The heavy fabric scraped against Arin's skin, a constant, irritating whisper of silk-wrapped chains. It was supposed to be an attendant's garb, a uniform of gray and black that fit too snugly. Trousers, at least, not skirts, but the high collar of the coat felt like a scratchy punishment. Better than the rags she'd shed, certainly better than the gnawing hunger of Vel Asryn's mornings, but it still felt like wearing someone else's skin. A borrowed life, and she hated it.
Her hands, usually so steady, trembled just a little as she fastened the last brass button. It wasn't fear, not exactly. It was the chill of knowing. She was walking into something vast and dangerous, a game with rules she barely understood.
"Fix your cuffs, little rat," Caldan's voice cut through the quiet, low and laced with amusement. "Unless you want the court to think I plucked you from a stable."
Arin spun around, a retort already forming on her tongue. "I thought that was precisely your grand plan," she shot back, her crooked smile a flash of defiance. "Rescued from the filth, elevated to servitude. Truly, a heroic feat for a prince."
He sat in an armchair, a dark silhouette against the muted tapestries of his chambers. No court finery for him; just sharp wool and hardened leather, a sword strapped across his back. A dagger glinted at his hip, catching the faint light. His silver hair, still damp from a quick wash, fell across his brow. A bandage, barely hidden beneath his open shirt collar, wrapped his ribs. Stubborn prince.
He didn't move, just studied her, slowly, deliberately. His gaze felt like a physical weight, dissecting her.
"Better," he said at last, his voice a low rumble. "You clean up like a threat."
Arin tilted her head, challenging him. "Is that meant as a compliment, Your Highness, or a warning?"
He rose, a faint limp betraying the pain he refused to acknowledge. Every movement pulled at the tension in his frame. He hadn't allowed the healers to do more than stitch him shut, a testament to his stubbornness or perhaps his contempt for weakness.
"Both," he replied, stepping closer, his presence expanding to fill the space between them. "Listen to me, Arin."
She stood her ground, but her muscles coiled tight, ready to spring. He only used her name when he wanted her attention sharpened, when the casual banter gave way to something far more serious. A shiver, not of fear but of anticipation, traced its way down her spine.
"Inside these quarters," he continued, his voice dropping to a low, intimate tone, "you may speak freely. Scowl, curse, even threaten to poison my wine." A faint curve touched his lips, a flash of something unreadable in his eyes. "But once we step beyond these walls—you do not forget who I am."
Arin's jaw locked. The unspoken threat hung heavy in the air, a silken noose around her neck. She understood the weight of his words, the rigid boundaries he was drawing.
Caldan's voice dropped further, cool and sharp as an unsheathed blade. "If you mock me in public again, Arin, If you disrespect me in front of my court or family, I will have your tongue. And not in the poetic sense."
A beat of silence stretched, then two. The air crackled with unspoken challenge, with the desperate defiance that always seemed to claw at Arin's throat when someone tried to cage her.
She gave a stiff nod, a reluctant concession. "Understood, Your Highness."
But inside, she seethed, a hot fire in her belly. He was laying down rules like iron bars, yet he had still chosen her. Whatever deadly game he was playing, she was already a piece on his board. And she would play it to win, or at least to survive.
A soft knock at the chamber door startled them both. Before either could respond, it opened.
A woman stepped inside, moving with the practiced grace of someone who owned the space, or at least controlled it. She had soft brown hair, pinned flawlessly, and her movements were as quiet as a breeze too well-trained to ruffle curtains. Arin didn't know her name, but her posture spoke of authority, of countless secrets held close.
"Marilye," Caldan said, his voice curt, acknowledging her presence without a flicker of genuine warmth.
The woman, Marilye, inclined her head, her voice gentle with concern. "My lord, you'll go on an empty stomach again?"
Caldan didn't even glance at her. His gaze remained fixed on Arin, as if he hadn't heard Marilye at all. "I'm not hungry."
"But the healer said—" Marilye began, her voice edged with genuine worry.
"If I eat," Caldan interrupted, his voice flat, "I'll vomit before we reach Whisperwood."
Marilye flinched, just a fraction of an inch, but Arin caught it. It was a subtle betraying of emotion, quickly masked. She stepped forward anyway, her fingers brushing an invisible speck from Caldan's sleeve. A careful, almost tender gesture.
"Your horse has already been saddled, my lord," Marilye continued, her voice regaining its composure. "But the carriage is waiting, just in case—"
"I'll ride." His tone was final, brooking no argument.
Marilye's hands lingered on his sleeve, a silent, yearning touch. Arin's sharp eyes didn't miss the look in the maid's eyes, a soft, almost desperate plea. It was the look of a woman watching a fire she desperately wished would warm her, but which always remained just out of reach.
Ah, Arin thought, a flicker of understanding. No wonder she hated me on sight. She was just another inconvenience, another obstacle to Marilye's unspoken desires.
They stepped into the bustling hall. The palace was a hive of activity, stirring with the nervous energy of the impending hunt. Footmen scurried past with gleaming silver trays. Court ladies whispered behind lace fans, their eyes darting, dissecting. Guards in their polished armor stood like grim statues, ever watchful. The tension in the air was a living, breathing thing, coiled and waiting for something to snap.
