The heavy word, "Not yet," hung between them, a silken cord tightening around Arin's throat. It was a promise veiled in a threat, or perhaps a threat draped in a twisted promise. Her gaze, sharp and unwavering, met his, refusing to buckle.
"Not yet, Prince?" Her voice was a low rasp, cut with the same defiance that had clung to her like a second skin since birth. "Does 'not yet' mean you're still deciding which fine silk to drape me in? Or perhaps waiting for the moon to align with whatever twisted constellation governs royal appetites?"
She wasn't afraid. Not of his cold stare, not of the power radiating from him like heat from a forge. But the implication, the familiar dance of a powerful man and a powerless woman, made her gut clench with an old, bitter taste.
Caldan's eyes, those molten pools of gold, held hers for another beat, then flicked away, dismissing her question as easily as one might flick dust from a sleeve. He turned, his back to her, and the finely woven silk of his shirt stretched over broad shoulders. His voice, when it came, was not for her.
"Maeve!" he barked, the sound echoing off the polished stone walls of the antechamber. "See to the girl. Prepare her. My bedchamber."
The words struck Arin like a physical blow. Her breath caught, a sharp, ragged sound that she swallowed before it could fully escape. Bedchamber. Not the dungeons, not the gallows. Worse. A different kind of cage, wrapped in velvet and forced smiles. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a wild bird trapped. So, this was it. The price of her defiance, the ultimate humiliation. She was to be his concubine, another toy in his collection of blood-stained pleasures.
Maeve, a woman whose face was a roadmap of polite disapproval and whose eyes held the weary resignation of one who had seen too much, appeared as if from the shadows. She was lean, her graying hair pulled back into a severe knot, and her movements were efficient, devoid of warmth. She glanced at Arin, a flicker of something akin to pity—or perhaps contempt—in her gaze, quickly masked.
"As His Highness commands," Maeve said, her voice dry as aged parchment. She didn't look at Caldan, her focus already on Arin, calculating, assessing. It was the look of a butcher examining a cut of meat.
Arin bristled. "His Highness commands a lot of things. Doesn't mean I obey." Her voice, despite the tremor in her hands, was laced with venom.
Maeve merely raised a thin eyebrow. "There are consequences for disobedience, child. More than you can imagine." Her tone was flat, not a threat, but a statement of undeniable fact. She gestured with a skeletal hand towards an archway Arin hadn't noticed before, draped in heavy crimson curtains. "This way."
Arin hesitated, her mind racing, searching for an escape, a hidden blade, anything. But the guards, those silent, hulking figures, stood at attention, their gazes like iron on her back. Caldan remained with his back to her, a statue carved from indifference. It was a choice between walking into a gilded cage or being dragged, broken, into a deeper one.
She chose the gilded cage. At least there, she might find a sliver of leverage, a weakness.
The bath chamber was vast, warmed by unseen fires, the air thick with the scent of lavender and something cloying, like crushed roses. A deep, ornate tub of polished black marble dominated the center of the room, already steaming. Maeve and two younger maids, silent as ghosts, began to strip Arin, their movements swift and impersonal. Arin flinched at each touch, the rough fabric of her tunic peeling away, revealing the bruises on her skin, the calloused hands, the scars from a life lived on the fringes.
"Still tastes of the gutter," one of the younger maids whispered, her nose wrinkled in disdain as she peeled Arin's bloodied tunic from her shoulders.
Arin wanted to spit, to curse, to tear at them. But she remained still, her jaw clenched, her gaze burning holes in the opulent tapestries that depicted triumphant dragonriders. Let them think me a common slut. Let them underestimate me. It was a familiar cloak, one she wore well. Her defiance was a quiet fire in her gut, fueled by every humiliating touch. This was not surrender. This was reconnaissance.
The water was too hot, too soft, too… clean. It felt alien on her skin, scrubbing away the grime of the streets, the tang of blood, the lingering scent of smoke from the ravaged village. They washed her hair, untangling the messy knots, their fingers surprisingly gentle, almost reverent, as they worked the scented oils through the dark strands. A part of her recoiled, the wild creature within screaming at the imposition. Another part, the one that had learned to survive, absorbed every sensation, every detail.
Then came the silk. It felt like a second skin, cool and smooth, sliding over her bare flesh. A deep, midnight blue, the color of a bruised night sky, it clung to her curves, unfamiliar and unsettling. The dress was simple, a single sweep of fabric, but the quality screamed of royal looms, of endless coin. It was designed to enhance, to reveal, to entrap.
