A hundred lies flashed through her mind, each one dismissed as too flimsy, too obvious. He was a wolf, and she was a cornered rabbit, but she wasn't going to roll over and die.
"She taught me to keep secrets," Arin finally said, her voice a low growl, "and that those who ask too many questions usually don't like the answers they find." She watched his face for any flicker of reaction, any tell. There was nothing. Just that calm, unnerving gaze.
He leaned back in his plush, high-backed chair, a slow, deliberate movement that held all the menace of a coiled snake. The grand hearth behind him cast dancing shadows that stretched and warped across the study, making the ancient, leather-bound tomes on the high library shelves seem to shift and sway. "A valuable lesson, indeed," he mused, his fingers idly tracing the carved chess piece he held, plucked from the meticulously arranged black iron chessboard nearby. "But some secrets have a way of clawing their way to the surface, don't they? Especially those steeped in dragonfire and treason."
Arin's jaw clenched. "Treason is a word thrown around too easily by those who sit on thrones." She spat the words, a defiance born of fear. "My mother survived. She did what she had to do. There's no treason in fighting for your life."
Caldan's lips twitched, a shadow of a smile. "No? Even if it means bringing down a dragonrider of the Kaerythene Dynasty? A bloodline forged in conquest, crowned in fire?" His eyes, the color of storm clouds, bored into hers across the small, exquisitely carved table where two decanters of deep red wine stood untouched. "That sounds remarkably like treason to me, little rat. Especially when the stories say she used more than just 'fighting for her life.'"
The implication hung in the air, a poisonous tendril wrapping around her. Magic. That was what he meant. The latent abilities that hummed beneath her own skin, a silent, volatile promise she barely understood. A legacy she didn't want, but couldn't deny.
"Stories are just that," Arin retorted, trying to keep her voice steady, "whispers twisted by fear and ignorance. My mother was a woman, not a witch. She simply… found a way."
"A way that few others have ever found," Caldan countered, his voice still soft, but with an edge of steel. "And now, here you are, Arin. With the same sharp eyes, the same quick mind. The same… resourcefulness. Tell me, do you also possess your mother's unique talents?" His gaze flickered to her hands, resting on the chessboard.
Arin yanked her hands back as if burned. The very idea of admitting to any latent ability was madness. It would be a death sentence, or worse—a lifetime of being used, prodded, experimented on by men like him.
"I possess nothing but what I've earned with my own two hands," she snapped, her voice rough with emotion. "And certainly no 'talents' that would interest a prince. Unless you're looking for someone to mend your torn silks or polish your ridiculous armor."
A low chuckle rumbled in Caldan's chest, a sound like gravel shifting. "Oh, I think you possess much more than that, Arin. And I think you know it." He leaned forward again, his eyes locking onto hers, relentless. "I need to know, little rat. What secrets do you truly carry? Because in this palace, secrets are currency, and I intend to collect on every debt."
The air crackled between them, thick with unspoken questions and simmering tension. Arin felt a flicker of something she couldn't name—a dangerous thrill, a perverse fascination. He was a monster, a captor, but he saw something in her, something beyond her common birth. And for a fleeting moment, that was almost as terrifying as his accusations.
She opened her mouth to retort, to deflect, to lie, when a sudden, violent CRASH ripped through the quiet of the study. The very stones of the room trembled, a low growl vibrating through them. A window, high and arched, facing the desolate north, shattered inward with a deafening explosion of glass. Shards rained down, catching the firelight like a million scattered diamonds. A gust of wind, cold and sharp, ripped through the study, sending papers scattering from Caldan's desk and extinguishing several candles.
Before Arin could even fully register the sound, a dark, hooded figure burst through the jagged opening, a phantom born of shadow and shattered glass. A glint of moonlight caught the length of a blade, drawn and poised, reflecting the flickering firelight. Not a palace rebel, she knew, not with that speed, that precision. A trained killer.
