The dagger bit deep into flesh before the man even realized she was there. Not a killing blow—Arin was too precise for that—but enough to make him feel it. The cold blade slashed through the soft inside of Roen's thigh, fast and cruel.
He screamed, a high, strangled sound. Not just in pain, but absolute outrage, a nobleman's shock. "Gods—what the—!?"
Arin didn't linger. She didn't wait for him to lunge or roar or call for his guards. She was already beside the servant girl, her knife sawing frantically through the bloodstained ropes that bound the girl's wrists to the iron hook.
"Go!" Arin hissed, grabbing the girl's arm and yanking her free with a desperate tug. "Run. Don't stop, don't ask questions. Just go."
The girl blinked, disoriented, her face pale from shock, blood loss, and sheer terror. "W-what—who—?" she stammered, her voice a thin thread.
"I said run!" Arin shoved her hard toward the dark alcove she'd crept from. The girl staggered, eyes wide with a dawning understanding, then scrambled into the shadows. Her terrified sobs faded quickly into the vast silence of the palace.
Roen stumbled back, hands pressed to his bleeding leg, his princely face twisted with fury and disbelief. "You bitch," he snarled, glaring at Arin. "Do you have any idea who I am? Who I am in this court?"
"Oh, I do," Arin said calmly, her dagger still held loosely in her hand, ready to strike again. "You're the type who thinks rank excuses rot. And I'm the type who puts rot in the ground."
"You'll hang for this. My brother will see you flayed alive, screaming for mercy!" His voice was a guttural snarl of pure rage.
"I'm counting on it, Prince," she spat back, already turning, her heart hammering a frantic rhythm against her ribs. She could hear bootsteps now, heavy and purposeful. Guards crashing through the distant corridor like a tide of iron, closing in. Her time was up.
She darted back into the passage, vanishing into the sudden dark like smoke, leaving him bleeding on the cold stone floor.
---
She didn't stop running until her lungs burned with exertion and the secret tunnels finally fell silent behind her. She pushed herself, deeper into the palace's hidden veins.
Her blood still sang from the adrenaline, a wild, vibrant hum, but her hands shook with the aftermath. She'd done it. She'd attacked a prince of the royal blood. Whatever Caldan was planning, whatever intricate power games he was playing, she'd just shattered the board with a single, impulsive move.
And still—she didn't regret it. Not for a single, blazing second.
Because that girl, that terrified, broken girl, would have died. Or worse. Far, far worse.
And if stopping that evil cost her everything, if it meant her own end, then so be it. She would burn, but she would burn knowing she had done what was right.
---
By nightfall, the palace was buzzing. Whispers like a plague, undoubtedly. Arin stood in Caldan's chambers once more, waiting. The air was thick with unspoken tension.
She didn't pace. Didn't twitch. She stood still as stone in the center of the room, dagger at her hip, chin tilted just enough to defy the oppressive silence, to defy the unseen prince.
Then—crack.
The heavy door flung open so hard it slammed against the stone wall with a bone-jarring impact.
Caldan strode in, and he wasn't masked this time. The mask of sardonic calm he usually wore, that aloof indifference, was gone. Fury radiated off him like palpable heat, a dangerous aura. His fine coat hung open, his silver hair disheveled, golden eyes burning with unbridled rage.
"What," he said, his voice low and shaking with barely restrained anger, "in the hells have you done, girl?"
Arin didn't flinch. She met his furious gaze head-on. "Saved a girl's life, Prince. You're welcome."
"You attacked my brother! In the middle of my palace. Do you understand what you've done? The political ramifications? The sheer audacity?" His words were clipped, furious.
"Oh, I understand perfectly, Caldan," she snapped, her own temper flaring. "He was whipping her. For refusing his bed. Do you understand that part?"
His fists clenched at his sides, knuckles white, and for a second, he didn't speak. Just breathed, deep and ragged, like he was trying to rein in something wild and dangerous inside himself. He was fighting his own fury.
"You were told to wait," he ground out, each word carefully articulated. "Told to stay out of sight. You disobeyed a direct order."
"I did wait," she shot back, her voice laced with challenge. "And then I saw him stringing up a girl like she was a goat in a slaughterhouse, and I made a choice. The only choice."
"You made a mess, Arin," he countered, his voice dripping with frustration. "A very, very large mess."
Arin stepped toward him, her voice rising, shaking with conviction. "And you think I care? You think any part of me gives a damn about your grand plans if they mean I have to stand by and watch that? Then you picked the wrong girl, Prince. You picked me."
He slammed his hand down on the edge of the nearest table—hard enough that one of the silver goblets toppled and rolled with a clatter. His controlled anger was fraying.
"You do not make decisions like that without me," he snarled, his voice a low growl. "You don't get to run around spilling royal blood just because you feel like playing the hero. This is a palace, Arin, not a back alley brawl!"
"Then maybe the palace needs a little back-alley justice," she spat, meeting his fury with her own. "Because your brother? He doesn't need a crown, Caldan. He needs a leash, and a good kick."
