The cold of the Crucible Pits bit into Caldan's bones. This was Vaelrix's domain, a place of ancient stone and deeper shadows, where the air hung heavy with the scent of sulfur and a primal, ancient power. The chain, thick as a tree trunk, stretched from the cavern floor to the massive beast, disappearing into the gloom above. Vaelrix. His dragon. His other half.
Caldan approached, his steps echoing in the vast chamber. The silence here was different from the palace's hushed whispers; this was the silence of deep earth and slumbering power. Vaelrix lay curled, a mountain of obsidian scales, eyes like twin white opals closed in a timeless sleep. His horns, jagged and dark, touched the cavern ceiling. Even in slumber, he radiated raw, untamed might.
"Brother," Caldan whispered, reaching out a hand to touch the warm, rough scales of Vaelrix's snout. The surface was like polished stone, yet alive. A thrum resonated through his palm, a low vibration that mirrored the beat of his own heart. The bond was a living thing, a searing thread woven into his very soul. He'd lost so much, but never this. Never Vaelrix.
He moved to the small, scorched circle before the dragon, where the flame-priests had already laid out the instruments for the blood-rite. Obsidian bowls, a ceremonial dagger, and a sprig of nightshade, its dark berries unnerving. Caldan knelt, the cold seeping through his tunic.
Three flame-priests, robed in crimson, emerged from the shadows. Their faces were stark, their eyes holding the perpetual glint of firelight. Elder Joric, the most ancient among them, stepped forward, his gaze piercing.
"Prince Caldan," Joric's voice was a dry rasp, like ash on stone. "You seek to bend the currents of fate. To deceive the living, and perhaps even the dead."
Caldan dipped the dagger into a small vial of his own blood, drawn moments before. He watched the dark liquid swirl, a mirror to the tangled depths of his purpose. "I seek justice, Joric. For a life stolen. For a truth buried under lies."
He drew the dagger across his palm, a sharp, familiar sting. The blood welled, dark and rich, spilling into the obsidian bowl. He offered it to Vaelrix, letting a few drops fall onto the great dragon's snout. The scales seemed to absorb it, almost greedily.
"I ask your blessing, my heart," Caldan murmured to Vaelrix, his voice choked with raw emotion. "To feign this death. To lure the viper that struck Aelina down."
The dragon did not stir. But a subtle shift occurred. The heavy air around Vaelrix, usually still and cold, began to shimmer. A faint, sulfuric breath, thicker than before, puffed from the dragon's nostrils, swirling like mist around Caldan. It carried no heat, only a chilling vapor that seemed to whisper secrets of distant, forgotten times.
Joric's eyes, ancient and knowing, fixed on Caldan. "The dragon hears. It breathes. But it does not speak of blessing, Prince. Only... judgment." He paused, his gaze sweeping over Caldan, then, almost imperceptibly, past him, as if seeing something else entirely. "This girl you brought into your halls. This commoner."
Caldan felt a prickle of irritation. Arin. Always Arin. He hated that she was so easily seen, so quickly whispered about. He hated that even his oldest, most trusted advisors noticed her.
"She is a tool, Joric," Caldan said, his voice flat. "Nothing more. For a specific task."
Joric's lips, thin and dry, curled into something that might have been a smile, or a grimace. "A tool, you say? The Night Dragon knows the scent of truth, Prince. And deception. This girl… she carries your judgment, Caldan. Be wary. For sometimes, the very blade you wield against your enemy is the one that turns upon you."
Caldan clenched his jaw. "She has no loyalty here. No ties."
"Loyalty is a cage, Prince," another priest, younger than Joric, added, his voice surprisingly deep. "And freedom can be a sharper weapon."
Caldan ignored them, his gaze returning to Vaelrix. He knelt closer, pressing his forehead against the cool scales. My heart. My strength. My truth. He felt the weight of the dragon's presence, the silent understanding that passed between them. He felt a reassurance, deep and resonant, that went beyond the priests' cryptic warnings. Vaelrix might not roar, but he understood the game. And this dragon was always on his side. Always.
He rose, wiping the blood from his hand. "The ritual is done," he declared, his voice ringing with a conviction that brooked no argument.
