The cold fury radiating from Caldan was a physical thing, a storm gathering in the small space. It eclipsed the heat of the hearth, chilled the air where moments before a dangerous tension had hummed. Arin watched him, her hand still resting on the dagger at her hip, a silent, deadly question in her gaze. The letter, crumpled in his fist, seemed to wither under his grasp.
"What is it?" she asked, her voice low, a thread of genuine curiosity weaving through her usual defiance. Her gut twisted, a familiar prickle of unease. Whatever secret the dark wax held, it had struck a nerve in the formidable Prince Caldan, a nerve that made his molten eyes turn to obsidian.
He didn't answer. Not with words. With a brutal, sharp twist of his hand, he crumpled the parchment into a tight ball, crushing it as if he could erase the message by sheer force of will. The sound was like bone snapping. His eyes, when they finally landed on her, were devoid of the amusement that had been there moments before. Now, they were shards of ice, promising retribution.
"Stay here," Caldan commanded, his voice a low, dangerous rumble that echoed the fury in his eyes. "Do not move. Do not touch a single damn thing. Wait."
He turned on his heel, his cloak swirling around him like a vengeful shadow. The door, heavy and carved with the serpent sigil, slammed shut behind him with a thud that vibrated through the floorboards. The silence that followed was suffocating, thick with unspoken threats.
Arin stood there for a long moment, the dagger a cold weight in her hand. Stay? He expected her to simply stay? The idea was laughable, almost insulting. She was a shadow, a whisper, a thing that moved and sought, not something that remained stagnant.
Her blood hummed with an unfamiliar mixture of fear and exhilaration. Fear, because whatever that letter contained, it had unleashed something primal in him. Exhilaration, because this was the heart of the serpent's nest, and she was finally allowed to glimpse its beating pulse.
She walked to the door, pressing her ear to the cold wood. Nothing. Only the distant, muffled sounds of the palace—the faint clang of armor, the murmur of voices, like the restless ocean far below. He was gone. For now.
Her gaze swept the opulent bedchamber. It was a gilded cage, but a cage nonetheless. And Caldan had just given her the key – or at least, the permission to observe. She wasn't afraid. Not of the prince, not of his commands. But the unknown… the secrets that pulsed beneath the surface of this palace, they made her bones hum with a warning she couldn't name.
She dismissed his order with a shrug that felt both rebellious and necessary. Why should she wait like a dog for its master? This was an opportunity, a breach in his formidable walls. Her eyes, sharp and calculating, began to scan the room with a practiced ease.
The bedchamber was larger than her entire village hut, a sprawling space dominated by the massive, four-poster bed draped in crimson and black silks. But it was the other furnishings that drew her in. A heavy oak desk, covered in scrolls and maps. A tall, carved bookshelf.
She drifted towards the books, her fingers trailing over the spines. Her self-taught reading skills had been honed on scraps, forbidden texts, and tavern ledgers. Here, the titles were in the flowing script of the court, but the content…
Anatomy of the Human Form: A Healer's Compendium. Arin's brow furrowed. Why would a war prince have such a book? She pulled it out, thumbing through brittle pages depicting intricate drawings of muscle and bone. She saw diagrams of nerve clusters, vital organs. It wasn't merely for healing. It was for knowing where to strike.
Next, a smaller, thinner volume, bound in dark leather: The Serpent's Kiss: A Guide to the Poisons of Velhessan. Her breath hitched. A shiver, not of fear, but of dark fascination, traced its way down her spine. This was the true nature of the court, hidden behind the silks and the smiles. A whisper of death in every cup. She quickly skimmed chapters detailing fast-acting toxins, slow-burning debilitating draughts.
Then, a heavy, leather-bound ledger, embossed with the Kaerythene sigil: The Bloodlines of Velhessan: A Genealogy of the Dragon-Marked. This was gold. She flipped through pages filled with sprawling family trees, names intertwining like poisonous vines. Her eyes darted, searching for familiar names, for any mention of her mother, for a connection, however tenuous, to the labyrinthine royal family. She quickly located Caldan's name, then his brother's, Dhaelon, and his sister's, Viera, names she had heard whispered by the maids.
