Caldan's eyes, molten gold now, held hers. He didn't answer. Not with words. Instead, his thumb, rough and warm, brushed the side of her neck, just beneath where the dagger pressed. The subtle pressure was a warning, a promise, and something else entirely. Something that made her insides clench.
Then, with a suddenness that made her heart leap, he released her. The dagger, still in her hand, felt suddenly heavy. He turned, quietly, effortlessly, and walked towards the flickering hearth, leaving her pressed against the cold stone, the echo of his voice still hot against her ear.
He didn't dismiss her. He didn't command her to stay. He simply… moved. Like a silent predator, watching. And Arin, caught in the strange tension of his presence, lingered. Her gaze, despite herself, drifted to his bare back, the scars a testament to battles she couldn't fathom. She traced the line of his spine with her eyes, a dangerous curiosity pulling her in.
He picked up a poker, stirring the embers in the hearth. The firelight danced across his skin, highlighting the hard planes of his shoulders, the lean curve of his waist. He was a force, raw and untamed, utterly unlike the polished, perfumed nobles of the court. And he was watching her, too. She felt the weight of his gaze, a silent acknowledgment of her presence, of the charged air between them.
Her eyes flickered to his face, half-shadowed by the firelight. The stern line of his jaw, the dark intensity of his gaze. She knew what she was here for. A pawn. A tool. But he made it so hard to remember. So hard to just be a piece on his board when every instinct screamed that he saw her as something more. Something caged, perhaps, but dangerous. And worth keeping, somehow.
The silence stretched, thick with unspoken things. The crackle of the fire, the distant murmur of the palace, the frantic beat of her own heart. She should leave. She should run to her room, find some way to escape this tangled web he was weaving around her. But she couldn't. Not with him standing there, a silent challenge in the shadows.
She found herself staring at his chest again, at the faint sheen of sweat that clung to his skin, at the way his muscles flexed with every small movement. He was too close, even across the room. Too potent. It was a dangerous, intoxicating pull.
He's a prince, she reminded herself fiercely, her inner voice a sharp slap. A dragon-blooded prince who will use you and discard you. Remember your mother. Remember why you're here. This isn't a game of hearts, Arin. This is survival.
But even as the cold logic asserted itself, a deeper, more primal part of her responded to him. To his raw power, his unsettling honesty, the way he seemed to see past her commoner's rags and into the very core of her.
The minutes bled into each other, stretching out, heavy and slow. She didn't know how long they stood there, just breathing the same air, caught in that unspoken tension. It felt like an eternity, a single, drawn-out moment outside of time.
Finally, the first sliver of grey light began to creep through the high windows of the chamber. Dawn. A cold knot tightened in Arin's stomach. Roen. The duel.
She watched Caldan, waiting for some sign of dismissal, some command to leave. But he only remained by the hearth, a dark, silent silhouette against the growing light. He was a stone wall. Impossible to read.
Finally, she broke the silence. "I… I should go," she murmured, her voice a little hoarse. The words felt clumsy, inadequate.
He gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod, not turning. It was dismissal enough.
Arin turned, walking quickly to the door. She didn't look back. She couldn't. The air in that room was too heavy, too potent. She pulled the door open, slipping out into the cool, deserted corridor.
Her own room felt small, a familiar comfort after Caldan's stark, dangerous chamber. At least it was hers. A small corner of this sprawling, treacherous palace that belonged only to her. She peeled off her tunic, letting it fall in a heap on the floor. Her calloused hands, stained with ink from the stolen scrolls she'd been studying, seemed dull compared to Auren's rapidly healing skin. A faint shimmer of blood, almost imperceptible, clung to her fingertips. From his wound, she realized.
She stared at her reflection in the chipped silver mirror, her sharp grey eyes wide and shadowed. No sleep. Not now. How could she, with the memory of Caldan's voice, a low growl at her ear, the obsidian dagger cold against her throat? You're bait. What had he meant by that? She should have felt fury, disgust even, at his arrogance, his casual cruelty. But she only felt… seen. Seen in a terrible, true way. As if he had looked straight into the core of her purpose and named it.
A soft rap on her door.
Arin's breath hitched. Dawn was just breaking. It couldn't be. Her hand instinctively reached for the flimsy wrap that covered her breasts, but before she could fully don it, she thought, It's probably just a maid. Marilye, come to check on me, or bring some insipid breakfast. Reluctantly, she moved towards the door.
She pulled it open, the movement slow, heavy with a dread she couldn't name.
And there he stood. Roen.
He leaned casually against the threshold, bathed in the pale, sickly light of pre-dawn. One hand rested lazily on the hilt of his sword, the other flipped a gold coin, catching the faint light as it spun. His dark hair was impeccably groomed, his blue eyes, usually alight with arrogant mirth, were cold, piercing.
His gaze raked over her, a slow, insolent appraisal that started at her messy hair, moved down her face, and lingered, far too long, on her barely covered breasts. A shiver, not of cold, but of pure revulsion, crawled up her spine.
"Well, well," Roen purred, his voice like silk, yet sharp as a razor. The coin spun, caught, spun again. "If I didn't know better, I'd say you were just waiting for me, little commoner. In such a… welcoming state, too. If you weren't so delightfully unsuitable, I might be tempted to forget our little arrangement and make a different kind tonight." A lewd smile touched his lips. "F**k you raw, perhaps."
Arin's blood ran cold, then boiled with a rage so fierce it tasted metallic on her tongue. The sheer audacity. The casual, contemptuous cruelty. Her hands clenched into fists, nails digging into her palms. Unsuitable? She wanted to claw his eyes out.
"Don't flatter yourself, Prince," Arin bit back, her voice low, strained through gritted teeth. "I'd rather share a bed with a dung beetle than your sorry excuse for nobility."
Roen threw his head back and laughed, a loud, grating sound that shattered the quiet of the corridor. "Oh, you truly are a spirited little thing, aren't you? So much fire, for a village slut." He stepped closer, the scent of expensive perfume and something else, something cloying and unpleasant, reaching her. "You really enjoy playing with knives, don't you?"
Arin said nothing, her eyes locked on his, a silent promise of defiance.
"Remember our duel, then," he continued, his voice dropping, though the cruel mirth never left his eyes. "Dawn. The Southern Courtyard. Just you. Just me. Let's see how sharp your claws really are."
"And if I don't show?" Arin challenged, her voice a low growl.
Roen chuckled, a dismissive sound. "Oh, you'll show. I'll send someone to drag you there, kicking and screaming, if I must. Come on, Arin. Don't you need a real audience for once? To prove how truly unsuitable you are?" He tapped the flat of his sword against the doorframe, a dull, resonant thud, before turning and strolling away, whistling a jaunty, off-key tune.
Arin didn't move. Her first instinct, hot and urgent, was to run to Caldan's chambers. Tell him. He would lock her away, keep her safe. She knew he would. Like a prized relic, tucked away, protected.
But her second instinct, sharper and colder, was to not. To not tell him. Because if Caldan found out, he would intervene. He would protect her. And she didn't want protection. She wanted proof. Proof that she could fight her own battles. That she could win. That she could survive, even this.
She pulled the door shut with a soft click, pressing her back against the cool wood, her eyes fixed on the ceiling. There would be no sleep tonight. No safety.
Just Roen. Just dawn.