She lifted an eyebrow, a crooked half-smile tugging at her bruised lips despite the ache that ran deep through her bones. Her voice came out raw, scraped thin from the night before—a night of screaming silently into stone, of tearing herself bloody against wood and imagined restraints. But the spark in her chest? Still alive. Still flaring. 'Always flaring. He thought I'd break. Thought I'd splinter like the chair. He doesn't understand—I was born in splinters.'
"He shouldn't have locked a wolf in a rabbit's hutch, then, should he, Maeve?" Arin challenged, her voice rasping.
Maeve stood in the doorway like she was part of the very stone—unmoved, unimpressed, and absolutely not in the mood for Arin's defiance. She crossed her arms with the kind of weary authority only the truly exhausted possessed. Her gaze swept slowly over the wreckage, from the snapped-off chair leg to the ripped cot and the bloodied linen, a silent testament to Arin's rage.
Arin swore the older woman rolled her very soul, not just her eyes, at the sight.
"Clever words," Maeve muttered, her voice flat, "won't un-splinter this furniture, you little menace." She sounded tired, beyond caring.
Arin shrugged, and gods, even that small movement sent a jolt of pain through her. Every muscle complained, a dull throb in her shoulders and ribs, but she fed on the pain like fuel. 'Good. Let it ache. Let it remind me I'm still standing. Still fighting.'
"Maybe don't furnish prison rooms with breakables next time," she countered, a ghost of a smirk touching her lips.
Maeve gave her a look that should have been patented, a perfect blend of exasperation and warning. "Next time I'm suggesting chains and straw. Less chance of creative interior design."
There was a pause, long enough to carry its own heavy weight. Arin met Maeve's gaze, a silent battle of wills.
Then, sighing with the force of someone who'd lived too many mornings like this, Maeve jerked her chin toward the corridor. "Come on. His Highness has decreed you be… cleaned." Her voice was as dry as dead parchment. "And fed. Before you rip the palace apart stone by stone, piece by piece."
The bath chamber might as well have been another continent, so different it was from the dungeon. Steam curled around carved columns, warm and scented with lavender, juniper, and something sharper beneath—probably something rare and expensive meant to soften the skin and calm the nerves. 'Too bad it won't do a damn thing for mine. My nerves are fine, it's the rest of the world that's wrong.'
The servants moved like ghosts around them, barely breathing, their eyes never lifting from their tasks. The contrast was stark: Arin, barefoot, bruised, wrapped in nothing but spite and a thin linen shift—and them, silent and polished, utterly part of the palace machine.
She stood there, tense, watching the massive, ornate tub like it might bite her. Trust didn't come easy, it never had. Especially not here, in a place steeped in lies and hidden dangers.
Maeve snapped her fingers toward the bath, her patience clearly wearing thin. "Don't make this harder than it already is, girl. Get in. Now."
Arin didn't budge, her defiance a stubborn wall. "Why? So he can watch me drown in perfume instead of blood? Is that the new royal sport?"
Maeve didn't so much as blink. She just rolled her eyes with the practiced ease of a queen entertaining a tiresome court jester. "The prince isn't watching, you dramatic fool. He doesn't need to. He just wants you… presentable. Not a feral beast."
Arin's gaze flicked back to the tub, the water swirling with petals and glistening oil. It looked soft. Too soft. Like a trap wrapped in silk and scented steam. 'Another one of his games. Another way to control.'
"So he can parade me around like a tamed beast?" she asked quietly, her voice laced with suspicion. "Another curiosity for his court?"
Maeve turned to grab a sponge roughly the size of a fist and gave her a sharp, sideways glance. "Fine. If you'd rather be thrown in like a sack of turnips, still bruised and smelling of stone, I'll happily oblige. Your choice, commoner."
'Turnips. That's what I am here. Another thing to peel, scrub, prepare for consumption. A thing. A function. Not a person.' Still scowling, Arin slid into the steaming water, slow and braced for the pain she knew was coming. The heat nearly stole the breath from her lungs. Everything burned—her legs, her ribs, even her scalp—but she bit her tongue and refused to flinch, refusing to give Maeve the satisfaction.
"Gods," she hissed under her breath, gripping the tub's polished edge. "Are you boiling me alive, old woman?"
Maeve dipped the sponge and attacked her shoulder with it, scrubbing hard enough to flay her. "You'd deserve it, after last night's spectacle."
"Ow—Maeve! My skin is still attached, unlike his furniture!" Arin protested, squirming.
"You destroyed a perfectly fine room, you little demon." Maeve seemed determined to scrub off Arin's very skin.
"It wasn't fine," Arin retorted, wincing. "It was a box with one chair and enough air to breathe on alternate hours. I improved it."
"And now I have to replace the bloody thing," Maeve grumbled, scrubbing harder, her irritation clear. "Do you know how hard it is to find decent carpenters in Drakoryth who aren't already neck-deep rebuilding the King's collapsing west wing?"
Arin winced again, gritting her teeth as the sponge scraped over her tender ribs. "I'm sure your noble suffering is noted in the royal annals, Maeve. A true tragedy."
Maeve didn't dignify that with a reply. She just dunked the sponge again with a splash that may or may not have been intentional, showering Arin's face with water.
"You really don't like me, do you?" Arin muttered, looking up at her.
Maeve snorted. "I don't like fire near dry wood, girl. And you're pure wildfire." 'And yet you keep standing close. Brave or stupid? Jury's still out.'
"Is that a metaphor or a warning, Maeve?" Arin asked, her gaze steady.
