Armyra's lips pressed into a thin line. "A dangerous game, Caldan. You play with fire. And sometimes, even dragons burn." She paused, her eyes narrowing. "Who do you suspect?"
Caldan turned away, walking to the shattered mantelpiece, his hand tracing the splintered wood. "Everyone. No one. Roen, perhaps. He coveted Aelina, always. And his mother, Sirenyth, wishes for her own son to be the King's favored. Therain, my uncle, always seeking to expand his influence. Even Dhaelon, locked away, whispering madness in the dark." His voice was heavy with suspicion, the weight of the court's poison.
"A long list," Armyra observed dryly. "And you trust this... commoner... with your life? With this elaborate deception?"
"She has no ties to this court," Caldan said, almost dismissively. "No loyalties. No history to complicate matters. She's smart. And desperate enough to do exactly as she's told, if she wishes to live." He didn't mention the defiance in her eyes, the sharp wit that had just cut him down. He wouldn't give his mother that satisfaction.
Armyra hummed, a low, thoughtful sound. "Desperate pawns can turn into unpredictable queens, my son. Her mother proved that. A woman with nothing to lose is the most dangerous kind." She walked over to the desk, her fingers ghosting over the scattered crumbs. "You intend to give her the tools to kill you. What if she decides to use them, truly?"
Caldan met her gaze, a grim humor touching his lips. "Then she would be doing their work for them. And I would have found my killer." His voice was bleak, haunted. "Sometimes, Mother, I'm not entirely sure I want to survive this."
Armyra's eyes, for the first time, held a flicker of genuine concern. "Do not speak such blasphemy, Caldan. You are the son of the King. The rider of Vaelrix. Your life belongs to this dynasty."
"Does it?" Caldan murmured, turning away, staring into the cold, empty grate of the fireplace. "Or does it belong to the viper who snuffed out Aelina's light?" He looked back at his mother, his eyes hard. "I will find them, Mother. And I will burn them to ash. Even if I have to burn myself in the process."
Armyra watched him, her expression a mix of strategic calculation and a mother's silent worry. "Then you will need more than a commoner with books on poisons. You will need allies. Iryna..."
"Iryna already plays her own games," Caldan cut her off, though his voice softened slightly at the mention of his quiet, strategic sister. "She always does. But her loyalty is... fluid."
"Perhaps," Armyra conceded. "But her dragon is sharp. And her mind sharper." She paused, then took a single step closer to Caldan, her voice dropping to a near whisper. "I will aid you, Caldan. If only to ensure that the Kaerythene bloodline does not end with your foolish theatrics. But you will tell me everything. Every whisper, every suspicion. Do you understand?"
Caldan looked at her, truly looked at her. Her face was stern, unyielding, but beneath it, he sensed a flicker of the woman who had held him as a child, the one who had taught him that power was never given, only taken. "Understood, Mother."
"Good." She straightened, her regal composure fully restored. "Now. About this maid, Maeve. The one you so hastily exiled. Her family is still in the palace, are they not?"
Caldan clenched his jaw. "Her sister in the kitchens. Her nephew in the stables."
"Precisely." Armyra's smile was thin, chilling. "Loose threads, my son. We must ensure they remain... silent. And loyal to us. Not to the memory of their exiled mistress. Or to the whispers of Prince Roen." Her black eyes glinted in the dim light. "Leave that to me."
He nodded, a silent acknowledgment. He trusted his mother with such things. She handled the unseen knots of the court, the quiet threats.
Armyra turned, her crimson gown swirling around her. "I have matters to attend to. Continue your... studies. And your little commoner. But remember, Caldan. The greatest poisons are not found in books. They are found in hearts. And sometimes, the most dangerous ones come from those you invite into your home."
With that, she swept out of the room, leaving Caldan alone in the echoing silence. He walked back to the window, pulling aside the heavy drape. The night was deep now, the city glowing with the faint, unsettling light of the Heartspire.
His gaze drifted across the inner courtyard, up towards the window of the crimson room. A shadow moved within. A woman's form, outlined against the faint glow of the distant city. Arin. Brushing her hair, a simple, almost domestic act. She looked... at peace.
He watched her for a long moment, a knot of unease and something else, something he refused to name, tightening in his chest. A pawn. A tool. Nothing more. Yet her defiance, her sharp mind, her unexpected touch on his furious hand… she was a puzzle he hadn't anticipated.
He let the drape fall, plunging his chamber back into shadow. The palace slept, but the vipers within it never truly rested. And out there, somewhere, was the real killer. The one he intended to draw out. Even if it meant shattering everything he had left.
