A cold prickle ran down Arin's spine. Behead me? She met his gaze, unflinching. "Then I will die," she stated, her voice steady despite the tremor in her hands. She had stared death in the face before. It was just a different kind of monster, cloaked in silk instead of shadows.
Caldan snarled, a frustrated sound. "You are hellbent on dying, aren't you? I am trying to keep your pathetic hide intact, and you are throwing yourself at the gallows!" He strode towards her, his movements agitated, a caged predator. "If you think dying will free you from your task, Arin, you are sorely mistaken. Even in death, I will dig you out. And you will complete the mission I have given you."
Arin laughed, a short, sharp burst of defiance. "Oh, will you now, Prince? Will you raise me from the dead to serve you? Is that part of your grand scheme, your dark magic?" Her eyes glinted with sarcasm, a challenging spark. "Perhaps you should have chosen a more docile pawn then, one less prone to irritating you beyond the grave."
Before Caldan could reply, Maeve, her face stark white, suddenly clapped her hands together, a sharp sound that cut through their furious exchange. "Your Highness! Please! The Queen Dowager will be downstairs in moments! You must go!"
Arin straightened, a sudden flicker of morbid fascination. The Queen Dowager. The woman who commanded such fear. She wanted to see her. She wanted to see the face of the power that could reduce even Caldan to this agitated state.
"I want to see her," Arin said, her voice quiet, but firm.
Caldan rounded on her, his face grim. "No. You are seeing no one. You will stay in this room. And you will not move. I will handle this."
"Stay?" Arin scoffed, a dark amusement coloring her words. "Are you locking me up again, Prince? After the last time, you'd think you'd learn." She gestured around the luxurious bedchamber. "This room is far too pleasant for a prison, wouldn't you agree?"
Caldan's eyes narrowed. "I remember your last prison, commoner. I remember the wreckage. If you so much as splinter a single piece of wood in this room, Arin… if you lay a single finger on anything that doesn't belong to you… I swear by the shattered crown of the Elder King, I will personally present your head to my grandmother on a silver platter." His voice was low, dangerous, a silken threat that promised cold retribution.
Arin's breath hitched. The tension crackled between them, hot and raw. Her stomach clenched, not with fear, but with a rebellious heat that burned in her veins. He thinks he can threaten me?
"You threaten me, Prince?" Arin retorted, her voice a low snarl, thick with contempt. "You think I fear your grandmother, or your empty threats? I've faced worse in the gutters of Drakoryth. And unlike your pampered brother, I don't cower just because a royal spits venom."
"This isn't Roen, Arin!" Caldan hissed, stepping closer, his voice dropping to a furious whisper. "This is the Queen Dowager! Her word is law! She will kill you! And I don't have time for your suicidal tendencies!"
"And I don't have time for your childish tantrums!" Arin shot back, meeting his glare with her own. "If I am to be a pawn, then I will be a pawn with teeth. And if your grandmother wishes to take my head, let her try. I will not make it easy for her."
"By the gods, you are insufferable!"
"And you, Prince, are predictable!"
Maeve, her face stark white, suddenly clapped her hands together, a sharp sound that cut through their furious exchange. "Your Highness! Please! The Queen Dowager is two minutes from the Grand Hall! You must go!"
Caldan stared at Arin, his eyes blazing, a silent promise of future reckoning. "Stay here," he commanded, his voice barely a growl. "Do nothing. Touch nothing. And do not, under any circumstances, leave this room. Or I swear, your head will be the first thing she sees this morning."
He spun on his heel, his black cloak swirling like a vengeful shadow, and strode out of the bedchamber, the heavy oak door slamming shut behind him with a resonant thud.
Maeve's frantic claps still echoed in the lavish bedchamber as Caldan stalked out, leaving behind the simmering fury of Arin and the lingering scent of unseen dragonfire. The Grand Hall. Royal breakfast. His grandmother. A cold dread, far more potent than any fear of fire, twisted in his gut.
He moved through the palace corridors, his boots silent on the polished obsidian, his mind a whirlwind. The memory of Vaelrix's roar, the agony in his head, the charred remains of his guards—it all pressed down on him, a heavy weight. And now, this.
He could already picture the scene: the ostentatious display of wealth, the brittle smiles, the whispered venom. He rarely attended these morning rituals. They were for the weak, for those who needed to parade their fleeting influence.
As he neared the Grand Hall, the sounds of rushed activity reached him—the clinking of silver, the hushed commands of servants, the nervous flutter of their movements. They scurried, preparing for a queen who rarely deigned to break bread with her family.