Outside the grand entrance, the hunt party was already assembled. Carriages, ornate and glistening like jeweled insects, stood in neat lines. Nobles, bedecked in silks and furs, dismounted from their magnificent white stallions, their faces a mixture of forced excitement and thinly veiled boredom. Trumpets blared somewhere in the distance, a fanfare that seemed to mock the underlying tension.
And there, near the fountain of lion's bloodstone, stood Caldan's warhorse, Varnyx.
The beast was colossal, midnight-black, with a long, angry scar along its haunch. A creature bred for war, not for show, it dwarfed the other horses with its sheer power. Its eyes were dark and intelligent, nostrils flared, sensing the cold morning air. Most horses Arin had known shied at a raised voice, but this one looked like it listened, like it understood more than any animal should.
Caldan approached the horse slowly, deliberately. He didn't speak at first, just reached out a gloved hand, brushing it along the creature's jaw, then beneath its chin. Varnyx nickered softly, a low rumble in its chest, and leaned into Caldan's touch.
The prince murmured something too low for Arin to hear, his words lost to the swirling wind. Then, clearer now, he spoke. "Easy, old friend. We ride as one again."
He pressed his forehead to the horse's brow, a moment of raw, unguarded intimacy. And for a breath—one fragile, stolen breath—Arin forgot who he was, forgot the prince, the rumored monster, the man who'd threatened her tongue. He looked… young. Unarmored. A boy with his horse, lost in a private world.
Then the spell snapped.
A tall, hawk-faced man in purple robes approached, his steps unnervingly silent on the polished stone. He was the Royal Courtier, Arin knew without being told. Master of Protocol, Warden of Titles, the Snake-Who-Speaks-For-The-Queen. His presence was a ripple of cold authority.
"My prince," he intoned, his voice smooth as oil, "shall I prepare a second mount or carriage for your—" He paused, his eyes flicking toward Arin with a dismissive glance, as if she were a particularly bothersome stray dog. He clearly wasn't sure if she was a servant or something even less significant.
"She'll ride with me," Caldan stated, his voice flat, cutting through the courtier's unspoken disdain.
The words hit Arin like a physical slap, stealing the air from her lungs. A ripple of gasps went through the assembled crowd. Servants, guards, Marilye—even the stablehands paused, their eyes widening in disbelief.
"I don't want to go to your cursed hunt!" Arin snapped, the words tumbling out before she could catch them, her defiance overriding any sense of self-preservation. "And now I have to cling to you like a saddlebag?"
A stunned silence fell over the courtyard, thick and suffocating. Every eye was on her. Every single one. Arin's mind raced, a frantic scramble to retrieve the words, to undo the damage. She remembered his warning. Speak freely inside. Not outside.
Too late. Far too late.
Caldan's jaw tensed, a muscle jumping beneath his skin. He stepped down from the stirrup, his movements slow, deliberate, each action precise, controlled. He walked toward her, and the space around him seemed to hum with suppressed fury.
Arin took a half-step back, a primal instinct for survival kicking in. No sound but the soft scuff of his boots on the stone. He stopped directly in front of her, his gaze locked onto hers. There was no humor in his eyes now, no mask. Only fire, raw and untamed.
"Have you forgotten already, Arin?" he said, his voice soft—too soft, like the whisper of a blade being unsheathed. "I warned you."
Arin opened her mouth to argue, to defend herself, but no words came. She closed it, swallowed, her throat suddenly dry.
"...I apologize, Your Highness," she forced out, the words tasting like ash. It was a bitter defeat, but a necessary one. Her life, her tongue, depended on it.
Stillness. The air thrummed with unspoken threats, with the weight of his power. Then he moved.
His hands went to her waist, a sudden, firm grip.
"What—" Arin began, a fresh wave of panic rising in her chest.
—and lifted her, as if she weighed nothing at all.
Gasps rippled through the onlookers, a collective gasp of shock and outrage. Marilye flinched, her carefully composed expression shattering for a moment.
He set Arin down astride Varnyx, the saddle still warm from his touch. His hands lingered just long enough, burning through the thick wool of her coat, a searing heat that had nothing to do with the cool morning air.
No one, she knew, ever rode Varnyx. No one touched Varnyx. The unspoken rule hung heavy in the air.
Arin stared down, her heart thudding against her ribs, a frantic drumbeat against the silence. Her pulse hammered in her ears. Caldan climbed up behind her, one arm slipping around her waist, not quite touching, but close enough to steady the reins. The scent of leather and his own unique scent—smoke and something else, something wild—enveloped her.
"Try not to fall," Caldan said, his voice a low rumble against her ear, almost a whisper. "I've no patience to scrape you off the ground today."
Her spine stiffened, a surge of defiance pushing back against his casual cruelty. "I'll try to die with dignity, then," she retorted, her voice barely a whisper, but laced with all the venom she could muster.
He chuckled, a low, dark sound that vibrated through her. Right behind her.
Then they were off. The massive gates of Caelvoryn Palace swung open, revealing the misty world beyond.
Together—prince and peasant—they rode into the morning mist, toward Whisperwood. Toward whatever waited in the hunt.
Toward blood and secrets. And maybe, just maybe, something far, far worse.