's disheveled state.
"The prince is waiting," the woman stated, her voice as chill as the air in the corridors. "Try to look less like you crawled from a pigpen."
Arin folded her arms across her chest, a defiant gesture. Her chin lifted slightly. "I'll be sure to roll in roses next time," she retorted, her voice dripping with dry wit. "After I eat, that is. Unless His Highness intends to add starvation to my list of royal duties?"
The woman's lips thinned, but she didn't respond to the bait. "Follow me. And keep your tongue where it belongs."
Arin gave a short, humorless laugh. "Wouldn't want to cause any more… accidents," she drawled, recalling the guard's broken fingers.
She walked out into the corridor, trailing behind the servant. She walked barefoot out of sheer spite, the cool, smooth stone pressing against her soles a minor discomfort, but a small rebellion nonetheless. Every nerve ending vibrated with suppressed energy. Her mind raced, cataloging the turns, the side passages, the presence of guards. Escape was a constant hum in her thoughts, a melody of freedom playing beneath the threat of the palace walls. The halls were a labyrinth, a silent, shadowed beast, but even a beast had a heart, and a way out.
*~*
Meanwhile, in the deeper recesses of the palace, the royal shadows bustled with quiet purpose. Pages, young boys with too-serious faces, scurried through dimly lit passages, their arms laden with bundles of firewood for the prince's hearth. The crackle of burning oak already echoed from the study. Servants moved with a practiced grace, folding silk bedrobes, soft as whispers, and laying out obsidian decanters of wine, their dark contents gleaming under the flickering torchlight.
In the bustling, hidden kitchens, an old cook grumbled into his stew pot. "The prince refused supper again. Said the venison tasted of 'cowardice and weak intentions.' What does that even mean?"
A younger cook, wiping his hands on a stained apron, chuckled. "Means he's still got that fire in him, old man. He only eats flame and fury."
Outside, in the courtyards and watchtowers, palace guards switched shifts with murmured warnings. "The girl's going in," one grizzled veteran muttered to his replacement, nodding towards the unseen wing.
"Place your bets—an hour or less?" The replacement snorted, adjusting his helmet. "I'll take the under. She looked like she could chew iron." The air crackled with a morbid anticipation, a grim excitement that settled over the ancient stones of Caelvoryn.
*~*
The servant woman led Arin to a heavy, unadorned door. This wasn't the opulent entrance to Caldan's throne room, but a more private, secluded one. The wood was dark, unpolished, almost blending into the shadows of the corridor. The woman pushed it open, revealing a chamber steeped in dim, amber light.
It was a study. High library shelves, laden with ancient, leather-bound tomes, rose to the vaulted ceiling. A fire burned low in a grand hearth, casting dancing shadows that stretched and warped across the room. Two plush, high-backed chairs faced each other, separated by a small, exquisitely carved table. Two decanters of deep red wine stood upon it, alongside two empty goblets. Nearby, a black iron chessboard sat, its pieces meticulously arranged, yet untouched.
Prince Caldan was already seated in one of the chairs, half-shrouded in shadow, his molten eyes tracking her as she stepped inside. Arin didn't bow. Her back was rigid, her chin held high, a silent refusal to acknowledge his authority in this intimate space.
"Starving, are you?" Caldan's voice was a low mockery, an echo of her own muttered complaints.
Arin folded her arms across her chest, feeling the sharp press of her ribs against the fabric of her torn tunic. "I thought perhaps nobles fed their guests," she retorted, her voice dry. "Or was starving me part of the game? To see how quickly a commoner breaks?"
He gestured towards the empty chair, a lazy flick of his gloved hand. He reached for one of the decanters and poured wine into both goblets, setting one before him and pushing the other across the table towards Arin. The liquid gleamed like spilled blood in the dim light. "A drink, then?" he offered, his gaze unwavering.
Arin eyed the goblet, her throat parched, but her instincts screaming caution. Poison. It was the oldest trick. She barely suppressed a shiver. "No, thank you, Prince," she said, her voice flat. "I prefer my senses unclouded."
Caldan's lips twitched, a faint, unsettling smile playing on his lips. He took a slow sip of his own wine, his eyes never leaving hers over the rim of the goblet. "If I wanted to poison you, little rat," he murmured, "you'd already be ash. Or perhaps just a useful distraction." He set the wine down, the click of the glass against the table echoing softly in the quiet room. Then, he leaned forward, his silhouette deepening in the shadows. "Let's begin, then."
Arin remained standing, her posture defiant.
"Sit," he commanded, his voice softer, yet still carrying that steel edge. "Unless you prefer to solve riddles on your feet? The terrace stones are quite unforgiving in bare feet, I hear."
Arin hesitated, a flicker of irritation sparking within her. He knew she was barefoot. He always knew, always noticed. She walked to the chair and sat down, her movements stiff, but without a flinch. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction.
