She merely lifted a brow, a ghost of her usual crooked smile touching her bruised lips. "He shouldn't have locked a wolf in a rabbit's hutch, then, should he?" Her voice was raw, a little hoarse from her exertions, but the bite was still there.
Maeve clicked her tongue, shaking her head. "Clever words won't un-splinter this furniture, you little menace. Come on. His Highness has decreed you be… cleaned." The word was delivered with a heavy sigh, as if the very idea was an insult to her royal sensibilities. "And fed, apparently. Before you rip the palace apart, stone by stone."
The bathing chambers were an opulent contrast to her ruined prison. Steam, thick and fragrant with lavender and herbs, clouded the air, clinging to the ornate marble walls. Servants, silent and efficient, moved like shadows, preparing the huge, gilded tub. Arin stood stiffly, still defiant, as Maeve gestured towards the bath.
"Don't make this harder than it has to be," Maeve grumbled, her voice strained with thinly veiled irritation. "Just get in."
Arin looked at the swirling water, then back at Maeve. "Why? So your Prince can watch me drown in perfumed water instead of blood?"
Maeve rolled her eyes, a remarkably human gesture. "His Highness is not watching you drown. He merely wishes you… presentable. Now, stop your whining and get in." She nudged Arin towards the tub.
Arin moved, but slowly, her muscles protesting every shift. The hot water enveloped her, a welcome balm to her aching limbs, but the tension in her shoulders remained. Maeve, however, had no patience for lingering. She seized a heavy, scented cloth and began scrubbing with a vigorousness that bordered on assault.
"Still, girl," Maeve huffed, scrubbing Arin's back with unnecessary force, "did you have to destroy everything? This room was perfectly respectable. Now I'll have to organize a full re-furnishing. Do you know how difficult it is to find competent carpenters in Drakoryth who aren't already promised to the King's new chambers?"
Arin winced, pulling away slightly. "Perhaps if the Prince wasn't so prone to imprisoning people without cause, your workload would lessen."
"Without cause?" Maeve scoffed, her voice rising. "You attacked a guard! You broke his fingers! And you cursed the Prince to his face! There are people who'd lose their tongues for less." She poked Arin's shoulder with a wet finger. "You give me more headaches than Princess Iryna's demands for fresh Nightbloom nectar, and she's a demon."
Arin smirked, a genuine flash of amusement despite the throbbing ache in her hands. "Is that an insult or a compliment?"
Maeve threw her hands up, water splashing. "It's a declaration of war! Now, hurry up. His Highness does not like to be kept waiting, especially when it concerns his… new toy." The last words were laced with a bitter resentment.
Dressed in a clean, if simple, tunic and breeches, Arin felt a strange mix of renewed strength and simmering fury. Her hands, though still raw, were bound lightly in clean linen, a concession to her thrashing. Maeve had combed out the straw from her hair, braiding it tightly at the back of her head, lending her a deceptively neat appearance.
A different guard, this one older and with a weary gaze, led her through the labyrinthine corridors of Caelvoryn Palace. The black ashstone walls seemed to absorb the light, making the torches flicker and dance like nervous spirits. The air grew colder, heavier, smelling faintly of damp stone and something else, something primal and ancient – sulfur.
They descended, deeper and deeper, the silence growing oppressive. It was the kind of silence that hummed with unspoken power, thick with secrets buried beneath centuries of stone. Arin's gut tightened. She knew this feeling. It was the prelude to something dangerous, something that would demand more than just quick wit to survive.
Finally, they emerged into a vast, echoing cavern. The air was thick with the scent of ozone and burning myrrh. The cavern was lit by an eerie, pulsating glow that seemed to emanate from the very stone. Tall, blind men, robed in crimson, stood chanting in low, resonant tones, their voices weaving a hypnotic, unsettling tapestry of sound. Their faces were smooth, sightless, their eyes covered by delicate silver bands. Flame-priests. She'd heard of them in whispers, guardians of the ancient, slumbering dragons.
And then she saw him.
Caldan stood amidst the chanting priests, a dark silhouette against the pulsing light. He was cloaked in black, the heavy fabric of his coat seeming to drink the light. His silver hair, like spun moonlight, fell in soft waves around his sharp, unforgiving profile. His molten eyes fixed on a point beyond them, on something unseen in the deeper gloom.
There was no trace of the cut she'd inflicted on his face yesterday, and a flash of awe, cold and unsettling, flickered through her. His healer's magic, or whatever ancient power he commanded, was formidable. He hadn't bothered to explain, to offer a single word of justification for her imprisonment. The fury, temporarily appeased by the bath, surged back, hot and volatile.
"You rotten bastard!" Arin's voice ripped through the reverent chanting, sharp and raw, echoing off the cavern walls. The guards flinched. The chanting faltered, a few of the flame-priests turning their sightless faces towards the sound, their expressions unreadable.
Caldan turned slowly, his gaze sweeping over her, unimpressed. There was no apology in his eyes, no regret. Only a cold, assessing glint. "Such language, commoner. Do you speak to all princes in such a manner?" His voice was a low thrum, dangerously calm.
