The courtyard was dead quiet. Not a silence that merely settled, but one that pressed down, heavy and final, like a tomb lid. Arin stood in the middle of it, wrists still bound, blood crusted in the creases of her knuckles. The courtier's voice, cold and precise, still echoed in her ears. "You will be blinded." Surgical words, like a knife to the eye.
She didn't flinch. Not for them, not for anyone in this gilded cage. They wanted silence. They craved obedience.
Arin gave them neither.
The guards shifted, moving toward her. Their steps were stiff, cautious now. She felt their hesitation in every movement, a ripple of uncertainty. Good. Let them hesitate. Let them wonder what she'd do next.
The burly one she'd cut earlier stayed back, hand pressed to his bandaged side. His face was twisted with a pain he tried, unsuccessfully, to hide. Another guard took his place, a younger one. His eyes were wide, too green to be walking a girl like her into a place like this.
He reached out, his hand closing on her arm. His grip was tentative, unsure.
"Touch me like that again," she said, her voice a low murmur. It was sharp as broken glass, a promise rather than a threat. "And I'll bite your fingers clean off."
He scoffed, a quick, nervous bark of a laugh. "Easy there, commoner. Just following orders."
Then she moved. Fast—before he could even blink, before his nervous chuckle died. Her chained hands, still linked, slammed down onto his forearm, hard enough to make bone cry. The sound that followed was awful, a wet, crunching pop that echoed in the heavy silence. His scream ripped through the air, high and shrill. He stumbled back, two of his fingers dangling at grotesque angles.
Arin smiled, a feral, unsettling curve of her lips. Her teeth, she knew, were still stained red. Her eyes, wide and wild, burned with the first real rush of control she'd felt in days. "Told you," she drawled, her voice laced with chilling satisfaction.
The other guards stared, momentarily frozen, their faces pale. The captain's hand instinctively went to his sword hilt, but he didn't draw the blade. Orders, probably. Always orders.
"Keep moving," the captain growled, his voice rougher now, stripped of its earlier arrogance. He didn't touch her. He didn't even step closer, maintaining a wary distance. "Try that again, girl, and it won't be just your eyes. We'll take your tongue next."
That hit harder than it should've, a cold spear thrust. Her tongue—her voice—was her edge. It was her blade, her shield, the only thing she truly had that made people hesitate. It was her identity.
She didn't respond, just glared, her eyes daring him to continue. She would not, could not, let them see the way that threat had landed. It was a vulnerability she couldn't afford.
"Fine," she muttered, lifting her chin, forcing a careless shrug. "But if I'm to be His Highness's pet, dragged into his den, I deserve to know which royal freak I'm being fed to." Her voice dripped with contempt, but her mind raced, calculating. "Is it the Mad Twin, with his penchant for torture? Or the golden favorite with the poisoned smile and pretty words?"
Every name she dropped was a gamble, a test. She watched for a flinch, a tell. A flicker of recognition. Anything that might give away where they were taking her, or who she'd be standing before.
The captain didn't react, not outwardly. But his jaw clenched, a muscle jumping at the corner of his mouth. A tic. She saw it.
"You'll know when he wants you to know," he said through gritted teeth, his gaze fixed straight ahead. "Until then, shut your mouth."
"That's a lot of mystery for a common prisoner," she countered, walking now, only because it was the smart move, not an act of obedience. Her feet were raw, aching with each step on the smooth, black stone. "Is he ashamed to be seen with me? Or is this his idea of courtship? Kidnap, threaten, then drag me through smoke and ash like a goat to market?"
The younger guard whimpered behind her, still clutching his mangled hand, his face a mask of pain. "She's dangerous, Captain. She's insane."
The captain spared him a brief, weary glance. "And that's exactly why he wants her," he muttered, his voice low, almost to himself.
That shut them all up, even Arin. A chill ran down her spine. 'He wants me because I'm dangerous.' The thought was both unsettling and thrilling.
Arin didn't speak again—not because she obeyed, but because she was watching. Listening. Every corridor they passed was lined with grim murals: dragons coiling around kings, their fangs bared. Gold-threaded tapestries depicted burning cities, flames licking at the edges of royal banners. Swords were held aloft like scepters, and blood, disturbingly, was turned into prophecy.
This place reeked of history, of ancient power. It smelled of the kind of cruelty that didn't scream, but whispered. The kind that smiled, kissed you on the cheek, and then, with practiced ease, slit your throat.
The deeper they walked, the warmer the air became. The scent of sulfur grew thicker, almost sticky in her throat, cloying and heavy. Ash, fine and grey, floated down like macabre snow in the darker corners, settling on the stone. The very stone itself radiated heat, a constant, oppressive warmth. It felt like they were walking inside a giant, ornate furnace, dressed in silk and carved from shadow.
And then—the doors.
They were impossibly tall, black as night, carved with intricate serpents made of gleaming gold. No windows marred their surface. No light from the outside dared to penetrate them. Two guards stood on either side, faceless behind their helms, unmoving as stone sentinels.
The doors opened with a soft, internal hiss, revealing nothing but deeper shadow.
And Arin stepped into the lion's den.
