The heavy oak door swung inward with a low groan. Arin stepped into Caldan's private chambers, realizing immediately that this was more his training chamber than his personal room, which she had seen before. The air inside was thick, clinging to her skin with the scent of old leather, parchment, and something sharp, like a freshly honed blade.
Her gaze swept across the room. It was sparse, practical, not at all what she'd expected of a prince's dwelling. No gilded tapestries, no frivolous ornaments. Just dark wood, a massive writing desk piled with maps and scrolls, and a training dummy scarred with countless cuts.
Then she saw him.
Caldan stood by the open window, letting the cool night air ripple through the room. His back was to her, but the movement of his shoulders, broad and powerful, caught her eye. He wore no tunic. His back, a canvas of hard muscle and sinew, rippled under a faint sheen of sweat.
She froze. Her breath hitched.
Scars crisscrossed his skin, thin silver lines against sun-kissed bronze. Marks of a life fought, not inherited. It wasn't the pristine, untouched flesh of the nobles in the garden. This was raw. Real.
He turned then, slowly, as if sensing her presence. His hair, a shock of pure silver, fell across his forehead. His eyes, dark as midnight and sharp as obsidian, met hers.
Arin's mind, usually a whirlwind of quick thoughts and sharper retorts, went utterly blank. Her tongue felt like sand. He was… devastating. Effortlessly so. More like a wild thing forged in fire than a pampered prince.
"You're staring, commoner," Caldan's voice cut through the silence, a low, dry rasp. A smirk, slow and dangerous, curved his lips. He lifted a hand, snapping his fingers once, sharply, right in front of her face. "Cat got your tongue? Or are you just thirsting for a taste of royal muscle?"
Arin blinked, shaking herself out of the sudden daze. Heat rushed to her cheeks. She straightened, bristling. Thirsting? The nerve of him.
"Thirsting?" she scoffed, crossing her arms over her chest. "Please. You're hardly my type, Prince. Too much… silver hair. I prefer something a bit more, well, dark. And less… self-impressed."
Caldan threw his head back, a short, sharp bark of laughter escaping him. It was a genuine sound, unexpected, and it sent a strange tremor through Arin.
"Less self-impressed?" he repeated, his eyes glinting with amusement. "A flimsy excuse, even for you. Don't tell me a woman of your… discerning tastes… truly cares about the color of a man's hair when faced with such undeniable… talent." He gestured vaguely at his own bare chest.
Arin rolled her eyes, forcing a bored expression. "Oh, the talent is certainly… visible. Hard to miss, in fact. But like a blacksmith's anvil, Prince. Impressive, but hardly something I'd want to cuddle up to at night."
"A blacksmith's anvil?" Caldan countered, stepping closer, his amusement hardening into something else. "Careful, Arin. You might find yourself hammered into a more pliable shape."
The air crackled between them. A silent challenge. A dangerous dance.
Before either of them could utter another word, a soft knock came from the door.
"Enter," Caldan called, not taking his eyes off Arin.
Marilye, the same maid who had summoned Arin, entered, carrying a tray laden with small cakes, sliced fruit, and a steaming pot of herbal tea. Her eyes, usually downcast, flickered from Caldan's bare chest to Arin, standing so close. A hint of something unreadable – shock? Curiosity? – passed through them.
She remained silent, setting the tray carefully on a low table near the window.
"Anything else, Your Highness?" Marilye asked, her voice hushed.
Caldan finally tore his gaze from Arin. "No, Marilye. That will be all. Thank you."
"As you wish, my Prince." Marilye curtsied, her eyes darting back to Arin. She lingered for a fraction of a second at the door, her hand on the latch, before finally pulling it shut with a soft click.
Arin watched her go, a small, triumphant flicker in her chest. So, even the servants were gossiping now. Good. Let them talk.
"Right," Caldan said, turning back to Arin, the amused glint gone from his eyes, replaced by his usual intensity. "Now that we've established your dubious taste in men, let's get to work." He walked to the desk, picking up a slim, wickedly sharp ceremonial dagger. "The fake assassination."
Arin's stomach rumbled, betraying her. She hadn't eaten since midday. The tension with Roen, the shock of Auren's injury, had stolen her appetite, but now, a dull ache gnawed at her.
"Can we… perhaps eat first?" Arin asked, eyeing the cakes on the tray. "My stomach is threatening to stage its own rebellion, and I find it hard to focus on killing people when I'm this hungry."
Caldan raised a brow, a hint of his earlier amusement returning. "A true pragmatist, then. Even when discussing murder." He picked up a sweet cake and tossed it to her. Arin caught it with surprising dexterity.