"His Highness prefers simplicity," Maeve murmured, her voice devoid of any emotion, as she adjusted the fall of the fabric over Arin's hip. "But he appreciates… form."
Arin met Maeve's gaze in the polished silver mirror. "I'm sure he does," she replied, her voice dry as dust. "Just like a butcher appreciates a well-marbled cut."
Maeve's lips tightened, a flicker of something in her eyes, a shadow of an unsaid thought. But she said nothing, merely stepping back, her assessment complete. "You are ready."
Ready for what? Ready for the inevitable, for the prince's whim, for another night of playing the pawn? Arin's heart hammered, a frantic drumbeat against the silk. She felt exposed, vulnerable, despite the expensive fabric. This was not her. This was a doll dressed for a king.
They led her through hushed corridors, lit by flickering sconces, past tapestries that seemed to watch with ancient eyes. The air grew heavier with each step, thick with the scent of old stone, distant dragonfire, and something else—a faint, metallic tang that spoke of blood. Her bare feet on the cold, polished floor were the only sound, a ghost in the silent palace.
The prince's bedchamber. The words were a weight in her mind, a premonition of indignity. She expected a grand space, perhaps lavish, certainly intimidating. She expected the prince.
What she found instead was a chamber shrouded in deep shadows, the only light coming from a single, slender candle flickering on a heavy oak table in the center of the room. The air was cool, almost cold, and smelled of ash and old parchment. It was not a room designed for comfort or pleasure. It was a room designed for secrets.
There was no prince.
Arin stepped inside, the silk whispering around her ankles. Her eyes, accustomed to the dim light of taverns and shadowed alleys, swept the room, taking in every detail. It was sparsely furnished: a massive bed, curtained in dark velvet, loomed against one wall; a heavy chest of drawers carved with intricate, unsettling symbols; and the table, bearing the lonely candle.
On the table, placed precisely in the center, sat a small, intricately carved wooden box. It was a puzzle box, the kind designed to frustrate and conceal. Beside it, gleaming dully in the candlelight, lay a dagger. Its hilt was wrapped in dark leather, its blade long and wickedly sharp, catching the faint light. It looked like a tool for ceremony, or for murder.
But it was the wall that truly seized her attention.
Painted in a stark, unsettling crimson, a riddle sprawled across the rough-hewn stone. It wasn't paint. The coppery scent, the thick, uneven lines—it was blood. Fresh.
Arin stepped closer, her heart quickening. This was not the typical seduction of a royal concubine. This was something far more dangerous, far more interesting. Her mind, her sharp, calculating mind, immediately began to work, devouring the symbols, piecing together the words.
The riddle pulsed with a dark energy, each line a deliberate incision.
I am taken from the earth, though I breathe no air.
I am forged in fire, though I have no heart.
I bring forth screams, yet I have no voice.
I spill life, but I know no death.
What am I?
Arin reread the words, her lips moving silently. The blood, still glistening slightly, seemed to mock her. Her training, the skills her mother had taught her in whispers and shadows, clawed at her. This wasn't a noble's game of flattery. This was a test. A dark, deadly test.
"The dagger," she murmured, her voice barely a whisper, echoing in the vast silence of the room. "The blade."
The answer felt right, the pieces clicking into place with a chilling precision. It was taken from the earth (mined ore), forged in fire, brought forth screams, spilled life, yet knew no death. A weapon. A killer.
A low, resonant voice, like gravel shifting over stone, shattered the silence. "Clever girl."
Arin whirled, her hand instinctively going to her empty hip, searching for a weapon that wasn't there.
Prince Caldan stepped from the deepest shadows of the chamber, as if he had been woven from them. He hadn't made a sound. He had been there the whole time, watching her, a predator observing its prey. His eyes, in the flickering candlelight, were pools of liquid gold, unreadable. He moved with a silent grace, an almost predatory stillness.
He was even more unsettling in the confines of the bedchamber, stripped of the guards, the courtier. Just him, and the stark, bloody riddle.
"You're not here to please me," Caldan said, his voice a low thrum that vibrated in the air, sending a shiver down Arin's spine. His eyes held hers, unwavering. "You're here to bleed for me."
He stepped closer, his hand moving with deceptive slowness. Not towards her, but towards the table. He picked up the dagger, its polished blade reflecting the candlelight, a wicked gleam. He held it out to her, hilt first.
"Stage my murder." His voice was a soft command, but it held the weight of mountains, the promise of devastation. "Make the kingdom mourn me. Or I'll find someone sharper."