Meanwhile, in Caldan's chambers, Arin found a strange, almost unsettling peace. A single beam of light, thick with dancing dust motes, pierced the heavy gloom. She was perched on the edge of his massive, carved desk, a half-eaten roll forgotten in one hand. Crumbs scattered across the open pages of an anatomy book, its precise diagrams of veins and muscles almost unnerving.This dark quiet was better than the whispers of the palace, better than thinking about her own stolen life.
Her sharp gray eyes traced the path of an artery. The book was a treasure, a puzzle she was determined to solve. Next to it, an older, brittle-paged tome on poisons lay open. How did one fake a death? A royal one, no less. It was a thrilling, dangerous riddle buzzing in her mind.
She bit into the bland roll, the taste a dull counterpoint to the morbid feast of information before her. Caldan had simply commanded her to "stage my murder." He hadn't bothered with the why. The sheer arrogance of it was baffling, even for a prince.
What could drive a prince to want the world to believe him dead? Unless the game was so deadly, his own life was just another piece to be sacrificed. Her mind spun, connecting the cold prince in the throne room to the man whose dangerous gaze had pinned her in the library yesterday.
The almost-touch of his hand on hers, the glint of amusement in his molten gold eyes. He wanted to watch this gilded cage burn. This had to be part of it. A match struck in the heart of the palace.
She traced a line along a major artery. A clean cut there would be swift. Final. But how to create the illusion without the reality? Her gaze drifted to the book of poisons. Some could slow the heart to a near-standstill, mimicking death. The idea sparked in her mind, a flicker of dangerous excitement, tinged with a familiar shadow from her mother's whispered past.
The heavy oak door swung inward, but Arin didn't flinch. She was too lost in the macabre puzzle, her world shrunk to the ink on the page. The soft thud of the door, the creak of a floorboard—they were distant sounds, barely registering. She was in her element, a thief of secrets, her mind alight with a dark purpose.
A shadow fell over her, sudden and cool. A presence. She didn't look up, assuming it was one of the maids, silent as ghosts. Then a voice, low and rough as stone on steel, brushed against her ear.
"Still here, little viper? I almost thought you'd finally managed to escape."
A startled gasp tore from her throat. The roll tumbled from her fingers as she spun around, her heart slamming against her ribs. Her hand flew to her hip, searching for a dagger that wasn't there. A fool's reflex. Always a fool's reflex when he was near.
Caldan stood so close she could feel the warmth radiating from him, a stark contrast to the chill that had just run down her spine. His silver hair was a mess, and his golden eyes held a familiar, dangerous glint of amusement mixed with something she couldn't name. He leaned against the doorframe, a mocking smile twisting his lips.
"Prince," she bit out, her voice shaky but quickly sharpening. "You nearly sent me to an early grave. Must you sneak about like a common thief?"
He pushed off the doorframe and moved into the room, his stride smooth and predatory. "And you, Arin, must you always be so predictable? So easily startled when caught meddling?" His gaze dropped to the books on his desk, and for a second, the amusement in his eyes vanished, replaced by something unreadable. A flicker of something darker there. Curiosity? Annoyance?
Arin scoffed, bending to retrieve her fallen roll. "Meddling? I was merely... familiarizing myself with your library. One must be well-informed in the arts of treachery to survive this court, wouldn't you agree?" She held up the book on poisons, a challenge sparking in her gray eyes.
His smile thinned. "A skill you seem to possess in abundance." He took another step closer, his presence filling the space between them. "So, to what do I owe the pleasure of your continued, and rather inconvenient, presence?"
"Inconvenient?" Arin arched a brow, popping the last of the roll into her mouth. "The inconvenience is entirely mutual, I assure you. How was breakfast? Did your family of vipers finally devour each other, or did you manage to hold them at bay?" Her eyes scanned his face, searching for any crack in his perfect, princely mask. "Were we caught?"
