Silent as a shadow, she slipped from the alcove. Her hand, quick and decisive, flew to the dagger Caldan had given her. Before Roen could even register her presence, she was there.
The dagger found its mark. Not a kill, not yet. A warning. She lashed out, aiming for the soft flesh of his inner thigh. The blade bit deep, a swift, brutal cut.
Roen roared, a sound of shock and pain, stumbling back, clutching at the sudden welling warmth on his leg. His blue eyes widened, surprised, then narrowed with venomous fury.
Arin didn't wait. She seized the servant girl, cutting the ropes that bound her wrists with savage efficiency. "Run!" she hissed, pushing the terrified girl towards the alcove, towards the hidden passage. "Go! Don't look back! Hide!"
The girl, tears streaming down her face, nodded frantically and stumbled into the darkness.
"Who in the blazes are you?" Roen bellowed, his voice raw with pain and outrage, his hand smeared with blood. "You'll regret this, commoner!"
Arin turned to face him, the dagger still clutched in her hand, its tip stained crimson. Her chest heaved, but her gaze was unwavering, sharp and fearless. "Someone who prefers her mice with claws, Prince," she retorted, her voice a low snarl, thick with contempt. "You should choose your toys more carefully."
She didn't linger. She heard the thud of guards approaching from the main corridor, drawn by Roen's cries. She turned and vanished back into the hidden passage, melting into the shadows as quickly as she had appeared.
She ran, her heart pounding a frantic rhythm against her ribs. She was alive, the servant girl was free, and Prince Roen was bleeding. A dangerous, exhilarating rush of adrenaline coursed through her veins. She knew this was reckless. She had just assaulted a prince, brought unwanted attention to herself, and revealed her hidden presence in the castle. She had broken Caldan's strict command to stay, to wait. The consequences would be severe.
But as she ran, she felt no regret. Only a fierce, unyielding satisfaction. She had chosen. She had acted. And she would do it again. She was on the edge, teetering between freedom and ruin, but she was alive. And that felt more real than any silks or gilded cages.
Hours later, as dusk bled into the deep, bruised purple of evening, the news reached Caldan. It spread like wildfire through the palace, a whisper of outrage and scandal. Prince Roen, wounded. A servant girl, spirited away. And a commoner, a girl, who had appeared from nowhere, leaving chaos in her wake. The news reached his chambers, carried by breathless guards and terrified courtiers.
Arin stood waiting when he stormed in, the calm façade he usually wore shattered. His face was a mask of raw fury, his eyes blazing with a dangerous fire. He looked like the Dragon of Judgment himself, roused from a long slumber.
"What in the hells have you done?" Caldan's voice was a low, terrifying growl, more dragon than man. "You attacked a prince? My brother? You have the audacity to move without my command, to invite chaos into my house?" He advanced on her, his long strides devouring the distance between them.
Arin met his gaze, unflinching. Her own temper, hot and unyielding, flared to match his. "He was hurting her," she stated, her voice sharp, unapologetic. "He was whipping her for refusing him. What did you expect me to do, Prince? Curtsy?"
"I expected you to obey!" Caldan roared, his hand slamming down on the nearby table, making the ornate silver trinkets jump. "I brought you here for a purpose! To be my knife, not to go carving up my family without permission! Now everyone in this damned castle knows you exist! My plans—"
"Your plans can go to the deepest pit of the Heartspire, for all I care!" Arin cut him off, her voice rising, crackling with defiant energy. "If you want someone obedient, Prince, someone who will cower and let your blood-soaked relatives have their cruel fun, then pick another girl! Because I am not her. I never will be." She held his furious gaze, her jaw tight, a fierce, desperate challenge in her eyes. "If you want a dog, Caldan, choose a dog. I am a wolf."
A beat of charged silence. Caldan's chest heaved, his anger a visible aura around him. His eyes, burning with molten gold, pierced hers. And then, slowly, a smirk, cold and deadly, spread across his face. It was a smile that promised retribution, yet held a terrifying amusement.
"I already did," he said, his voice dropping, almost a whisper, yet it cut through the air like a honed blade. "She's dead. The last girl who defied my half-brother. She refused him too. Let's see if you last longer, little wolf."
Before Arin could react, before the chilling implication of his words could fully sink in, he moved. He was a blur of black silk and raw power. His hand seized her wrist, twisting, and the dagger clattered to the floor, forgotten. Then, in a single, brutal movement, he scooped her up.
Arin cried out, a strangled sound of protest and fury. "Put me down, you arrogant bastard!" she shrieked, kicking and flailing. Her silk dress tangled around her legs, restricting her movements.