"Get down!" Arin screamed, her voice raw, even as her body moved without thought. She dove, a blur of motion, throwing her full weight into Caldan's side, knocking him out of his chair with a grunt of surprise. The sharp whistle of the assassin's blade, meant for his chest, sliced through the air where his head had been moments before.
They hit the stone floor in a tangle of limbs, the chessboard scattering with a clatter of wooden pieces. Arin scrambled, her eyes already scanning the study, her mind a whirlwind of possibilities. Her gaze snagged on a collection of ornamental swords and daggers mounted on the wall, heirlooms of some forgotten ancestor. Her hand shot out, snatching a short, wickedly curved dagger with a hilt wrapped in dark leather. It felt surprisingly balanced in her grip, a familiar comfort despite its unfamiliarity.
The assassin was already lunging again, silent as death, his movements fluid and deadly. He was quick, but Arin was quicker, fueled by pure adrenaline and the primal instinct to survive. She rolled, coming up onto her knees, the dagger held ready.
Caldan was already regaining his footing, his own hand going to the longsword strapped to his back, his movements economical, practiced. The air filled with the rasp of steel as he drew the blade, its polished surface catching the dancing firelight from the hearth.
The assassin spun, a dark blur of motion, his blade a silver arc. It struck Caldan's side, a sickening thud followed by a sharp gasp of pain. A crimson stain bloomed swiftly on the prince's velvet tunic, just beneath his ribs. He grunted, staggering back a step, but didn't fall. His eyes, now narrowed to dangerous slits, burned with a predatory intensity.
Arin didn't hesitate. While Caldan parried the assassin's next strike with a clang of steel, she moved. Her feet found purchase on the scattered chess pieces, her steps silent, a shadow against the burning room. She darted forward, low and fast, aiming for the assassin's exposed flank.
The assassin, focused on Caldan, was momentarily blindsided. He let out a grunt of surprise as Arin's dagger plunged home, a clean, swift thrust. The blade sank deep, a visceral tearing sound, through thick cloth and flesh. It struck just beneath his ribs, a precise blow aimed at the heart.
A strangled gurgle escaped the assassin's throat. His body stiffened, a tremor running through him before he sagged, dropping his own blade with a clatter onto the stone floor. He swayed for a moment, then toppled, collapsing onto the scattered chessboard. Blood, dark and arterial, welled from the wound, painting the polished wood and the intricate chess pieces a grotesque crimson. The game was over.
~
The smell of blood filled the air, acrid and metallic, mingling with the scent of burning wood and shattered glass. Arin pulled her dagger free with a sickening squelch, a cold dread washing over her. She stood over the fallen assassin, her breath coming in ragged gasps, the dagger heavy in her hand. Her chest heaved, her muscles screaming, but she ignored it. Her eyes were fixed on Caldan, who leaned heavily against a tall bookcase, his hand pressed to his bleeding side.
"Are you alright?" she demanded, the words raw, the question escaping before she could think better of it. She hated him. She hated everything he stood for. But a part of her, the part that couldn't stand to see even an enemy bleed out, had reacted.
Caldan pushed himself off the bookcase, his face pale, a grimace of pain tightening his lips. "A scratch," he rasped, though his voice was laced with a strain that belied the dismissive word. He took a hesitant step towards her, then another, his gaze lingering on the blood-soaked dagger in her hand, then on the dead assassin at their feet. "You… you saved me."
Arin scoffed, a dry, humorless sound. "Don't flatter yourself, Prince. I just didn't fancy getting caught up in your mess. Besides, I prefer to know who's trying to kill me. Dead men tell no tales." She gestured with the dagger towards the assassin. "And this one isn't talking."
"He was sent," Caldan said, ignoring her barb, his eyes scanning the shattered window, then the door to the study. "Not just a rebel. A trained assassin. From the guild, perhaps." His voice was low, thoughtful, already moving past the immediate danger to the implications.
"Whoever sent him, they clearly didn't anticipate a commoner with a stolen blade," Arin muttered, wiping the dagger on the assassin's cloak before sheathing it back on the wall mount. The thought of keeping it, of having her own blade, was tempting.