She looked at the dagger, then at him, a flicker of something unreadable in her sharp gray eyes. Caldan watched, a quiet satisfaction settling in his chest. Good. She wasn't trembling. She wasn't weeping. She was considering. Most would have fallen to their knees, begging for mercy, for understanding. But this one… this commoner girl, bathed in royal lavender and dressed in silk, still carried the raw, untamed spirit of the streets.
Her fingers, still calloused despite the soft cloths of the maids, reached for the hilt. He saw the slight flex of muscle in her forearm, the quiet strength that belied her slender frame. She gripped the dagger with a natural ease, not the clumsy hold of a novice, nor the practiced grip of a soldier. It was the grip of someone familiar with sharp edges, with cutting away what was not needed.
"Stage your murder?" Arin's voice was low, thoughtful, as if weighing the impossible command. "You think I have the skill for such a grand performance, Prince? To fool an entire kingdom?" Her gaze, however, held a spark of dangerous amusement, a challenge he welcomed.
Caldan stepped back, giving her space. He wanted to see how she moved, how she thought when faced with true danger, not just veiled threats. His own blood pulsed with a familiar anticipation. "The kingdom will believe what it is told to believe," he replied, his voice a low, steady current in the silent room. "But for them to truly mourn, the lie must feel like truth. And truth requires a certain… conviction."
He watched her closely. She tested the blade's edge with her thumb, a reckless move that made a faint bead of blood well up. Her eyes, still fixed on the dagger, narrowed slightly. She was considering the how, not the why. That was promising. He had chosen well.
A predatory gleam entered Caldan's eye. He needed to push her, to see how far her instincts stretched. He needed to test the limits of her quick mind and her even quicker hands. He was a storm, and he needed to see if she could weather his gale.
Without warning, he lunged.
It wasn't a full-blown attack, not yet. It was a test of reflexes, a blur of motion meant to startle, to gauge her immediate response. His left hand, open and hard, aimed for her shoulder, a feint, while his right, closed into a fist, drove for her stomach. He moved like a striking serpent, fluid and deceptively fast.
Arin moved faster.
She didn't scream. She didn't flinch back in fear. Her eyes, sharp as a hawk's, widened just an instant, taking in his movement. The silk of the dress, meant to restrict, now seemed to flow with her, allowing her to twist.
Her body shifted, a sudden, serpentine coil. The dagger, which moments ago lay inert in her hand, became a flash of silver. She didn't parry. She didn't block. She slashed.
The blade cut through the air, swift and precise. It wasn't a wild swing. It was aimed, deliberate. It caught him across the left cheek, a shallow, stinging line that blossomed instantly with crimson.
Caldan froze, his hand stopping inches from her stomach. A drop of warm blood traced a path down his cheekbone, a stark contrast against his pale skin. He felt the sting, the sharp awakening of nerve endings, but no pain. Only a profound, exhilarating surprise.
He lowered his hands, slowly. A slow smile, a truly wolfish baring of teeth, spread across his face. It wasn't a gentle smile, but one of pure, unadulterated satisfaction.
"Better than half my guards," he stated, his voice a low rumble, tinged with a grudging admiration. He dabbed at the cut with his thumb, smearing the blood. It was a clean wound, shallow but effective. A warning, not an attempt to kill. She had held back, even in that split second. Calculated.
Arin, her chest heaving slightly, held the dagger ready, her eyes still locked on his, assessing, wary. She didn't apologize. She didn't gloat. Her expression was a tense mask, but beneath it, he saw a flicker of something that mirrored his own satisfaction. A dangerous game, played well.
"That's because your guards are too busy polishing their armor," she retorted, her breath coming in ragged gasps, "and not enough time learning how to fight." Her voice was still laced with that familiar sarcasm, but it was sharper now, honed by the near-clash.
Caldan chuckled, a low, guttural sound that seemed to vibrate through the very stone of the chamber. He touched the blood on his cheek, a raw, almost primal satisfaction coursing through him. This girl. She was more than he had hoped.
"My guards are trained to follow orders, not to think," he countered, his gaze never leaving hers. "Thinking is a luxury few in this court can afford. Especially those who guard. That's why I need you."
He moved to the heavy, high-backed chair near the hearth, the one that usually held his battle-worn armor. He sat, sprawling, his long legs stretching out before him, the wound on his cheek stark. He waved a dismissive hand towards the dagger in her grasp. "Keep it. You've earned it."