"Only the ones who lock me in a pigsty after demanding I fake their murder!" she shot back, stepping closer, her hands clenching into fists. The linen bandages felt tight, restricting. "What was that, a test? A demonstration of your petty power? Did you enjoy watching me shatter a room into splinters? Or perhaps you just like collecting prisoners and breaking them like toys!"
His eyes, those molten pools of gold, narrowed slightly. "You misunderstand your purpose, Arin."
"Oh, I think I understand it perfectly!" she retorted, her voice trembling with the effort to keep it level. "You want a weapon, a tool. Something you can command and control, something that bites only when you tell it to. Well, I'm not a dog, Prince. And I'm not yours."
Before she could continue, a low, guttural rumble vibrated through the stone floor, a sound that started deep beneath the earth and rose with terrifying power. It was like the earth itself groaning, a low, ancient growl that shook the very air. The chanting priests stiffened, their voices growing louder, more frantic. The pulsating light around them intensified, casting long, dancing shadows.
Arin's words died in her throat, caught by the sheer, overwhelming force of the sound. It was more than sound; it was a presence, immense and terrifying. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a cage. Fear, cold and undeniable, coiled in her stomach. This wasn't the distant, muffled shriek she'd heard in the courtyard. This was close.
Caldan's gaze, which had been fixed on her, flicked towards the source of the rumble. His face, usually so composed in its cruelty, held a flicker of something she couldn't quite decipher—a deep, ancient respect, perhaps even a hint of apprehension.
"Silence," he commanded, his voice barely a whisper, but it carried an undeniable weight, cutting through the priests' desperate chants. "Do you hear that, Arin? That is the heartbeat of this palace. The breath of Velhessan."
His eyes, still on the unseen source of the rumbling, met hers, suddenly intense. "This is where they sleep. All of them. And they are not forgiving. They sense intent, hunger, defiance. They don't distinguish between friend and foe once they're roused. Only between prey and… inconvenience." His voice dropped to a near-inaudible murmur, a dark warning. "If you want to remain alive, girl, you will shut the hell up."
He didn't wait for her reply, already moving, leading her deeper into the echoing vastness of the crypt. The pulsating glow grew stronger, casting the cavern in an otherworldly light. The heat intensified, a dry, oppressive warmth that made her skin prickle. The sulfur smell was stronger here, mingling with something metallic, like ancient blood.
They walked for what felt like an eternity, the rumbling growing steadily louder, more frequent, a symphony of latent power. Caldan moved with a silent grace, his footsteps barely disturbing the ash on the ground. Arin followed, her mind a whirlwind of fear and a desperate, burning curiosity. She was being led to them. To the dragons.
The cavern opened into a larger, deeper chamber, dominated by a colossal, shadowed pit. Iron chains, thick as a man's torso, were stretched taut across the opening, disappearing into the darkness below. The pulsating light, here, was blinding, originating from the very depths of the pit. It was a terrifying, beautiful spectacle.
And from that pit, a presence emanated, cold and absolute. It wasn't a roar, not a shriek. It was a pressure in her mind, a knowing. A vast, ancient consciousness that pressed against her skull, not with words, but with a pure, undeniable emotion.
Judgment.
It was a cold, piercing evaluation, a weighing of her soul. She felt stripped bare, exposed. Every lie she'd ever told, every coin she'd ever stolen, every act of defiance—it was laid out before this unseen entity. It was not anger, not even malice. Just an impartial, devastating assessment. It was the feeling of being found wanting, utterly and irrevocably.
A wave of dizziness washed over her, sickening and sudden. Her knees buckled. The cavern spun, the pulsating light blurring into a blinding haze. The air grew thin, too heavy to breathe. This was too much. The sheer, overwhelming power of it, the ancient judgment settling on her like a shroud. She was going to fall. Her body swayed, threatening to give way beneath her.
Caldan's hand, strong and surprisingly steady, clamped around her arm, pulling her upright. His grip was firm, anchoring her in the swirling chaos of her senses. She gasped, fighting for breath, her eyes wide, locked on the churning darkness of the pit.
"You heard him," Caldan's voice was a low rasp, close to her ear, his breath warm against her temple. It was a statement, not a question.
Arin leaned into his grip, her entire body trembling. Her vision slowly cleared, the cavern coming back into focus. She looked up at Caldan, her eyes still clouded with the terror and the crushing weight of the dragon's judgment. Her voice was barely a whisper, a ragged, fragile sound torn from her throat.
"He remembers my mother."
A shrill, blood-curdling scream tore through the cavern. One of the flame-priests, standing near the edge of the pit, stumbled forward, clutching his throat. Blood, thick and shockingly crimson, welled from beneath the silver band covering his eyes, streaming down his pale, sightless face. He choked, a rattling, gurgling sound, then crumpled to the ash-stained ground, a silent heap.
From the depths of the pit, a new sound began. Not the slow, heavy rumbling from before. This was a low, resonant growl, a rumble that intensified, growing louder, more urgent. The iron chains across the pit began to vibrate, rattling ominously. A dark, immeasurable shape stirred in the pulsing light below, a shadow within shadows, vast and ancient.
Vaelrix was waking.