They tried to drag her in silence. The courtier's chilling threat of blinding still echoed in the vast, cold courtyard, a promise of pain that settled deep in Arin's bones. But silence was a surrender she wasn't ready to give. She made sure they couldn't keep her quiet.
The guards, rigid and grim-faced, gripped her arms, their fingers like iron clamps. One, the burly one she'd cut, kept a cautious distance, favoring his side. His partner, a younger man with eyes too wide for a soldier, pulled her forward. Arin hissed, her voice low and venomous, a predator's snarl. "Touch me again like that," she rasped, "and I'll chew off your fingers before you finish your next breath."
The young guard holding her arm gave a sharp, incredulous laugh, a nervous sound that quickly died in his throat. It was cut off abruptly when she twisted, fast, a sudden burst of raw, desperate motion. Her shackled hands were still chained together, but her body was wiry, surprisingly strong. She used her momentum, slamming her chained fists down onto his forearm with all her might.
A sickening crack echoed in the silent courtyard. He screamed, a high-pitched, desperate sound. Blood blossomed on the stone, dark against the pale light of the setting sun. Two fingers on his hand, now bent at impossible angles, hung limp and useless. He dropped her arm, stumbling back, clutching his mangled hand.
Arin grinned, a wild, feral expression that stretched her bruised lips. Her eyes glittered with a dangerous triumph. "Told you."
The other guards froze, their faces a mixture of shock and utter horror. They looked at her as if she were a demon, not a girl of eighteen. The captain, standing a few paces away, his face etched with grim fury, took a step forward. His hand instinctively went to the hilt of his sword, but he stopped, a silent struggle playing out in his eyes. He had his orders.
"Keep moving," the captain grated, his voice strained. He didn't touch her, just gestured with his chin towards the palace entrance. "Do it again, girl, and it won't be just your eyes. We'll cut out your tongue before you can spit another insult."
Arin felt a chill, colder than the stone beneath her feet. Her tongue. That was a weapon. Her mind, her sharp wit, her ability to talk her way out of trouble—those were her only defenses. To lose that… it was a more terrifying threat than the gallows. But she wouldn't show it.
She glared at them, her chin still high. "Fine. But if I'm to be His Highness's new pet, I at least deserve to know his name. Which one is it? The Mad Twin? The King's favorite daughter, Iryna?" She felt a surge of cold dread as she uttered the names, these figures of legend and whispered horror.
The captain's jaw clenched, a muscle twitching in his cheek. "You'll know when you're presented. And you will not speak unless spoken to. Do you understand, commoner?" His voice was a low snarl, a clear warning.
"I understand that you're being vague," Arin retorted, pushing back. "Why all the secrecy? Does His Highness have something to hide? Or is he just ashamed of his new acquisition?" She hated the way they looked at her, like a slab of meat, a piece of property. Her stomach churned.
The younger guard, still cradling his broken fingers, whimpered. "She's dangerous, Captain. She'll cause trouble."
"That's why he wants her," the captain growled, his gaze flicking to the obsidian spires of Caelvoryn Palace that loomed over them. "Quiet, both of you. And you," he aimed his words at Arin, "one more word out of turn, and I'll gag you myself. And it won't be gentle."
Arin fell silent, but her mind roared. Caelvoryn. The very name was a shiver down her spine. This was the seat of the Kaerythene Dynasty, forged in conquest and crowned in fire. Descendants of the last dragon-seer and the first queen of blood. A place where rulers never died peacefully. She thought of Queen Saeryna the First, who'd built this citadel in the caldera's shadow, never far from her dragons—or their punishment.
They marched her through shadowy passages, the air growing warmer, thicker with the scent of sulfur and scorched myrrh, the unique perfume of Drakoryth, the 'Throat of Flame'. Tapestries depicting ancient battles and soaring dragons covered the walls, their crimson and gold threads rich even in the dim torchlight. Every corridor seemed to hold a secret, a dagger hidden in the folds of history.
Her blood hummed with a warning she couldn't name. She wasn't afraid. Not of the guards, not of the gallows. But this tower—the one with no windows and too many secrets, the one that rose like a blackened fang from The Heartspire—that made her bones vibrate with a chilling awareness of forces far beyond her understanding. This was the ritual heart of Velhessan, a place where everything began and ended with dragonfire.
They reached a set of massive, intricately carved doors, black as obsidian, inlaid with swirling gold patterns that resembled entwined serpents. Two hulking guards stood sentry, their black and gold armor gleaming in the torchlight. They opened the doors without a word, revealing a blast of heat and a dizzying rush of scent.
The door slammed open, and the scent hit first—incense, sweat, spiced wine, and something primal, something earthy and potent that made Arin's nostrils flare. The air shimmered with amber light, cast from unseen sources and large, glowing braziers. Silks, heavy and dark, hung like dying things from the ceiling, their edges trailing on the opulent rugs. Gold goblets lay overturned on the floor, their contents spilling into dark stains.