Joric merely inclined his head, his eyes still holding that unsettling, distant knowledge. "As the prince wills it. May the Ancestors guide your steps, Prince Caldan. Or, condemn them."
The words echoed in the cold chamber as Caldan turned and walked away, the scent of sulfur and old magic clinging to his skin. He didn't look back. He had what he needed. Vaelrix's silent consent. And the bitter taste of the priests' warnings.
The Crucible Pits, for all their power, were always a dark place. He needed air. He needed to clear his head of the priests' unsettling pronouncements. He needed a drink.
He ascended from the depths, emerging into the crisp, biting air of the palace courtyard. The sun was dipping low, painting the obsidian towers in hues of bruised purple and fiery orange. He strode through the courtyards, his mind already shifting to the next steps of his plan, the details Arin had so brazenly critiqued. Blood. Real blood. She was right. The illusion must be flawless.
As he neared the northern wing, where the royal gardens sprawled, a burst of laughter carried on the wind. It was light, melodic, unmistakably female. Then another, deeper, richer. Auren's.
Caldan stopped, his jaw tightening. He moved to the edge of the arched walkway, hidden by a heavy curtain of ivy, and looked down.
Below, in the formal gardens, a small gathering had formed. Auren, his golden hair catching the last rays of sun, was there, leaning back against a stone bench, laughing freely. With him were two minor nobles, Lord Torvyn and Lady Eshara, their faces alight with amusement. And among them, at the center of their attention, was Arin.
She was standing, gesturing animatedly, telling a story. Her posture was relaxed, confident, utterly unlike the timid demeanor he'd expected her to maintain. Her dark hair, usually messy, seemed to catch the light, a vibrant contrast to the dull silks of the nobles. Her crooked smile, the one he'd seen only a few times, was wide and genuine. She was captivating them. Weaving a tale, no doubt, with that sharp wit of hers.
A cold, unfamiliar rage coiled in Caldan's gut. Not the familiar anger that fueled his vengeance, but something sharper, more personal. He watched as Auren leaned in, his eyes fixed on Arin, a genuine delight on his face. My cousin. Laughing with her. Auren, who had barely spoken a civil word to Caldan in months, who was usually so stiff with court protocol, was utterly charmed. By Arin.
Arin threw her head back, her laughter ringing out, clear and uninhibited. It was a sound that seemed to shatter the polished silence of the court. A sound that belonged in a village tavern, not in the carefully controlled gardens of Caelvoryn.
Caldan felt his fists clench, his knuckles aching. What game is she playing now? He had brought her here, confined her, given her purpose. She was supposed to be studying poisons, not charming his family. His blood thrummed with an inexplicable fury. Why did the sight of her, so effortlessly at ease among people she should despise, make his teeth grind?
He didn't trust her. Not truly. He saw the fire in her, the defiance. He had chosen her for her intelligence, for her lack of ties. He hadn't chosen her to be… engaging. To make his kin laugh. Especially not Auren, who was supposed to be a rival, a pawn in his mother's game.
He watched for another moment, the scene burning into his mind. Arin, radiant and alive, spinning tales. Auren, captivated, forgetting his noble facade.
A whisper clawed its way into Caldan's mind, cold and sharp as a dagger: This girl… she carries your judgment.
He turned abruptly, his boots crunching on the gravel path. He could not stand to watch another moment. The sight filled him with an acid he couldn't name. It was irrational. Dangerous.
He strode towards the darkest corridors of the palace, away from the laughter, away from the light. His hand instinctively went to the hilt of his sword. He needed a target. Something to break. He needed to remember why he brought her here. She was a means to an end. Nothing more.
But even as he told himself this, a single image burned behind his eyes: Arin's bright, uninhibited smile. And the thought, unbidden, terrifying: What if she decides the game is more fun when she's playing for herself?
The whispers of the priests echoed again, intertwining with Arin's laughter. She carries your judgment.
He reached the end of the corridor, plunging into deeper shadow. He couldn't shake the feeling that something had shifted. Something vital. And it wasn't just Aelina's killer he was hunting anymore. It was something far more dangerous.
He gripped the hilt of his sword, his knuckles white.
His breath, when it came, was smoke.