"Not yet."
The words hung in the air like smoke, curling into the hollows of Arin's chest and settling somewhere between rage and dread. She stared at him—this prince who wore shadows like armor and arrogance like a second skin—and something inside her coiled tighter. Her hands were still bound, her wrists sore from the chains. But her voice was sharp and unbroken.
"What do you mean, not yet?" she asked, her words crisp despite the tremble at the edge of her breath. Her gaze was locked on his, trying to decipher the unspoken intent in those molten gold eyes. What game was he playing? What dark path did he intend to drag her down?
Caldan didn't answer. He didn't even look at her, as if her question was an annoyance, a fly buzzing around his head. He turned smoothly, like a blade sliding back into its sheath, and called out without raising his voice, a low command that still carried the weight of authority.
"Maeve."
The name echoed, a summoning, a ripple of anticipation in the silent chamber. Arin's eyes flickered to the side door, where the velvet-draped girl had disappeared. Was that Maeve? The head maid she'd encountered before, whose stern presence had already left an impression.
A door to the side creaked open, and a woman entered. Older. Tall. Dressed in black and silver, the colors of the royal household. Her eyes were the pale, glassy kind that made you wonder if she saw through skin and into the bones beneath, missing nothing. She didn't bow. She didn't blink. Just waited, a silent, unmoving statue.
"She needs to be prepared," Caldan said, waving vaguely in Arin's direction, a dismissive gesture. "Bathed. Dressed. Something decent. Not too elaborate. Silk, maybe." His voice was casual, as if discussing a common errand, and the indifference of it grated on Arin's nerves.
Arin stiffened. Her stomach twisted, a cold knot tightening in her gut. Prepared. That tone. That casual indifference. That calm decision spoken like she was a piece of fruit to be washed and plated before being served to a lord. Silk. Prepared. It all clicked in her head like the snap of a snare closing around a rabbit's neck.
She knew what this was.
Of course.
This was the part where the prince undressed the wild thing they dragged in from the dirt and saw what sort of soft was hiding under the spit and fury. He wanted to claim her, to strip away her defiance along with her rags. The thought sparked a fresh wave of fury in her.
She laughed, low and dry, a harsh sound in the opulent room. "So that's it," she muttered, the words raw and laced with contempt. "All this buildup for the usual." Her eyes, sharp and defiant, met Caldan's. Let him see her scorn.
Maeve didn't react, her expression unchanged, impassive. She just moved toward her with quiet purpose, her footsteps barely whispering on the thick rugs.
"No," Arin snapped, stepping back, pulling against her unseen bonds. "I'm not going anywhere with her." Her voice was tight, a struggle for control. Every instinct screamed at her to fight, to run, to resist.
Caldan's brow arched slightly, amused, a flicker of something she couldn't quite name in his eyes. "You'd rather I do it myself?" His voice was low, suggestive, a dangerous undertone that sent a shiver down her spine.
That stopped her cold.
He wouldn't.
He might.
She didn't know. And that was the worst part. The uncertainty. The complete lack of control. Her mind, quick and resourceful, scrambled for an escape, for a way to turn the tables, but there was nothing. Not yet.
"Do what you're told," Maeve said in a flat voice, her eyes like chips of pale ice, not even looking at her as she pulled a key from her belt. "It'll go easier if you don't fight."
Easier. That word again. A lie, always a lie.
She could make this hard. Gods, she wanted to. Every instinct in her screamed to fight, bite, spit. To lash out until they beat her into submission. But her mind—her mother's mind, that sharp, calculating presence—reminded her that control sometimes meant waiting. Playing along didn't mean surrender. Not if you picked the moment when to strike. Observe. Learn. Then act.
So she let Maeve unlock the cuffs. The cool metal separated from her wrists, leaving faint red marks.
She let them take her down winding hallways lit with violet flames, their ethereal glow casting long, shifting shadows. She felt the grandness of the palace, the silent weight of its power, pressing down on her. But her eyes still darted, absorbing details, memorizing turns, identifying potential escape routes.
She let them strip her—rough hands, indifferent gestures, peeling away the layers of her dirty, torn clothes. She stood in the shallow marble basin while three silent women poured water over her, scrubbed her dark chestnut hair, rubbed oils into her skin until she smelled of wild myrrh and something too sweet, cloyingly rich. She didn't speak. Didn't make eye contact. She retreated within herself, a quiet observer.
She wasn't in her body. She was somewhere else. Watching. Storing. Calculating. Every touch, every scent, every sound—it was all data. Information she could use.
They combed her hair and twisted it back in a simple braid, neat and precise, unfamiliar on her head. She tried to fight when they dressed her in a long silk shift, black with red embroidery at the throat—dragons. Of course. The sleeves hung loose, and the material clung to her in ways that made her feel less dressed than naked, exposed. The fabric, soft and luxurious, felt alien against her calloused skin.