She bit into it, the taste of honey and spiced berries a welcome distraction. She tried to appear nonchalant, but the cold dread of the coming duel with Roen still clung to her. She must appear calm. She hadn't told Caldan about it. Not yet. He didn't need another distraction.
Caldan watched her, his molten gold eyes unnervingly perceptive. He didn't miss much.
"You're agitated," he stated, not a question. He leaned back against his desk, the dagger gleaming in his hand. "Beyond your usual… charming defiance. What happened?"
Arin almost choked on her cake. He'd noticed. Of course he had. Her heart pounded, a frantic drum against her ribs. She had to lie. Or deflect.
"Agitated?" Arin forced a light, teasing tone. "Me? Never, Prince. Perhaps you're merely projecting your own inner turmoil onto your perfectly calm… and starving… commoner. Did the priests not give you enough gloom and doom in the pits?"
Caldan's eyes narrowed, a muscle ticking in his jaw. "Don't play games, Arin. I'm not in the mood. You're usually a coiled spring. Tonight, you're… buzzing. What crawled under your skin?"
"Nothing crawled, Prince," Arin lied, trying to sound bored. She took another bite of cake. "Perhaps your imagination is simply running wild from lack of proper sleep. Or too much time spent staring at stone dragons."
He pushed off the desk, a sudden, swift movement that made her jump. He was in front of her in two strides. His hand shot out, not touching her, but snapping his fingers again, closer this time, just inches from her nose.
"You're a terrible liar, Arin," Caldan murmured, his voice low and dangerous. "Your eyes flicker. Your left hand clenches. And you usually talk less when you're hiding something important. Try again. What. Happened."
Arin stared at him, caught. She could try to spin a tale, but he'd see through it. He always did. And she didn't want to explain Roen. Not yet. Not when she had to face it herself.
"Nothing happened, Prince," she insisted, her voice tighter now, betraying her. "Just… the usual palace charm. It's infectious, you know. All these whispering shadows. Makes a girl paranoid."
Caldan sighed, a sound of exasperation. "Fine. Keep your secrets. For now." He extended the dagger towards her, hilt first. "Here. Your weapon."
Arin took it. It was heavier than it looked, perfectly balanced. The blade was obsidian, sharp enough to shave a hair. The weight of it felt strangely right in her hand.
"The plan," Caldan began, his voice dropping to a low, intense rumble. "You will approach the target. You'll be disguised, of course. A servant, perhaps. You'll be carrying something, a tray, a scroll, something innocuous. Then, when your moment comes…"
He moved, circling her slowly, his eyes never leaving hers. He was like a predator, coiled and ready.
"You strike here," he said, his finger hovering over her own ribcage, just below her heart. "A quick, precise thrust. Not too deep, but convincing. The illusion must be flawless."
Arin nodded, clutching the dagger. Her mind, despite the gnawing worry about dawn, focused. This was what she was good at. Deception. Precision.
"Show me," Caldan ordered. He stood still, shirtless, his chest a target. "Pretend I am the target. Come at me."
Arin hesitated. The blade felt real. Too real. The proximity of his bare skin, the faint scent of sulfur and sweat, was distracting. And the way his eyes seemed to pierce right through her.
She lifted the dagger, aiming for the spot he indicated. She moved, a fluid, practiced motion, honed by years of quick hands and faster wits. Her hand shot out, the blade gleaming. She stopped it an inch from his flesh.
"Good," Caldan murmured, his gaze intense. "But too hesitant. You could kill me right now, Arin. With that very blade."
A dark, dangerous thought whispered through Arin's mind. Could I? The power in her hand was intoxicating. This man, who had dragged her into his deadly games, stood before her, vulnerable.
"I'm thinking about it," Arin said, her voice dry, her eyes locked with his. The corner of her lips twitched into a crooked smile. "Very, very tempting, Prince. To turn the tables."
Caldan's own lips curved, a challenging, almost predatory smile. And then, in a blink, he moved. Faster than she could react. He spun, his hand closing over her wrist, twisting the dagger. He maneuvered, pressing her back against the cool stone wall. The obsidian blade, still in her grip, was no longer pointed at him. It was pressed to her own throat.
He leaned in, his bare chest against hers, the warmth of his skin seeping through her thin tunic. His breath, smelling faintly of the Crucible Pits, whispered against her ear.
"You're not a servant, Arin," Caldan murmured, his voice a low growl that vibrated through her bones. His eyes, dark and fathomless, bore into hers. He wasn't pressing the blade. Just holding it there, a silent, deadly promise. "You're bait."
Arin's breath hitched. Her heart pounded a frantic rhythm against her ribs. "Bait?" she whispered, the word barely escaping her throat. "What does that mean?"