His eyes flashed, a dangerous golden fire. "Do not speak of my family like you understand them. Like you have a right to judge them."
"I understand cruelty when I see it," Arin said, her voice firm. "And I don't need your permission to stop it. Noble or common, cruelty is still cruelty."
"You want to survive in this place, Arin?" Caldan said, his voice suddenly quiet, too quiet, laced with a chilling warning. "Then learn when to strike. Because what you did tonight was not strategy—it was chaos. Uncontrolled chaos."
"What I did tonight," she said, her voice shaking with fury, refusing to back down, "was right."
The silence that followed was thick enough to choke on, heavy and suffocating.
Then Caldan stepped forward, slow and deliberate, until they were barely a breath apart, his presence dominating her.
"You think you're the first firebrand I've tried to sharpen?" he asked, his voice like frost, cutting through her anger. "You think your fury makes you special? It makes you reckless. You could've ruined everything."
"And maybe everything deserves to be ruined, Caldan," she hissed, her eyes blazing into his.
A beat passed. The air crackled between them.
Then Caldan smiled. But it wasn't the usual amused, aloof smirk he wore. It was cold. Razor-sharp. Almost… sad. A truly chilling expression.
"I already did," he murmured, his voice a low, dark confession. "The last girl who defied my brother? The last one who refused him too? She ended up at the bottom of the Heartspire, her bones shattered, her name erased from all records. She burned for her defiance, Arin."
Arin's breath hitched. Just for a second. The image of shattered bones, a nameless grave, flashed through her mind.
Then—she pushed it away, defiance resurging. "You'll have to do better than ghost stories to scare me, Prince."
He moved. Fast. Too fast.
One hand caught her wrist, wrenching the dagger from her fingers with shocking force. The other swept her off her feet in one brutal, efficient motion.
She shrieked, caught completely off guard, kicking wildly as she was hoisted. "Put me down! You arrogant bastard!"
He slung her over his shoulder like she weighed nothing, her silk dress rustling around them. She pounded her fists against his back, clawed at his neck, furious and undignified. "You think this makes you powerful, Caldan? This brute force?"
"No," he said calmly, ignoring her blows, his voice unwavering. "But it makes me in control. And that's what matters."
"Let go of me!" she demanded, twisting furiously.
"You want freedom?" he said, stepping into the hall, ignoring the bewildered glances of passing guards. "Earn it."
---
He threw her into a cold stone room. Small, dark, the air damp and smelling of old stone. A barred window, high and narrow, too high to reach, let in only a sliver of distant moonlight. A prison in everything but name.
She hit the rough cot with a grunt, the wind momentarily knocked from her lungs, landing hard.
"You'll stay here," Caldan said, already halfway out the door, his form a dark silhouette against the hall light. "Until you decide whether you're a knife worth wielding—or just another spark I'll watch burn out."
Arin sat up, her hair wild, eyes blazing with untamed fury.
"I obey no one!" she screamed after him, her voice raw. "Least of all you, Caldan Kaerythene!"
He didn't answer. Just shut the heavy, iron-bound door.
Click.
The chilling sound of the lock turning echoed in the small, dark space.
And the fury exploded out of her.
---
She tore the room apart.
Ripped the flimsy cot to shreds with her bare hands, the coarse fabric shredding, splinters piercing her skin. She didn't care about the pain. She smashed the single, rickety chair against the stone wall until it cracked, until the wood crunched like breaking bones beneath her desperate blows. Until her arms trembled from the sheer effort and her muscles screamed.
She threw the broken chair leg across the room with a grunt. It hit the far wall with a dull thud and bounced.
Still, she raged. Clawed at the unforgiving stone walls until her fingernails tore and bled, until her fingertips were raw and aching. She kicked the rusted base of the bed with bruising force. Punched the unyielding wall, again and again.
How dare he. How dare he lock her up like some spoiled girl who threw a tantrum. She had saved someone. She had done the right thing. And still, to him, it wasn't enough. She wasn't enough.
A broken sob tore out of her chest, ragged and angry. She shoved it back down, swallowed it, refusing to let it take hold.
No tears. No weakness. Not for him. Not for anyone.
When dawn finally bled through the high, barred window, painting the stone walls with a pale, cold light, her hands were raw and bleeding, her arms aching with a deep, bone-weary exhaustion. Her beautiful silk clothes were torn and stained. She stood in the wreckage like a storm that had just passed through, leaving destruction in its wake.
She was still breathing.
Still furious.
Still standing.
---
The heavy door creaked open, breaking the tense silence.
Maeve stepped inside, her sharp eyes immediately scanning the incredible damage. She sucked in a sharp breath, her usual impassive expression cracking.
"By the gods, girl," she muttered, stepping carefully over the broken chair leg and shards of wood. "What in the seven hells did you do to this room? It looks like a dragon fought a griffin in here."
Arin turned slowly, blood on her knuckles, hair tangled around her face, her eyes blazing like wildfire in the dim light. Her entire body screamed defiance.
Maeve's mouth flattened into a thin, grim line, her gaze steady on Arin's ravaged form. "The Prince will surely have your head for this, Arin."