A short, humorless laugh escaped him. "Caught? Arin, you are still breathing, are you not? Standing in my chambers, plotting my demise with a half-eaten pastry. What do you think?" The sarcasm in his voice was thick enough to choke on. He always played games, even when it was serious.
Her brief fear curdled into irritation. "Your sarcasm is as dull as your manners, Prince. Just tell me. Was it... close?"
Caldan ran a hand through his silver hair, a rare crack in his composure. "It was close enough that I almost offered my grandmother your head on a platter to be done with it." He paused, his gaze hardening into chips of gold. "She wanted to search my wing. Immediately."
Arin's eyes widened. "Search your wing? Why?"
"Because," Caldan snapped, his voice sharp with restrained anger, "your little performance with Roen backfired. They saw it as an attack on royal blood. A security risk." He turned away from her, pacing before the fireplace like a caged wolf. She knew what that look meant. He was dangerous when contained.
She frowned, a knot of defiance tightening in her stomach. "Backfired? I thought it was rather effective. He won't be bothering any more maids, will he?"
He spun back to face her, his eyes blazing with a sudden, wild fire that stole the air from her lungs. "Effective? Do you truly think that was the point? Do you think I give a damn about Roen's bruised ego? Or his thigh?" His hands clenched into white-knuckled fists. "I am trying to keep you alive, you witless commoner, and you keep inviting the gallows!"
"I am not witless!" she shot back, her own temper flaring to meet his. "And I do not invite anything! I defend myself, and those who cannot!" She stepped toward him, her chin jutted out. "And why, Prince, do you want to fake your murder? What possible reason could there be for such a... grotesque charade?" She wouldn't back down. Not from him. Not ever.
He stared at her, the storm in his eyes building. She could feel the raw power rolling off him, the fury of a prince who held life and death in his hands. He looked like he wanted to break something. Or someone.
"Why?" he snarled, his voice a low, dangerous growl that vibrated through the floor. "You want to know why? Because that pig, that festering excuse for a prince, had the audacity to beat a maid. In my wing. In my own damn chambers!" His voice cracked, rising with each word. "He flogged her. Mercilessly. For refusing to sleep with him!" With a roar of pure rage, he smashed his fist against the mantelpiece. Wood splintered, the sound like a gunshot in the tense silence.
Arin flinched but stepped forward instinctively, her hand landing on his arm. The muscle beneath her palm was corded steel. "Caldan, stop. You'll break your hand." The raw, unmasked fury was shocking. It wasn't about her at all.
He seemed not to hear her use of his name, his chest heaving, his eyes burning with a furious, self-directed hatred. "Break my hand? I want to break his face! I should have done it myself!" He ripped his arm from her grasp, turning away. "And I locked you up! I locked you up for stopping him, for doing what I should have done! For stabbing that beast when he deserved far worse!"
The words hung in the air, thick with loathing. He stood with his back to her, staring at the splintered wood, his shoulders trembling with the force of his rage. In that moment, Arin saw past the arrogant prince. She saw a man choking on his own fury, disgusted by his own actions. It was a bitter, shocking revelation. He hated himself for what he hadn't done. For a noble, that kind of self-loathing was a rare, dangerous thing.
He straightened slowly, the violent tremor in his body hardening into a cold resolve. He turned and strode to the door, pulling it open with a sharp tug.
"Maeve!" he bellowed, his voice echoing down the silent hall. "Get in here. Now!"
A moment later, the head maid appeared, her face a mask of practiced exasperation. Her eyes widened as she took in the scene—the prince, rigid with fury, the shattered mantelpiece, and Arin, standing quietly by the desk.
"Your Highness!" Maeve exclaimed, her hands flying to her hips. "By the gods, what happened? Was it the Queen Dowager? I heard the breakfast was... spirited."
Caldan ignored her, his gaze pinning her in place. His voice dropped, becoming dangerously low and sharp. "Maeve. Why did you not tell me Roen was abusing a maid in my wing? A maid who works for me? Why did you only tell me Arin stabbed him?"