Arin's eyes narrowed, a challenge burning in their gray depths. "Perfectly understood, Prince. I'll make sure not to disturb your delicate sensibilities." She gathered the anatomy and poison books, tucking them under her arm. My tongue, huh? We'll see about that, you arrogant brute.
She gave Caldan a curt nod, a subtle tilt of her head that dared him to say another word, then turned and followed the frightened maid out of the chambers. The heavy door clicked shut behind her, cutting off the lingering tension between Caldan and his mother.
The maid, a skinny girl with nervous eyes, scurried ahead, her steps almost silent on the plush hallway runner. Arin followed, her mind already buzzing with possibilities. A new room. Closer to Caldan's. Was that a perk or another cage?
The maid opened a door just across the hall. It was a smaller room than Caldan's, but still opulent. Soft tapestries depicting ancient dragon hunts hung on the walls, and a large window looked out onto a manicured courtyard, fountains trickling softly. A plush bed, a writing desk, a small sitting area. Not bad. Not bad at all.
"The bath chamber is through there, my lady," the maid whispered, gesturing to another door, then curtsied quickly. "Is there anything else, my lady?"
"No, that will be all," Arin replied, giving the girl a small, almost imperceptible smile. The maid practically fled. My lady. The irony.
Arin dropped the books onto the bed, then paced the room, taking in every detail. The heavy draperies, the sturdy lock on the door, the small, intricate carvings on the wooden chest. She'd need to map this wing, too. And find the fastest way out, just in case.
Her mission was clear: fake a royal death. But her instincts, honed by years of village survival, screamed at her to enjoy this momentary reprieve. Two weeks. Who knew what would happen after that? Caldan might toss her out, or worse, decide she knew too much.
She peeled off her travel-stained clothes, letting them fall to the floor in a heap. The warm bath chamber beckoned, the air thick with the scent of lavender and herbs. The tub was enormous, a carved stone basin big enough to drown in. Or to truly relax, for once.
She sank into the hot water, a sigh escaping her lips. The day's tension, the sharp words with Caldan, the shock of the Queen's arrival—it all began to dissolve into the steam. She scrubbed away the grime of the palace, the lingering metallic tang of deceit, the lingering heat from Caldan's fist on her skin.
By the time she emerged, clean and refreshed, the light outside had softened to the deep purples and oranges of evening. Ash, fine as dust, drifted past the window from Drakoryth's ever-smoking Heartspire. She wrapped a thick, soft towel around her body, the unfamiliar luxury a stark contrast to her rough village life.
She moved to the window, peering out at the dimly lit courtyard. The air smelled of sulfur and distant burning, the signature scent of Drakoryth. She should be planning, strategizing. But for now...
She pulled a comb through her damp chestnut hair, watching the moon begin to rise over the obsidian spires of Caelvoryn, completely unaware that a pair of golden eyes watched her from the shadows of an adjacent tower, a subtle glint in their depths.
The silence in the room, after Arin and the timid maid had departed, felt heavier than the ash that often coated Drakoryth's streets. Caldan stood before his mother, the Queen Armyra, the sharp edge of her gaze a physical weight against his skin. His hand still throbbed, a dull ache beneath the raw skin of his knuckles. Arin's words, sharp and unexpected, echoed in his mind. "If you break your hand, you won't be able to hold a sword."
He watched Arin walk away, her back straight, defiant. A small part of him, the part he rarely acknowledged, admired her fire. Dangerous, yes. But endlessly fascinating. She was a viper, quick and unpredictable, precisely what this palace needed. And precisely what he needed.
"Well?" Armyra's voice cut through his thoughts, cool and precise. "Are you going to stare at the empty doorway all night, or are you going to explain yourself, Caldan? This... commoner. And this preposterous scheme of yours."
Caldan turned, his gaze finally meeting his mother's. Her black eyes were like deep, still pools, hiding more than they revealed. She was a master of masks, a silent strategist. He had inherited his temper from his father, perhaps. His sharp mind, however, was all hers.