"Lovely," Maeve said, her voice devoid of warmth, merely a professional assessment, brushing dust from her shoulder. "The prince will be pleased."
"He can choke on it." Arin's voice was a low growl, a promise of retribution.
Maeve didn't respond. She simply led her to a door unlike the others—thick blackwood carved with a crest she didn't recognize. A more intimate, more dangerous part of the palace. Maeve opened it with a ring of keys, the metallic jingle a stark sound in the quiet corridor, and gave her a single nod. A silent dismissal.
She went in.
And froze.
There was no prince.
No chaise. No velvet-draped women.
No lingering perfume of wine and heat.
The bedchamber was… empty.
Almost.
The scent hit her first—iron, smoke, and something almost metallic, like blood and old copper. Her eyes adjusted slowly to the amber glow of wall sconces, flickering across stone walls and hanging tapestries depicting more dragons, more battles, more ancient power.
Then she saw it.
A box.
Placed neatly on a pedestal in the center of the room. Wood, dark and ancient. Carved with impossible angles and tiny notches, its surface shimmered like scales when she moved, catching the light. It wasn't a torture device, nor a lover's trinket. It was a puzzle.
Beside it, on a velvet cushion, sat a dagger. Plain hilt, worn grip. Sharp, though. Very sharp. The kind of sharp that could pierce flesh, or cut through lies. It gleamed invitingly in the amber light.
And on the wall above them, scrawled in blood, stark against the dark stone:
"I must die, and yet I live.
I must vanish, and yet be seen.
I must fall, so I may rise.
What am I?"
Arin stared. Her mind, quick and keen, began to work. Her heart beat faster. Not out of fear—but curiosity. This wasn't about sex. This wasn't about submission.
This was a test.
A trap.
Maybe both.
She stepped closer, her bare feet silent on the cold stone. Her fingers hovered over the puzzle box. The notches looked like a cipher, a code. Her brain started spinning, fast and hungry, devouring the words, searching for the hidden meaning. Her mother had taught her about riddles, about secrets hidden in plain sight.
I must die, and yet I live.
She whispered the line aloud, letting it roll over her tongue, testing its shape, its meaning. A lie? A secret? A memory? Something intangible, yet persistent.
I must vanish, and yet be seen.
Invisibility. Disguise. Perhaps… illusion? Something that disappeared but left a trace.
I must fall, so I may rise.
That was it. The key. The cyclical nature of it. The rise and fall. The constant shifting.
She grinned, a slow, crooked smile spreading across her lips. The pieces clicked into place, forming a complete picture in her mind.
"Shadow," she murmured, her voice barely a whisper, the answer a breath on the silent air.
The box clicked once. Then again. A soft mechanical sound.
It opened.
Inside, nestled in black silk, was a ring. A simple gold band, etched on the inside with a word she didn't recognize—ancient Drakoryth script, maybe, a language of power and mystery.
She didn't touch it. Her gaze was fixed on the open box, on the knowledge she had just unlocked. This was more than a riddle; it was a glimpse into Caldan's mind. He valued intellect. He valued cunning. He valued those who could see beyond the obvious.
She felt him before she saw him.
The air behind her shifted, growing heavier. A whisper of breath against her neck, light as a spider's web. A presence, electric and dark, like the promise of thunder before the storm, before the lightning strikes.
"You solved it faster than I expected," Caldan said softly, his voice a low rumble, stepping into her periphery.
She didn't jump.
Didn't let herself. She simply turned, her sharp gray eyes meeting his molten gold ones, a silent challenge in her gaze.
"You're not here to please me," he said, his voice low and close, a declaration that sent a shiver down her spine. "You're here to bleed for me."
She turned fully to face him, her jaw clenched, her defiance a tangible force. His words were a gauntlet thrown, a test of her courage.
"Then give me the damn knife."
He held it out without hesitation, hilt first, the dagger's sharp tip glinting in the amber light. A weapon. A tool. A choice.
The weight of it in her hand was colder than she thought it would be, a shock against her skin, but strangely familiar. It felt right.
"I want details," she said, her voice firm, unwavering, gripping the dagger tighter. "And answers. And a reason not to turn this on you right now." Her eyes challenged him, dared him.
He smiled. Not cruelly this time. Not coldly. Not with the wolfish baring of teeth.
But like someone who'd waited a long time for exactly this moment. For a challenge. For a blade as sharp as his own.
"Stage my murder," he said, his voice a soft command, a promise of chaos and blood. "Make the kingdom mourn me. Or I'll find someone sharper."