She pounded her fists against his broad back, frantic, desperate blows. Her nails raked across his skin, tearing at the fine silk, but he didn't even flinch. He simply held her tighter, throwing her over his shoulder as if she weighed nothing, her head dangling, allowing her to see the floor receding as he moved.
"Let go of me!" she demanded, struggling, twisting, clawing at his neck. "You can't do this! I am not your property!"
"You are precisely that," Caldan's voice rumbled, unmoved by her struggles, "until you learn your place. You think you can waltz into my court, cause a ruckus, and face no consequences? You are mistaken, girl. Deeply mistaken."
He strode through the bedchamber, past the open, glinting blade she had used to cut him. She continued to fight, a frantic, desperate animal. "This is not how you train a wolf, Prince! You will regret this! I will make you regret this!"
He ignored her, his strides long and purposeful. He kicked open a door at the far end of the chamber, revealing a smaller, starker room, dimly lit by a single, barred window high on the wall. It was cold, sparsely furnished with a rough cot and a plain wooden chair. A prison.
He tossed her onto the cot with a rough, unceremonious shove that knocked the wind from her lungs. She landed with a gasp, scrambling back to sit up, her eyes blazing with raw fury.
"You can rot in here," Caldan snarled, his voice low and dangerous, "until you understand the difference between cunning and chaos. Until you learn to obey."
"I obey no one!" Arin screamed, scrambling to her feet, launching herself at the door. "You think a lock can hold me? You know nothing about me!"
He merely watched her, his expression grim, utterly devoid of mercy. His eyes were cold, hard, like polished obsidian. "I know enough," he said, and with a final, chilling click, the heavy oak door slammed shut, plunging the small room into near darkness, leaving Arin trapped, her cries echoing futilely against the unforgiving stone.
A phantom chill still clung to her bones, a lingering ghost of Caldan's final, chilling click of the door. Fury, cold and sharp as the dagger he'd handed her, bloomed in Arin's chest. It wasn't a slow burn; it was a volcanic eruption. Her breath hitched, a strangled sound that clawed its way out of her throat. He thinks a lock can hold me? He knows nothing.
The small room, meant to be a prison, became a cage she had to dismantle, piece by agonizing piece. Her eyes, usually so quick to calculate, were clouded with a red haze. The rough cot became a symbol of her confinement, an insult. With a guttural cry, she launched herself at it, tearing at the coarse blankets, ripping the straw mattress with bare, bleeding hands. Splinters dug into her palms, but she barely felt them, consumed by the primal need to shatter something, anything.
The wooden chair, simple and unassuming, was next. She snatched it up, the cheap wood protesting as she slammed it against the unyielding stone wall. Once. Twice. The legs splintered, the back snapped, until only a jagged shard remained in her grip. Her muscles screamed, raw and burning, but the rage fueled her, a desperate, frantic energy. Each blow was a testament to her defiance, a scream she couldn't voice.
She clawed at the walls, her nails tearing against the unforgiving rock, leaving faint, bloody trails. The barred window, high and out of reach, mocked her. She lunged, scrambling onto the remains of the cot, stretching, straining, her fingers brushing the cold iron. Useless. The bars were thick, unyielding. A desperate sob, hot and unexpected, tore from her. It was humiliation, pure and sharp, burning hotter than any physical pain. To be so easily contained, so utterly dismissed. It twisted something vital inside her.
The night was a blur of frantic energy, a dance with the darkness. Each splinter, each ache, was a reminder of her powerlessness, and a catalyst for deeper fury. She paced the small confines, a caged animal, her mind racing, plotting. Sleep was an enemy, a weakness she couldn't afford. The cold seeped into her bones, but her blood ran hot with defiance. She would not break. She would not.
When the first sliver of dawn bled through the tiny, barred window, painting the ruined room in sickly gray light, Arin stood amidst the wreckage of her rage. Her ragged tunic was torn, her hands raw and bleeding, straw and wood splinters clinging to her hair. Her body ached, a deep, pervasive throb, but her eyes held a defiant gleam, an unyielding promise of retribution. She was bruised, yes, but not broken. Not yet.
A sharp, impatient rap rattled the heavy oak door. It swung inward with a groan, revealing Maeve, her face a mask of exasperation. The royal servant, who had once dressed Arin in velvet, now stared at the destroyed room, her eyes widening, her lips thinning into a grim line.
"By the gods, girl!" Maeve hissed, stepping over a broken chair leg. Her voice was a low snarl, thick with annoyance. "What in the seven hells did you do to this room? It looks as if a dragon broke loose in here!" She stopped, hands on her hips, assessing the damage. "The Prince will surely have your head."