"Good," Caldan said, his eyes glinting. "Now, a mind that cannot solve a simple riddle is no mind at all. And I have little use for dullards." He leaned back, his gaze piercing. "I speak without mouth, hear without ears. I have no body, but I come alive with wind. What am I?"
Arin felt a familiar thrill. Riddles. These were her kind of games. She paused for only a breath, her mind already sifting through possibilities. "An echo," she answered, her voice clear and confident.
Caldan's lips twitched, a hint of something like approval. "Correct. Let's try another. You measure my life in hours. I serve you by dying. I'm quick when I'm thin and slow when I'm fat. The wind is my enemy."
Arin didn't immediately answer. Her eyes strayed to the flickering fire in the hearth. The way the flame danced, consumed, diminished. A small smile touched her lips. "A candle," she guessed, certainty in her tone.
"Indeed." Caldan's voice held a note of genuine interest now. "You pick these up quickly. Where did a commoner learn such things?"
"Stolen books, overheard tavern talk, a mind that pays attention," Arin replied, shrugging dismissively. "Commoners learn to make use of whatever scraps they find. Unlike those who have everything handed to them."
He ignored the subtle jab. "Very well. One more, then. I have cities but no houses, rivers without water, forests without trees. What am I?"
Arin paused, her gaze sweeping around the study, taking in the ancient maps that hung on the walls. She remembered tracing lines on stolen parchments, dreaming of places she'd never see. A wry smirk played on her lips. "A map. Is this supposed to be hard, Prince? Or are your court scholars truly so lacking in wit?"
Caldan's eyes narrowed slightly, a hint of steel entering their molten depths. "You're insolent."
"And you're predictable," Arin shot back, her voice sharper now, fueled by a sudden surge of adrenaline. "But here's one for you, Prince. A riddle of my own. What walks on lies, lives in shadows, and still thinks it holds the truth?" She leaned forward slightly, her gaze challenging him.
Caldan leaned in, his voice dropping, like a storm gathering at sea. "Careful, girl. You flirt with fire."
Arin didn't flinch. She leaned in closer too, her voice a low, fierce whisper. "Maybe I'm tired of ice, Prince. This palace is nothing but frozen smiles and cold intentions."
Just then, a ripple of laughter erupted from the outer chamber, cutting through the tense quiet of the study. The heavy doors swung open, revealing a noblewoman, a vision in gold, framed in the archway. Her gown, spun from threads of pure gold, shimmered in the amber light, clinging to her slender frame.
"Lady Serathe," Caldan greeted her, his voice devoid of any warmth, though his eyes held a flicker of something almost like amusement. "To what do I owe this… intrusion?"
Arin's mind filed away the name – Lady Serathe. She knew nothing about this woman, but her appearance, the cooing tone, the expensive silks, all spoke of court and privilege. This was the kind of woman Arin had only ever glimpsed from a distance, or in the pages of a stolen book.
Lady Serathe glided into the room with an almost predatory grace, her scent of heavy jasmine and fine silks filling the air. "You're too harsh with her, darling Prince," she cooed, her voice saccharine sweet, though her eyes were sharp and calculating as they darted to Arin. "Why not test me instead? Or is this your way of choosing a wife, parading these… novelties?"
Caldan laughed then, a low, dark sound that vibrated through the room, a sound Arin realized was the first real laugh she'd heard from him, devoid of its usual mocking edge. It wasn't warm, but it was genuine, a sound that made Arin stiffen, caught off guard. It was the sound of a man who found amusement in cruelty, in power plays.
"You couldn't handle the questions, Serathe," Caldan said, his voice laced with a cruel amusement, his smile widening as he looked at the noblewoman. "They require a brain unsoiled by gossip and flattery, and a spirit not dulled by endless luxury."
Lady Serathe pouted, a practiced gesture that probably worked on lesser men. "Oh, darling, flattery is an art form. You should appreciate it—you're sculpted from it, after all." Her eyes, sharp and dismissive, then cast a condescending glance at Arin, her perfect lips curling into a sneer. "Is this one your new little puzzle box, Prince? Shall we see what's inside when it breaks?"
Arin's blood ran cold. The insult, the sheer condescension, set her teeth on edge. "You'd know all about breaking, wouldn't you?" Arin bit back, her voice low and dangerous. "Every mirror in the palace probably weeps when you look at it."
A beat of stunned silence fell in the room. Lady Serathe's perfectly sculpted face tightened, her eyes narrowing into icy slits. Her jaw clenched, a faint tremor running through her. She was not accustomed to being spoken to in such a manner by a commoner.
Caldan watched the exchange, his expression unreadable, a flicker of amusement in his molten eyes. He rose slowly, moving with a fluid, almost lazy grace. He stepped between the two women, a dark, imposing figure that seemed to absorb the light.
