The cart continued its slow, grinding journey. Arin's wrists ached, the iron biting deep into her skin, but her mind was already at work. She wiggled a finger, finding a jagged edge on one of her broken nails. It was rough, sharp enough if she worked it right. She found a loose strand of wire on her torn tunic, a thin, almost invisible piece of threadbare linen that used to hold a decorative button.
Carefully, meticulously, she began to pick at the pins holding her shackles. The tiny clicks were almost inaudible over the creak of the cart and the distant wails from the ruined village. Each tiny movement sent a jolt of pain up her arm, but she ignored it, focusing on the lock. Her fingers, nimble and accustomed to delicate deception, danced over the cold metal. It was slow, tedious work.
Hours later, the rain had stopped, but the ground was still a treacherous bog. The guards called for a halt, their voices thick with exhaustion. They dismounted to stretch their legs and grab water from muddy puddles, their attention briefly diverted by the grim task of scouting the road ahead. The lingering smoke from the burning village still hung heavy in the air, a silent testament to royal power.
Now was her chance. Her left wrist shackle finally gave a soft, yielding click. Freedom. A small, dangerous freedom. She held her breath, waiting for the perfect moment. The burly guard, the one who'd almost been amused by her, turned his back to grab a waterskin. His sword, a long, gleaming blade, hung at his hip, tempting and within reach.
Arin moved. It wasn't a thought, just instinct. A blur of movement from the cage, a sudden lunge. Her free hand darted out, closing around the hilt of his sword. The cold steel felt like an extension of her own will. Her body, wiry and agile, twisted, pulling the blade from its sheath with a whisper of metal.
She lunged, the sword surprisingly heavy in her grasp. The burly guard whirled, startled, his eyes wide with shock. She aimed for his gut, a swift, deadly arc. He gasped, a guttural sound, stumbling back. The blade sliced through the air, missing his vital organs by inches. It merely grazed his tunic, a shallow cut across his ribs, drawing a thin line of blood.
But before she could finish the swing, a crushing weight slammed into her. The captain, a man of surprising speed for his bulk, had tackled her. Her head smacked against the rough wood of the cart. Stars exploded behind her eyes. The sword clattered to the muddy ground, just out of reach.
He pinned her, his heavy knee pressing into her chest, stealing her breath. Her shackled leg kicked uselessly. She spat a curse, a raw, furious sound. The captain's eyes, usually cold and unreadable, held a glint of genuine amusement. He laughed, a low, rumbling sound that grated on her ears.
"You almost had me, rat," he said, his breath hot against her face, smelling of stale ale and smoke. His grip tightened, pressing the air from her lungs. "His Highness might keep you longer than a week."
He shoved her back into the cage, the unfastened shackle clanging against the other. Her head throbbed. Pain laced through every muscle, but more than that, she felt a burning frustration. She'd been so close. So close to slipping away into the vast, indifferent wilderness.
The guards looked at her differently now. The burly one, clutching his side, eyed her with a mix of fear and newfound respect. The others watched her with cautious eyes, their usual bluster replaced by a wary silence. They knew she wasn't just a street rat anymore. She was a threat.
The cart resumed its journey, the heavy wheels churning through the mud, leaving the burnt village far behind. Arin pressed her bruised face against the cold bars, her thoughts a tangled mess of rage and calculation. Why would 'His Highness' keep her? Not for a stablehand. Not for a cheated game of dice. The king had executioners for that.
She wasn't afraid. Not of these guards, not of the gallows. She had faced death before, many times, in shadowed alleyways and desperate scrapes. But the idea of being taken to the castle, to the heart of the Dragonlines, filled her with a dread she couldn't quite name. It was a cold hum in her bones, a warning that echoed the grim stories her mother used to tell.
The Ember Saint, a martyr burned alive by dragons, was worshipped in secret by common folk. But the royals, they celebrated their dragons, their power forged in fire and fear. What did a common girl, a thief, a murderer in their eyes, mean to a Dragonline?
She tried to push for more answers from the guards, testing their limits. "So, His Highness needs a new pet, then?" she asked, her voice laced with heavy sarcasm. "A personal jester for his court? Because I'm terrible at juggling."