***
The first day in the crimson room felt like a strange, gilded cage. Arin ate, the food rich and plentiful, a stark contrast to the coarse fare of her village. She slept on the plush bed, the silks cool against her skin. She even picked up the heavy books on anatomy and poisons, dutifully turning pages. But her mind wandered, restless. Two weeks. To fake a prince's death. And what then? A pat on the head and a toss into the ash-fields? The thought chafed, a raw spot on her spirit.
By the second day, the novelty had worn thin. The quiet of the room, the endless reading, it was starting to feel like a punishment. Caldan had sent a scroll that morning, slid under her door with unnerving silence. She hadn't even unrolled it. Probably more instructions on how to properly cease existing for the glory of the Kaerythene Dynasty. Her stomach rumbled, a sharp reminder that endless studying was a bore.
I need to breathe, she thought, stretching like a cat. And map this place. A good spy knows her exits. Besides, staying cooped up would make her dull. And in this palace, dull meant dead.
She slipped out of her room, moving silently down the hallway. Her bare feet made no sound on the thick runners. Every noble she'd seen so far walked like they owned the ground, making enough noise for ten. Arin moved like a shadow, a habit from years of slipping through crowded markets and avoiding guards.
The wing was vast, sprawling, a maze of polished stone and heavy tapestries. She kept her eyes peeled, taking mental notes of every turn, every alcove, every door. This one probably leads to the kitchens, judging by the faint smell of roasting meat. That one, a private study, too quiet. She listened to the distant sounds of the palace—the clatter of plates, the murmur of voices, the occasional screech of a dragon from somewhere far below.
She saw nobles too, draped in their silks and jewels, moving through the corridors like slow, colorful fish. Their eyes, when they landed on her, were like daggers. Whispers followed her like a trail of smoke.
"Is that her?" a woman hissed, her voice dripping with disdain, her gown a rustle of crimson. "The commoner?"
"Prince Caldan's... new pet," another sneered, a man with a heavy gold chain around his neck. "What has the world come to?"
Arin kept her face blank, her stride even. Let them talk. Let them underestimate me. It's better that way. Their disdain was a shield, making them blind. She was just a commoner, easily dismissed. Perfect.
She was rounding a particularly ornate corner, adorned with a massive, shadowed statue of a dragon mid-flight, when she almost collided with someone.
A girl. Smaller than Arin, but with an eerie stillness that commanded attention. Her hair was black, like polished obsidian, and her eyes, just as dark, stared through Arin as if seeing something else entirely. She was dressed all in white, simple but impossibly fine, like a shroud. Princess Viera. The mute one. The one who spoke with smoke and ink. Arin knew the whispers about her, too. Cursed. Witch-touched.
Viera didn't flinch, didn't speak. She just tilted her head, her black eyes fixed on Arin with an unnerving intensity. Then, slowly, deliberately, she lifted a slender hand. Her fingers were stained with ink. She drew a single word, quickly, on the pristine white sleeve of Arin's tunic. It was a stark, black stroke against the fabric.
SMOKE.
Arin stared at the word, then at Viera. The princess gave a small, almost imperceptible nod, her eyes still holding that unsettling, distant gaze. Then, just as silently as she had appeared, she turned and glided away, melting into the shadows of the corridor. Her movements were so fluid, so quiet, it was like watching a wisp of mist drift through stone.
Arin touched the ink on her sleeve. Smoke. What did it mean? Was it a warning? A riddle? Or just the ramblings of a cursed princess? And why did she choose to write it on me? A chill prickled Arin's skin, despite the warmth of the palace. It made her wonder. Was Viera seeing something she couldn't? Was someone else watching her, besides Caldan? The thought sent a jolt of unease through her. This palace was a web, and she was a fly, unaware of all the threads.
She returned to her room, the encounter unsettling her more than the nobles' sneers. She pulled out the scroll Caldan had given her, the one she'd ignored. Perhaps now was the time. She unrolled it carefully. It was a detailed plan. Caldan's plan for his staged assassination.
She began to read, her sharp mind immediately dissecting every line. His calligraphy was precise, almost painfully so. The details were... rudimentary.
"Prince Caldan will be found in his chambers, having suffered a single, fatal stab wound to the heart. The blade will be left in the body. Signs of a struggle will be evident. The window will be open, indicating escape."
Arin scoffed, pulling out a charcoal stick and a scrap of paper. A single, fatal stab wound? In the heart? She scribbled a note in the margin of the scroll: "Too clean. No one gets a 'single, fatal stab' in a struggle. Especially not a Prince. More likely a dozen panicked jabs. And who leaves the blade? Idiot."
She continued reading, her critical mind already tearing holes in the prince's grand design.
"The guards will report the alarm raised by a distressed maid. The King's healers will confirm death."