"That will be enough," Caldan said, his voice not loud, but it cut through the air like a bolt of lightning, the unspoken threat in his tone making the very stones vibrate.
Lady Serathe, her face a mask of barely controlled fury, took a step back, curtseying with a grace that was pure poison. "As you wish, my prince," she purred, though her eyes promised vengeance. "Enjoy your… games." She swept out of the study in a flurry of expensive perfume and rustling golden silk, leaving behind an acrid tang of frustrated malice.
Caldan turned back to Arin, his eyes still holding that unreadable glint. "You bait my court wolves like you've got claws, little rat." His voice was soft, almost conversational.
"Better claws than a collar," Arin retorted, her own voice still fierce, adrenaline thrumming through her veins. The insult, the sheer audacity of her words, hung in the air between them.
There was a flicker in his expression then, a momentary softening of his sharp features that was gone almost instantly—something like genuine interest, or perhaps a chilling warning. He gestured to the untouched chessboard on the small table.
"Sit," he commanded, his voice lower now, almost an invitation. "One more game."
Arin eyed the board, then him. "I don't play," she said, her voice flat. She meant she didn't play chess, but the words held a deeper meaning. She didn't play noble games, not on their terms.
Caldan merely leaned back, his gaze piercing. "Everyone plays, little rat. They just lie about the rules."
She sat slowly, her back rigid, unwilling to fully relax into the plush comfort of the chair. Caldan moved a pawn, his gloved fingers precise and practiced, the soft clack of the piece against the obsidian board the only sound in the room. Arin watched his hands, how steady they were, how strong. Not the hands of a man who ruled from behind a curtain, but one who struck, who commanded, who made things happen.
They played in a tense silence, the clack of pieces against obsidian echoing in the quiet study. Arin, despite her proclaimed ignorance, instinctively understood the movements, the strategies. Her mind, quick and adaptive, began to recognize patterns. She made a few moves, some defensive, some surprisingly aggressive.
Mid-game, Caldan looked up, his molten eyes fixed on hers. "Why did you truly come here, little rat?" he asked, his voice low, cutting through the silence.
"I didn't," Arin retorted, not missing a beat as she moved a knight. "I was dragged. You had me chained and thrown in a cart."
Caldan's lips twitched. "A minor technicality. You had a dozen chances to run. In the village. On the road, when your shackle broke." He leaned forward, his elbows resting on the table. "You chose to stay. Why?"
She didn't answer immediately. Her next move was reckless—an open sacrifice, a desperate gambit to escape his line of questioning. She pushed her knight forward, exposing her queen.
Caldan's lips curled. "Bold," he murmured, picking up his rook. "And foolish." He took her knight. "You think you can escape me by giving up pieces? I asked a question, little rat."
"I've been worse than foolish," Arin retorted, her voice rough. She thought of her mother's lessons, the shadowed alleys, the constant struggle to survive. "Foolish is a luxury I couldn't afford."
"A luxury, indeed," Caldan mused, his gaze still fixed on her, relentless. "Where did you learn such… resourcefulness? From what broken village did you crawl, with such sharp claws?" His words were probes, digging at the roots of her being.
Arin hesitated. How much to give away? How much was safe? She decided on a measured truth, veiled in sarcasm. "My village was no paradise, Prince. Just dirt and hunger and cold. And the only lessons were how to snatch a purse without getting caught, and how to look a guard in the eye while lying through your teeth."
Caldan moved another pawn, a slow, deliberate motion. "And your mother? Was she an expert of such lessons?" His tone was deceptively casual, but Arin felt a jolt. He was digging at the core of her past.
Arin's jaw tightened. Her mother. The whispers, the secrets, the hidden past. "My mother taught me to survive," she said, her voice strained. "She taught me that trust is a weakness, and that loyalty is a coin for fools." She thought of the rumors, the fearful glances, the hushed tales of a dragonrider's death, a treason whispered in taverns.
"And did she teach you to kill dragonriders, as well?" Caldan's voice was softer now, almost a whisper, but the question landed like a hammer blow.
Arin's breath caught. Her eyes flew to his, wide with shock. How could he know? The story was ancient, buried, a curse that clung to her family name like ash. Her heart hammered against her ribs.
Caldan's gaze was unyielding. "The stories reach even these gilded halls, Arin. The whispers of a common woman from the borderlands, with eyes like yours, who brought down a Kaerythene rider." He leaned closer, his voice dropping, almost fond again, in a way that made her skin prickle. "Tell me, little rat. What else did your mother teach you?"
Arin felt a cold dread bloom in her chest. They knew. Or at least, he suspected. She stared at him, her mind reeling, trying to find an escape from the trap he had sprung.