The first thing she noticed wasn't the prince. It was the heat, a stifling wave that wrapped around her, hot and humid like a summer storm. And the scent—spiced wine, rich and heavy, mingled with human sweat, something musky and dark like crushed earth, and the undeniable tang of fire. The room was vast and too dim, lit by the flickering amber glow of braziers. Velvet tapestries, heavy and dark, swayed gently as if the very air in the room breathed with some hidden force.
To her right, a girl lounged on a low chaise, half-dressed in red silk. Her skin gleamed with a sheen of sweat, her dark hair artfully disheveled. She adjusted her bodice with slow, languid fingers, her movements deliberate, almost performative. She laughed, a breathless, soft sound, like she didn't care who watched, didn't care who heard.
She was still glowing from… whatever had just happened, a sensual haze clinging to her.
And then Arin saw him.
Seated on a throne that looked as if it had been carved directly from the bones of dragons, was Prince Caldan Kaerythene.
He didn't need to speak. He didn't need to move. He just sat there, one long leg casually draped over the other, an elbow resting on the armrest. His fingers idly turned a black-ringed gemstone, a polished onyx that caught and twisted the dim light into dark secrets. His silver hair gleamed like moonlight on a freshly honed blade. His eyes—gold, like molten metal—locked onto hers the very moment she entered.
It was the lazy predator's gaze. Arin had seen it before, in wild dogs just before they lunged, in the eyes of desperate men before they took what they wanted.
"Is this the rat they dragged out of the haystack?" His voice was soft, dangerously so. Not mocking, exactly, but cruel in a different, more detached way. Bored, maybe. Or perhaps, expertly pretending to be.
The guard behind her, the captain, stepped forward, trying to reclaim some shred of dignity. "She bit me, Your Highness," he said, his voice a strained grunt. He lifted his bandaged hand like a child showing off a scraped knee, then gestured vaguely at his thigh. "Stabbed my thigh back at the pens, too."
Caldan didn't even glance at him, his golden eyes still fixed on Arin. He dismissed the man with a flick of his wrist.
"Out," he said, the single word a quiet command.
"But—Your Highness, the prisoner is—"
"Out." The word was sharper this time, a cold edge.
The guards didn't argue. They turned and exited, the heavy doors slamming shut behind them with a resonant thud.
The silk-draped girl on the chaise giggled again, a low, slow, knowing sound. She slipped gracefully behind a shimmering velvet curtain, but not before throwing Arin a look that was part invitation, part stark warning. A curl of smoke and heavy perfume lingered for a second, then was gone.
And now… it was just them.
Caldan stood, slow and unhurried. His movements were fluid, like mercury. His presence seemed to fill the vast room, radiating power. Every step he took was quiet, calculated, like a man used to having all the time in the world, a man who controlled it. Arin held her ground, her stance defiant, but every instinct screamed that she was standing too close to something that killed for sport, something that enjoyed the hunt.
He circled her, his steps soft on the thick rugs. He moved with an unnerving grace, his golden eyes sweeping over her. It felt as though he was measuring her bones, weighing her worth, assessing her capabilities.
"You're not what I expected," he murmured from behind her, his voice a low rumble.
She didn't turn, wouldn't give him that satisfaction. "Then lower your expectations, Your Highness."
He chuckled. Actually chuckled. It rolled out of him like a slow, amused fog, deep and rich, but utterly devoid of warmth or friendliness. "Oh, I assure you, my expectations were already quite low." He paused, then added, "You were brought here for a reason, commoner."
"If it's to warm your bed," Arin snapped, her voice sharp as ice, "you picked the wrong girl. Ask the velvet one. I bite. Harder than I stab."
He stepped into view then, his silver hair catching the amber light, his golden eyes gleaming with an unreadable amusement. The prince of ash and fire. The dragon-blooded. No crown adorned his head, but he wore his power like a second skin, a tangible aura.
"So I've heard," he said, his gaze dropping to her still-clenched, blood-stained fists.
There was no shame in him. No pretense of nobility or civility. He didn't hide what he was, or what this place truly was: a den of ancient power and ruthless ambition. That, somehow, made it worse.
He studied her again, his gaze not leering, but sharper. Curious. Like he was attempting to read her mind through her very bones, to dissect her spirit. He stopped directly in front of her.
"Kneel," he said. Just like that. A single word, soft. Not loud. Not overtly threatening. Just... absolute. A command that brooked no argument.
Arin didn't move. She couldn't. Every fiber of her being rebelled.
"No," she stated, her voice steady, unwavering.
Silence stretched between them, taut as a bowstring.
He tilted his head slightly, a subtle gesture. As if surprised. Or, perhaps, pleased by her defiance. "I wasn't asking."
"And I'm not yours," she retorted, meeting his golden gaze head-on. She wouldn't break, wouldn't bend.
A pause. A subtle shift in the air, in the very quality of the oppressive heat. Something in his eyes changed—darkened, deepened. That molten gold flickered, like a candle caught in a sudden, dangerous gust of wind, threatening to consume everything.
Then, he smiled.
A slow, wolfish baring of teeth. No warmth. No mercy. Just the promise of a hunter.
"Not yet,"