The night air in the royal gardens was cool, smelling of night-blooming jasmine and damp earth. Arin loved the gardens. They were the only place in this gilded cage that felt remotely real, a wild heart beating beneath the palace's cold stone. She was perched on the edge of a marble fountain, its waters murmuring softly, a sound more comforting than court whispers.
Lord Torvyn and Lady Eshara, usually stiff with protocol, were laughing, truly laughing. A rare sound in Caelvoryn. Auren, surprisingly, was the most receptive of them all. He leaned against the fountain's rim, his golden eyes alight, a genuine smile softening the sharp edges of his princely features.
"And then," Arin continued, her voice dropping conspiratorially, "the old goat, he says to me, 'Girl, you've got more brass than a blacksmith's forge!' And I just looked him dead in the eye, sweet as a lamb, and said, 'Only because I had to learn how to hammer out my own damn luck, Lord Mayor.'"
A fresh burst of laughter erupted. Lord Torvyn clapped his knee. "Clever! Truly. A village tale, indeed. So different from the usual courtly pretense."
"Pretense is expensive," Arin quipped, shrugging. "And my village couldn't afford it. We just had... blunt honesty. And a good hiding spot."
Auren chuckled, a low, rich sound. "I imagine you had many hiding spots, Lady Arin." He had insisted on calling her 'Lady,' a formality she found amusing. As if a title could mask the mud on her boots.
She was mid-sentence, about to launch into another anecdote about outsmarting a tax collector, when a sudden shift in the air tightened her skin. A cold whisper, a predator's stillness. Her instincts, honed by years of village scrapes and quick escapes, screamed at her. Danger.
Before she could even turn her head, a flash of dark fabric, a glint of steel. A whirlwind of motion.
"Arin!" Auren's shout ripped through the night.
He moved. Fast. A blur of gold and dark blue. He pushed her, a violent shove that sent her sprawling backward onto the soft grass, the shock making her gasp. In the same breath, he pivoted, his body slamming between her and the incoming threat.
The clang of metal on flesh. A sickening, wet thud.
Roen. Prince Roen.
He stood there, sword still raised, its gleaming tip pointed at the spot where Arin's neck had been a heartbeat ago. His dark hair was disheveled, his blue eyes blazing with a feral, murderous intent. He looked like a creature of the night, fueled by venom.
A thin line of crimson bloomed on Auren's outstretched left hand. He had intercepted the blade with his bare flesh.
"What in the hells, Roen?!" Auren roared, his voice cracking with disbelief and fury. He clutched his bleeding hand, his knuckles white. "Are you mad?! Attacking unarmed guests in the royal gardens?"
Roen's gaze, however, was fixed on Arin, who was scrambling back, her eyes wide with shock. A cold wave washed over her. He knows. He saw. She had stabbed him three days ago, a quick, dirty strike to his thigh when he was beating that maid. She hadn't seen him since. She thought it was over.
"Unarmed guest?" Roen sneered, his lip curling. "This... creature is an assassin! She stabbed me! In Caldan's chambers!" His voice was a hiss, raw with unmasked hatred. "She broke in! Attacked a prince of the blood!"
Lord Torvyn and Lady Eshara, frozen in horror, exchanged terrified glances. An accusation of treason. In the royal gardens.
Arin pushed herself to her feet, ignoring the grass clinging to her skirt. Her mind was racing. He was still angry. Still seeking vengeance. And it was all because she'd seen him for what he was.
"Stabbed you?" Arin scoffed, her voice sharp, cutting through the tense silence. Fear tightened her chest, but she wouldn't let it show. Not to him. "You call that a stab? A pinprick, more like. Barely a scratch. Unless, of course, a Prince of the Kaerythene line has skin thinner than a dying dragon's pride."
Roen's face, already flushed with rage, turned a deeper crimson. "You insolent harlot! You dare mock me?!"
"Mock you?" Arin's voice dripped with disdain, a venom she usually reserved for truly despicable men. "I'm merely speaking truth, Your Highness. Which, I understand, is a foreign tongue in this palace. Especially for those who flog innocent maids for refusing to spread their legs."