"There is little to explain, Mother," Caldan said, his voice clipped. "I need her. For a task that requires a specific, rather unorthodox, set of skills." He walked to his desk, picking up the genealogy book Arin had left behind, its pages scattered with crumbs. He ran a thumb over the precise lines of the Kaerythene family tree. She had been studying. Good.
Armyra followed, her crimson silk rustling softly. She paused by the splintered mantelpiece, her gaze lingering on the damage. "Unorthodox, indeed. You almost broke your hand. And your temper, Caldan, remains your greatest weakness." Her eyes flickered to the spot where Arin had stood. "That girl. There's something about her. A resilience. A fire. It reminds me of..." She trailed off, a flicker of something unreadable in her eyes. "Her mother."
Caldan scoffed. "She's nothing like her mother. Her mother was a thief and a traitor." He hated the memory, the whispers that still haunted his own name because of it.
"Her mother," Armyra continued, unperturbed, "was a legend, Caldan. A ghost in the shadows. They say she could disappear into thin air. That she killed a dragonrider with naught but a hairpin and a sharp mind." Her voice held a hint of grudging respect. "They also say she sold court secrets for coin and vanished without a trace."
She looked at him, her black eyes piercing. "If this girl, Arin, is truly her daughter, then she possesses a dangerous legacy. A sharp mind, yes. But if she's anything like her mother, she'll kill you the moment she learns how. Or the moment it suits her."
Caldan slammed the book shut, the sound echoing in the chamber. "She won't." He surprised himself with the vehemence in his voice. "She's a pawn, Mother. A tool. Nothing more. She knows her place."
Armyra raised a skeptical brow. "Does she? Her spirit, Caldan, seems rather... untamed for a mere tool. You mistake stubbornness for obedience. A dangerous oversight." She walked to the window, gazing out at the ash-dusted night. "So. This 'staged murder.' Tell me the truth, my son. Why? What game are you truly playing?"
He poured himself a goblet of spiced wine, the dark liquid swirling. His hands were steady, despite the lingering anger. He rarely spoke of this, not to anyone. But Armyra was his mother. She understood the ruthless dance of the court. And perhaps, a part of him, the desperate part, needed to voice it aloud.
"It's not a game, Mother," he said, his voice low, rough. "It's a trap. A lure." He took a long swallow of the wine, the spice burning his throat. "For the true killer. The one who murdered Aelina."
Armyra's composure, usually unshakeable, fractured for a bare instant. Her silver head snapped around, her black eyes widening. Aelina. Caldan's fiancée. Drowned in the palace's ornamental ponds, weeks before their wedding. Ruled an accident. Caldan knew better. He had felt it.
"Aelina?" Armyra whispered, the name a fragile thing in the tense silence. "But... the King's own healers. They ruled it an accident. A fall."
"A convenient lie," Caldan snarled, his voice laced with venom. "A clumsy cover-up. Aelina was a strong swimmer. Stronger than any maid in this palace. She would not have drowned in a shallow pond." His fist clenched on the goblet, the polished metal groaning under the pressure.
"I found her, Mother," he continued, his voice thick with the memory. "Her skin was cold. Her lips were blue. And her gown... it was not tangled, not torn. It was perfectly intact. She didn't struggle. She was dead before she ever touched the water."
Armyra moved closer, her face pale in the dim light. "Poison," she breathed, her mind already racing, calculating.
"Poison," Caldan confirmed, nodding grimly. "Something that mimics drowning. Something that brings death swiftly, silently, leaving no trace. A perfect murder. Almost."
"So you wish to flush out this viper," Armyra stated, not a question but a cold, precise deduction. "By feigning your own death. To make them believe they have succeeded. And then...?"
"And then," Caldan finished, his voice raw, "they will make a mistake. They will grow bold. They will reveal themselves. The killer, or the one who ordered it. They want me gone, Mother. And I will give them what they think they want. Until I snatch it back and crush them." He looked at her, his golden eyes burning with a cold fire. "I want to see who celebrates my 'death.' Who gains the most. Who dared to reach into my life and take what was mine."