"It's a prayer," Maeve said, wringing out the sponge with a final, decisive twist. "That you don't explode again before I've had my morning tea. Or before Caldan does something truly drastic."
---
By the time they finished, Arin was wrapped in a clean black tunic and matching breeches—plain, practical, and still too soft against her sensitive skin. Her numerous scrapes and wounds were expertly bandaged, her dark chestnut hair was brushed until it gleamed, then braided into a tight, crown-like twist. 'A crown on a girl they tried to cage. Cute. Like a little jewel they can display.'
The guard who met them outside the bath chamber was older, heavier, with tired eyes, and didn't say a single word as he led her deeper through the palace. Each hallway grew darker, the air cooler, each corridor more echoing than the last, a labyrinth of stone and secrets.
The air began to change noticeably—colder, sharper, laced with the potent scent of old ash and something… older. Something profound. 'Not rot. Not death. This is different. This is judgment. Ancient judgment.'
She knew the feeling, that unsettling prickle. The one that crawled up your spine when you were about to step into something truly monumental, something that didn't care whether you came back out.
The cavern they entered was massive—a cathedral of bone and silence carved deep into the very heart of the rock. Light pulsed from nowhere and everywhere, an ethereal glow. The stone beneath her feet thrummed faintly, like a distant, powerful heartbeat. The air vibrated with an unseen energy.
The flame-priests stood in a wide, reverent circle around the central pit, chanting in a deep, guttural tongue she didn't recognize, all blindfolded in bands of intricate silver.
And at the very center of it all—Caldan.
He stood like he'd always belonged there, perfectly still. His silver hair gleamed in the strange light, his long black coat trailing around him like smoke. His profile, even from this distance, was cut from pure ice, sharp and unyielding.
He didn't turn. Didn't even look her way. 'Of course not. Because what's one more girl, one more pawn, when you're the storm that calls gods? He always has to be the center.'
"You rotten bastard!" The words tore from Arin's throat, raw and uncontrolled.
The echo cracked like thunder through the cavern. Several flame-priests faltered in their chanting, heads snapping towards her.
Caldan turned, finally. His gaze swept over her like cold water. Cold. Weightless. Dismissive, as if she were a minor annoyance.
"Such language, Arin," he said, his voice dangerously smooth. "Do you speak to all princes this way? Is this your commoner charm?"
"Only the ones who lock me in a cell like an animal after demanding I fake their death," she spat back, refusing to be intimidated. "What was that? A test? A punishment? Or a way to remind me who holds the leash, Caldan?"
"You disobeyed," he stated simply, his voice firm. "You jeopardized my plans."
"I saved someone! Someone your brother was torturing!"
"You endangered more than you understand," Caldan countered, stepping closer, his presence expanding, dominating. "You endangered the entire operation."
"And you threw me into a cold stone room like that makes it better?" she challenged, her voice rising.
He stepped closer still, until he towered over her. His voice didn't rise—it didn't need to; it simply became colder, more cutting. "You are not yet trained, Arin. You are not yet safe enough to be let loose in this viper pit."
"I'm not your blade," she said, her voice low and tight, filled with fierce resistance. "And I'm not your dog, to be chained and unleashed at your whim."
He paused, his eyes flicking over her, assessing, like he was reassessing something profoundly important about her. "No," he agreed, a strange, almost curious note in his voice. "You are a storm. And I needed to see where the lightning would strike, little thundercloud." 'Strike this, she thought viciously. Strike him dead. But then—'
The ground moved.
A deep rumble, low and slow, rolled through the ancient stone beneath their feet. The entire cavern trembled.
The flame-priests froze, their bodies rigid with sudden fear. Their chants, which had risen with her outburst, now rose again, suddenly frantic, desperate. The pulsating light in the chamber turned from amber gold to a sickly, ominous red, then blinding white.
Caldan didn't look away from her, his gaze unwavering, even as the cavern shook.
"Silence," he commanded, his voice ringing through the cavern, echoing off the bone-carved walls. And the frantic chanting died instantly, like a snuffed flame, leaving an eerie, profound silence.
He tilted his head, listening to the deep vibrations. "That," he said, his voice barely a whisper, yet resonating with immense power, "is the heartbeat of Vaelrix. And he is listening. He hears every word you speak to his rider, Arin. If you still value being alive, you should shut the hell up."
Arin didn't move. Couldn't. She was paralyzed, not by fear, but by the sheer, overwhelming presence that was awakening below them.
Something shifted in the pit—something enormous, ancient. Not just a creature, not just a presence. This was judgment.
Cold and impersonal and ancient. It swept over her like a crushing tide, peeling away everything she was. Her thoughts. Her memories. Her fear. Her name. Everything that made her Arin.
She couldn't breathe, air stolen from her lungs by the sheer weight of it. She fell to her knees, her hands scraping against the rough stone floor, her vision swimming. 'He sees me. Every lie. Every theft. Every desperate scramble for survival. Every reason I should not be standing in this sacred, terrible place. And still—'
Caldan's hand gripped her arm, his touch steady, strong, anchoring her in the rising chaos. "What?" he demanded, his eyes sharpened on her face.
"He remembers," she whispered, her voice barely a breath, a terrified realization. "He remembers my mother."
And then the closest priest screamed, a gurgling, horrible sound. Blood streamed from beneath his silver blindfold as he dropped, lifeless, to the ground.
From the gaping pit, the heavy chains began to rattle, a deafening clang of ancient metal against stone.
A sound rose from the depths—not rage. Not threat.
Awakening.
And far, far below them, something enormous, truly massive, moved.
Vaelrix was waking.