He pushed open the massive doors, carved with the black tower and twin serpents of his house, and stepped into the dazzling light of the Grand Hall. The air, thick with the scent of roasted meats and sweet pastries, felt suffocating. Servants, dressed in crimson and gold livery, darted around a long, gleaming table, setting platters and refilling goblets.
His family was already there, a glittering collection of vipers in silk. He scanned the faces, a knot of tension tightening in his chest. His mother, Queen Armyra, sat rigid and elegant. Princess Viera, her black hair a stark contrast to her pale skin, was already at her place. Vaeren, his smile too wide, too sharp, observed the room with calculating eyes. Tysha, as ever, held a small, polished mirror, admiring her own reflection. And Iryna. Her gaze, cool and knowing, met his for a split second, a silent message passing between them. You're in trouble. He gave her a subtle nod. He knew.
But Roen. His half-brother, the cause of this entire charade, was absent. A flicker of something akin to relief, quickly stifled, passed through him. Perhaps he was still incapacitated.
His mother, Armyra, a silver-haired queen of ice and calculation, caught his eye. Her black eyes, usually unreadable, held a rare hint of urgency. She gave him a subtle, almost imperceptible nod towards the head of the table. A silent command to hurry.
He moved, his steps measured, a calm façade over the tempest brewing inside him. He slid into his seat beside Viera, a silent greeting passing between them.
Just then, a booming voice echoed through the hall. "His Royal Majesty, King Vaelric Kaerethyne, Dragonlord of Velhessan!"
All heads bowed. Caldan dipped his own, a mere formality. He watched as his father, King Vaelric, entered the hall. His dark hair, streaked with silver, framed golden eyes that held the wisdom of ages and the cunning of a serpent. The King, despite his rumored illness, moved with a practiced ease, a silent power emanating from him. He took his place at the head of the table, his throne a monstrous thing forged from the bones of fallen dragons.
The herald's voice rang out again, even louder, laced with a tremor of reverence. "Her Royal Majesty, Queen Dowager Ysireth!"
A hush fell over the room, deeper than before. The Queen Dowager. The true power behind the throne, the one who held the court in her bony, white-gloved hand. A shiver, not of fear, but of grudging respect, ran through Caldan.
Ysireth entered, a vision in crimson and gold, her white hair a crown of spun moonlight. Her blue-green eyes, sharp as a dragon's claw, swept over the gathered family, missing nothing. She moved with a regal stillness, an aura of quiet menace. She took her place at the opposite end of the table, the second head of this venomous feast.
As she settled, the rest of the family took their seats. His mother, Armyra, sat to his father's right. Then him. The empty chair beside him, Dhaelon's. A space untouched for seven years. Caldan glanced at it, a flicker of pain, a fleeting memory of his twin. Dhaelon, locked away, whispering to ghosts, drawing in blood. The last time Dhaelon had sat at this table, he'd shattered a glass against Sirenyth's face, leaving a scar that still burned in his stepmother's heart. And for that, Sirenyth resented Caldan even more, seeing Dhaelon's madness as a reflection of his own tainted blood.
Next to Dhaelon's empty seat was Viera, still as a statue. Then, on the King's left, sat Sirenyth, his stepmother. Her red hair, a vibrant flame, was a stark contrast to Armyra's silver. She was the one who had entwined herself with his father while his mother was pregnant with him and Dhaelon. A grievance Caldan had never, would never, forgive.
Roen's seat was next to Sirenyth, glaringly empty. Then Vaeren, his dark hair sleek, his golden eyes observing everything with predatory calm. Then Tysha, still distracted by her own reflection, her red hair a fiery cascade. Finally, Iryna, whose knowing glance had already warned him.
The Queen Dowager's gaze, sharp and piercing, swept across the table, lingering on the two empty seats. Her voice, when she spoke, was low, surprisingly soft, yet it carried an undeniable command that silenced the last lingering whispers.
"Where is Prince Dhaelon?" Her question hung in the air, a silken thread of ice.
His mother, Armyra, answered, her voice smooth and devoid of emotion. "As you know, Your Majesty, Dhaelon remains… indisposed."
Ysireth's gaze then moved to Roen's empty chair. "And Prince Roen? He is rarely absent from the morning meal." A hint of steel entered her voice.
Sirenyth, seizing the opportunity, leaned forward, her blue eyes wide with manufactured concern. "He could not attend, Your Majesty. He is… injured." Her voice held a note of subtle accusation, a veiled dagger aimed at Caldan.
Ysireth's brow furrowed, a faint ripple of annoyance disturbing her serene expression. "Injured? How so?"
"He was attacked, Your Majesty," Sirenyth declared, her voice rising slightly, ensuring all at the table heard. "Stabbed in the thigh. By a commoner."