Arin didn't drop the blade. She simply held it, her eyes still assessing him, her mind, he knew, racing. What game was this? It was a question he saw burning in her gaze, a question he was eager to answer.
"You said I was here to bleed for you," she ventured, her voice cautious, yet still blunt. "This isn't bleeding, Prince. This is… a dance."
"A dance with sharpened blades," Caldan corrected, his smile widening, a dangerous, dark thing. "The only kind worth dancing in this palace. Blood will be spilled, girl. Yours, mine, others. But you will be the one holding the knife."
He leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees, his gaze piercing her. He saw the questions swirling in her eyes, the mistrust, the stubborn independence. He knew her kind. He knew the grit born of desperation, the cunning forged in shadows. He had seen it before.
Her mother.
A shard of memory, sharp and cold as ice, pierced through him. Kareth Vale. The name still tasted like ash on his tongue, the memory a gaping wound in his soul.
He remembered the chaos, the screams of the villagers, the roar of dragonfire ripping through the sky. He remembered the stench of burning flesh and the metallic tang of fear. And then, his own dragon, Vaelrix, that magnificent beast of judgment, refusing to fly. His shame had been a physical weight, pressing him into the scorched earth.
The whispers had followed him, like hungry jackals nipping at his heels. "Caldan the Fallen." The dragon had judged him unworthy. That single moment had shattered his world, fracturing his future, turning him from the kingdom's fiercest rider into a gilded prisoner, a symbol of broken might. The wound on his chest, a duel with his brother, was a physical manifestation of that deeper, invisible scar.
And then, amid the carnage, the face of Arin's mother. Elusive, cunning, a ghost in the inferno. Whispers had clung to her too. A witch. A shadow dancer. She killed a dragon rider. His uncle, Kaelthor, who was king then. The throne had passed to his father, for Kaelthor's son, Auren, was still a babe. And then, she vanished.
Now, her daughter stood before him, with the same sharp eyes, the same defiant tilt of her chin. The same dangerous glint in her gaze.
"Your mother," Caldan said, his voice softer now, almost musing, yet laced with an undeniable edge. Arin's eyes narrowed, a flicker of raw emotion crossing her face. "She was… effective." He saw the immediate tension in her shoulders, the way her hand tightened around the dagger. "She killed a dragon rider, they say. A treason whispered in every tavern."
Arin's breath hitched. "What do you know of my mother?" Her voice was low, dangerous, a low growl. It was a warning.
"Enough," Caldan replied, a cruel smile playing on his lips. He watched her, testing, pushing. "Enough to know that blood runs true. That a viper's daughter rarely becomes a dove."
He rose from the chair, slowly, deliberately. The blood on his cheek had begun to dry, a dark smear. He took another step towards her. Arin held her ground, the dagger a silent extension of her will.
"So," Caldan continued, his voice a low, seductive whisper that promised both danger and revelation, "if your mother, a common woman with no title, could bring down a king… what will her daughter do? What can her daughter do, for a prince who offers her the sharpest tools, not just a soft bed?"
He reached out, not to touch her, but to pluck a stray strand of her dark chestnut hair from her shoulder, twirling it between his fingers. The silk of her gown seemed to hum with the unspoken tension between them.
"You think this is a choice?" Arin finally asked, her voice trembling slightly, but her eyes held a spark of furious determination. "You think I want to be here? Playing your games? What do you want from me?"
"I want chaos," Caldan stated, his eyes blazing, a cold fire in their depths. "I want to dismantle this rotting court piece by piece. And I need a sharp blade to do it. A blade that knows how to strike where it truly hurts." He stepped closer, the air between them crackling. "This is not a game for queens, Arin. This is a game for wolves. And you, little viper, are a wolf."
Just then, a faint scratch echoed from the heavy oak door. Caldan's eyes flickered towards it, a ripple of annoyance crossing his face. A servant, unbidden. It must be something of consequence.
A moment later, a small, dark shape slid under the door. A letter. Sealed with dark, ominous wax. The sigil pressed into the wax was not of the Kaerythene dynasty. It was a gnarled, twisted tree, leafless and stark.
Caldan bent, his movements swift, and picked up the letter. He broke the seal with a snap that seemed loud in the silence of the room. His eyes scanned the parchment, his jaw tightening with each word. A muscle jumped in his temple.
His gaze, when it lifted from the letter, was no longer merely calculating or amused. It was cold, sharp, and filled with a dangerous, ancient fury.
"She remembers," he murmured, the words barely audible, a low growl from deep in his chest. "She waits in Hollowspire."