Suddenly, her hand stilled. Her sharp, piercing gaze caught something in the polished obsidian wall to her left. Not a reflection. A seam. Almost imperceptible, a faint line running from floor to ceiling. A hidden passage.
Arin's heart began to thrum, a frantic bird against her ribs. This was too good to be true. She pressed her fingers along the seam, feeling for a latch, a mechanism. Her practiced touch found it, a small, cleverly disguised button. With a soft click, a section of the wall, disguised as a mirror, slid inward with a whisper.
She heard a soft rustle, a quiet padding of footsteps from the passage. Instinct, sharp and immediate, screamed at her to hide. She melted back into the shadows of the heavy draperies, holding her breath, the dagger gripped tight in her hand.
A figure emerged from the hidden passage. Tall, slender, draped in pale silver silks that seemed to absorb the candlelight rather than reflect it. Princess Iryna. Arin recognized her from the fleeting glimpses in the courtyard. Her movements were fluid, unnervingly silent. Iryna's face, pale and serene, was a mask of placid beauty, but her eyes… her eyes were old, sharp, and held a disquieting calm.
Iryna glided into the bedchamber, her gaze sweeping the room with an almost clinical detachment. She didn't pause, didn't seem to notice anything amiss. Her hand moved to a small, hidden compartment built into the underside of the bedside table. Arin watched, unblinking, as Iryna extracted a small, intricately carved wooden box.
She opened it, a faint click of metal echoing in the silence. Arin couldn't see what was inside, but Iryna's lips curved into a faint, almost imperceptible smile. Then, with the same unsettling grace, Iryna replaced the box, smoothed the panel, and slipped back into the hidden passage. The mirror wall slid shut with another soft click, leaving no trace.
Arin waited, counting to fifty, then a hundred. The silence pressed down on her, the air still humming with Iryna's strange, quiet presence. What had she taken? What secrets did the serene princess hide behind that placid mask? Her mind raced, piecing together fragments. The genealogy book, the poisons, the hidden passage… this palace was a nest of vipers, and Caldan had just thrust her into the very center of it.
Finally, she emerged from the shadows, her limbs stiff. This is not a cage. This was an opportunity. She didn't hesitate. If there was a hidden passage into the room, there was likely one out. She found the mechanism again, a simple push from this side, and stepped into the cool, dark tunnel.
The passage was narrow, winding. It smelled of dust and old stone, a faint metallic tang lingering in the air. She moved like a ghost, her bare feet silent on the worn floor. She followed the passage for what felt like an eternity, her quick mind mapping its turns, memorizing the faint sounds that drifted from behind the walls. She heard servants gossiping, guards shuffling, the distant roar of a dragon.
Eventually, she heard distinct voices. Two men, their tones low and conspiratorial, and then… a whimper. A woman's whimper.
Arin slowed, pressing herself against the damp stone. The passage ended abruptly, opening into a small, unlit alcove. She peered out cautiously. She was in a service corridor, dimly lit by a single flickering torch. And just ahead, in the linen room, the source of the sounds.
Her blood turned cold.
A servant girl, young, no older than herself, was suspended by her wrists from a hook on the wall, her feet barely touching the ground. Her silks, a simple grey, were torn, and a crimson stain bloomed across her back. A man, with dark hair that fell over piercing blue eyes, stood before her, a short, braided whip in his hand. His face was twisted with a cruel pleasure, a chilling contrast to his handsome features. Arin didn't know him, but the fine cut of his tunic, the aura of casual authority, screamed prince. This must be Roen. Caldan's half brother.
"Still refusing, little mouse?" Roen's voice was a low purr, dripping with malice. "You were told to come to my chambers. A simple request."
The girl sobbed, her body wracked with pain. "I… I cannot, my Lord. My mother… she would disown me."
"Your mother will only see that you are useful," Roen sneered, and brought the whip down again. A gasp tore from the girl's throat, quickly stifled.
A hot, furious rage surged through Arin. It wasn't just the cruelty. It was the arrogance, the casual disregard for a life deemed beneath them. It was the same kind of power that had razed her village, that had taken her mother. She wasn't afraid. Not of this prince, not of his cruelties. But the injustice, raw and brutal, made her bones hum with a warning she couldn't name.
She didn't think. She moved.