The burly guard, still nursing his ribs, scowled. "You'll learn your place soon enough, girl. Or they'll teach it to you." His words were curt, his earlier amusement entirely gone.
"And what is my place, then?" Arin pressed. "To be a silent shadow in his opulent halls? To watch court intrigue fester while I fetch him wine? I'm better suited to finding secrets than serving them." She watched their faces, searching for any flicker of recognition, any hint about "His Highness" true motives.
The scarred veteran spat. "Your place is where you're told, commoner. You don't ask why. You just… obey." There was a weariness in his voice, a resigned acceptance that spoke volumes of his own life of obedience.
Arin scoffed. "Obeying never filled my belly. Or kept me from a beating. Seems like a fool's game to me." She shifted, trying to get comfortable, but the hard floor of the cart offered no respite. The air itself seemed to grow colder as they travelled, the very essence of the world changing.
The landscape outside began to transform. The muddy tracks gave way to a smoother, well-maintained road. The twisted trees were replaced by sculpted hedges, dark and precisely trimmed. The air, once heavy with smoke and damp earth, now carried a different scent – the acrid bite of sulfur mingled with scorched myrrh and old stone. A chill of apprehension, colder than the wind, snaked up her spine.
Through the bars, the fortress-city of Drakoryth (pronounced DRAH-ko-rith) began to assert its terrifying majesty. It was not just a city; it felt like the very spine of Velhessan, a place whose name meant "Throat of Flame" in Old Velhari, the lost tongue of the first dragon-bonded. It rose from the earth as a royal stronghold, a dragon cradle, built atop a smoking caldera known as The Heartspire, where, legends said, dragonfire had once cracked the sky.
Obsidian towers and ashstone walls clawed at the bruised sky. The palace, Caelvoryn, she'd heard it whispered, rose from the crater's rim like a crown of blackened fangs—each spire carved with wards older than language. Her mother had spoken of this place in hushed, fearful tones – a capital built on burnt ruins, a place where Queen Saeryna the First, after forging the Blood Oath with the elder dragon Xharthyn the Undying, had ordered a citadel built in the caldera's shadow so her bloodline would never be far from their protectors—or their punishment.
Even from a distance, the city seemed to glow faintly, lit from beneath by the Heartspire's magma flow. Ash, they said, fell like snow during winter in Drakoryth. It was a monument to power and cruelty, the 'Maw of the World' as outsiders fearfully called it. The distant shriek of a dragon, a sound like a coming storm that could rattle chandeliers, now rattled the very bars of her cage, a chilling welcome to the ritual heart of Velhessan, where everything began—and ended—with dragonfire.
The cart rattled over smooth, dark stone now, the sound echoing ominously. The gates loomed ahead, not the grand, ornate entrance she'd sometimes heard travelers describe, but a smaller, shadowed side gate, fitting for a prisoner. A heavy iron portcullis slowly grated upwards, revealing a glimpse of towering ashstone walls and silent guards whose armor seemed to drink the light.
Nobles, cloaked in fire-veined silks and dark furs, adorned with obsidian-bone jewelry, watched from ornate windows in nearby buildings, their faces pale and narrow. Their eyes, like those of hungry hawks, followed the cart as it was dragged through the side gate. They barely spared her a glance, seeing only a commoner, a prisoner, a piece of meat for the grinder.
The courtyard was vast, paved with black stone that seemed to absorb the light. Tall, grim statues of armoured figures, perhaps ancient dragon tamers or revered ancestors, stood like sentinels, their faces impassive. A heavy silence pressed down, broken only by the echo of their footsteps and the distant, muffled sound of a dragon's cry – wingbeats like storms heard before they were seen. The air smelled strongly of steel and sulfur.
A courtier in silver robes approached, his movements fluid and unhurried. His face was a bland mask, his eyes devoid of any expression. He barely looked at Arin, his gaze skimming over her as if she were a particularly unpleasant stain on the ground. He held a scroll, unfurling it with a crisp snap.
He read in a clear, detached voice that echoed in the vast space. "You are to serve "His Highness" directly. Speak only when asked. Touch nothing without permission." He paused, his gaze finally settling on Arin, cold and unwavering. "If you attempt escape again, you will be blinded."