Her eyes landed on the chaise, draped in velvet, where a girl lounged, half-draped across it. Her dress, made of rich crimson silk, was askew, revealing the curve of her hip, the swell of her breast. She was laughing breathlessly, a sound of careless pleasure, as she adjusted her bodice, pushing the fabric lazily back over her skin, her fingers lingering, almost caressing herself. Her hair, a cascade of dark waves, tumbled around her shoulders. Arin saw the flush on her cheeks, the languid grace of someone utterly sated.
And there—on the obsidian throne carved with dragon wings—he sat.
Prince Caldan Kaerythene.
He sat with an easy, almost arrogant grace, boots apart, one gloved hand toying with a gemstone ring that seemed to pulse with a dark light. His head was tilted lazily, like a predator full from the hunt, observing the aftermath of a recent feast. A bruised courtier knelt before him, lips swollen, eyes glassy with unspoken humiliation. Another servant scurried from the room, adjusting his collar with fumbling fingers, avoiding Caldan's gaze.
Arin stared. Every nerve in her body vibrated with a mix of defiance and raw, unbidden awe. This was the dragon-blooded prince, the one whose dragon, Vaelrix, now slept under the palace. The one rumored to have an imperfect bond, a symbol of his broken legacy. He was sharper, more dangerous than the whispers, and far more captivating.
Caldan's gaze—molten silver rimmed in shadow—slid to hers, a slow, deliberate movement that felt like a physical touch. He smiled. Not sweetly. Not kindly. Not even with the polite, empty smile of the nobles.
Wolfishly. A predator's smile.
"Well, well. Is this the rat they dragged out of the haystack?" His voice was a low murmur, but it filled the cavernous chamber, cutting through the lingering scent of wine and pleasure.
"She bites," said the burly guard behind Arin, his hand still clutched to his bandaged side. He couldn't help himself, the pain making him reckless. "Stabbed my thigh. I still can't feel my left—"
"Out," Caldan interrupted, without looking at the man. His voice was soft, but the command was absolute. It brooked no argument.
"But—" the guard began, desperate to justify himself.
"Out." This time, Caldan's voice was like ice, a whisper that promised unimaginable consequences. His eyes, still fixed on Arin, narrowed infinitesimally.
The guards vanished. The huge doors swung shut with a heavy thud, sealing them inside. The velvet girl giggled, a breathy, knowing sound, then slipped away behind a heavy crimson curtain, her form vanishing like smoke. She glanced back, her eyes holding a glint of challenge and a baring of her teeth, almost a wink at Arin as she passed.
Silence stretched, thick and heavy, punctuated only by the distant echo of the palace. Then, footsteps. Slow. Heavy. Calculated.
Caldan rose from his throne. The obsidian throne, carved with ancient dragon wings, seemed to absorb the light around him, making his form appear even darker, more imposing. He didn't rush. Every movement was deliberate, controlled.
He circled her like she was meat at auction, his movements smooth, predatory. Every step scraped into her bones, a primal warning. He was assessing her, weighing her, like he might weigh a piece of raw metal for forging.
"You're not what I expected." His voice was a low rumble, almost a purr, as he moved behind her, his shadow falling over her.
"Then lower your expectations," Arin said, her chin high, her voice surprisingly steady despite the rapid beat of her heart. She wouldn't flinch. Not now.
He stopped directly behind her. She felt the heat of his breath at her neck, a prickle of awareness that was both unsettling and strangely exhilarating. The air around him crackled with power, a tangible force.
"You were brought here for a reason, girl." His voice was a whisper, a promise.
"If it's to warm your bed," Arin said, a dangerous edge in her voice, "you'd best ask the velvet one. I bite."
"So I've heard." His voice was amused, but there was a glint in his molten eyes that suggested far more than amusement.
He moved again, this time stepping into her line of sight. His face was too sharp, too angular, like it had been carved by someone angry, each line a testament to ruthless will. A faint scar ran just under his collarbone, peeking through the open laces of his fine silk shirt, a whisper of past battles. His leather gloves creaked as he flexed his fingers, the sound soft, insidious.
"Kneel." The word was not a request. It was a command, heavy with the weight of centuries of royal power.
"No." Her refusal was instant, sharp, unwavering.
A beat. His eyes flicked to hers, unreadable. The silence stretched, taut and brittle.
"I wasn't asking." His voice dropped, losing all trace of amusement. It was pure steel now.
"And I'm not yours." Her voice trembled slightly, but she didn't back down. The defiance was a burning ember inside her, refusing to be extinguished.
He smiled then, slow and deadly, a true wolf's baring of teeth. The light in the room seemed to dim, swallowed by his chilling amusement.
"Not yet."