The words hung in the air, a sudden, brutal blow. Auren, who had been inspecting his bleeding hand, snapped his head up. His golden eyes, usually calm, blazed. "What is she talking about, Roen?" His voice was low, dangerous. "A maid? In Caldan's chambers?"
Roen flinched, a flicker of something close to panic in his eyes. He clearly hadn't expected Arin to reveal that. "It's a lie! A commoner's fabrication to avoid justice!"
"A lie?" Arin challenged, stepping forward, every inch of her defiance. She didn't care about the consequences. This man was filth. "Ask your precious Blade of Ember if its master has a habit of leaving welts on women who displease him. Or perhaps the whispers of the servants are too coarse for a princely ear?"
Roen lunged, his sword arcing towards her again. He wouldn't let her speak another word.
But Auren, despite his injured hand, was quicker. He caught Roen's arm, his grip like iron. "Enough!" His voice was a thunderclap. "You will not raise a blade against an unarmed woman, cousin, not while I draw breath! And you will explain yourself."
Roen struggled, his eyes fixed on Arin, burning with undiluted malice. "She dishonors me! She deserves death! I demand satisfaction!" He ripped his arm free of Auren's grasp, spitting the words. "A duel! Here! Now! Her life against my honor!"
Arin felt a jolt. A duel? Against a dragonrider? It was suicide. Her street-scraps training was nothing against a prince. But then, a thought, cold and clear, cut through her fear. This was her chance. Her way out. A public challenge.
"A duel?" Arin repeated, a slow, dangerous smile spreading across her lips. "Very well, Your Highness. I accept. But not here. Not now. The night is for shadows. Not for settling debts that have already bled."
Roen stared, surprised by her acceptance. His eyes narrowed, suspicion warring with triumph. "Then when, commoner? Before the sun makes you regret your foolish bravado?"
"At dawn," Arin said, her voice steady. "In the main courtyard. A clean fight. And if I win," she paused, letting her gaze sweep over him, "you will never speak of this again. Never come near me. And never lift a hand to another servant in this castle again. Is that understood, Prince?"
Roen's lips thinned into a cruel smile. "And if I win," he hissed, "your head will adorn my chambers, a trophy for insolence." He stepped back, sheathing his sword with a dramatic flourish. "And do not, for a single moment, consider involving Caldan. If he so much as breathes a word in your defense, I will hunt you through every tunnel of this palace myself, and hang you from the highest spire."
He turned, his dark cloak swirling, and strode away into the shadows, leaving behind a silence heavier than any accusation. Lord Torvyn and Lady Eshara scurried after him, their faces pale with shock.
Arin turned to Auren, her gaze falling to his bleeding hand. It was an ugly cut, deep and ragged. "Your hand," she said, her voice softer now, the adrenaline ebbing away. "You saved my life."
Auren glanced at it, then shrugged, a wry grimace on his face. "It's nothing. Barely a scratch." He extended the hand. The blood was already clotting, slowing. Even as she watched, the edges of the wound seemed to knit, a faint, almost imperceptible closing of the flesh.
Arin stared, a strange realization dawning. "But... it's deep. It should be bleeding more. You just... healed."
Auren chuckled, a dry sound. "Dragon blood, little Lady. It mends quickly. Most of us heal faster than common folk. It's one of the few advantages of this accursed lineage." He flexed his fingers, the wound already looking less severe.
Arin felt a cold knot form in her stomach. Dragon blood. She remembered Roen's thigh, the desperate flight of the maid. She had stabbed him harder than she thought. And he had recovered within hours. All this rage, all this plotting, for a wound that was likely gone before the sun set. She had foolishly agreed to a duel with a man who could heal in a blink, while she… she had only her wits.
The wound should have healed. She was an idiot. A complete, utter fool.
A voice, sharp and laced with ice, cut through the night.
"Auren?"
Both Arin and Auren froze, turning as one.
Standing at the edge of the formal path, her copper-gold hair like spilled moonlight, her emerald eyes wide and fixed on them, was Princess Elyra.