The first rays of dawn, cold and merciless, sliced through the window. They painted the room in hues of stark gray and faint, bruised purple. Arin stood before the chipped mirror, her hands moving with a practiced, almost ritualistic precision. No more lingering. No more internal battles. The time for hesitation was over.
She had bathed in the lukewarm water left in the basin, washing away the scent of Caldan's chamber, the lingering tension. Now, she dressed. Not in her usual commoner's tunic, but in fighting leathers she'd found folded in the wardrobe. They were dark, supple, surprisingly well-fitted, almost as if… thoughtful of Caldan, a small, bitter voice echoed in her mind. He was always one step ahead, always preparing.
The leather felt like a second skin, giving her movements a newfound freedom. She laced up her boots, tying the leather straps tight around her ankles. Every action was deliberate, a preparation for war.
Her hair. It was a tangled mess from the restless night. She pulled it back, gathering the dark chestnut strands tightly, braiding them swiftly down her back. No loose ends. Nothing for him to grab.
A frantic, agitated tremor ran through her. This wasn't just a duel. This was a death dance. Roen healed. She didn't. Every cut, every bruise, would be hers to keep. This was do or die. And she had to live.
A sharp, impatient knock rattled her door.
"By the gods, if that's him already, I'll punch his smug face," Arin muttered, irritation momentarily eclipsing her dread. She clenched her jaw, striding to the door.
She pulled it open, ready for a fight, but it wasn't Roen. It was Marilye, her eyes wide and a nervous flutter in her hands. On a small, velvet-lined tray, she held two daggers.
"Lady Arin," Marilye whispered, her voice barely audible. "These… these were sent for you. From… from Prince Caldan."
Arin's eyes immediately locked onto the blades. One was plain, functional, with a sturdy grip and a razor-sharp edge. The other… the other shimmered with an unsettling obsidian gleam. It was the same dagger. The one from Caldan's chambers. The one they had practiced with, the one meant to pierce his heart during the assassination. The very blade that had rested at her throat just hours ago.
Her breath caught. He knew. Or he suspected. Why else send that specific dagger?
She reached out, her fingers tracing the cold, smooth obsidian. It felt alive, humming with dark purpose. This was the blade of deception. The blade of betrayal.
"Thank you, Marilye," Arin said, her voice surprisingly steady. She took both daggers. "You may go."
Marilye nodded quickly, scurrying away as if escaping a phantom.
Arin closed the door. She held the two daggers, one in each hand. The plain one. And the obsidian one. The one meant for Caldan. Her jaw tightened. No. Not for Roen. Not for this fight. This dagger was for a grander game, a far more dangerous gamble. She wouldn't waste it.
She found a loose floorboard near her bed, a trick she'd learned in a dozen hiding places. With a soft click, she lifted it, slipping the obsidian dagger inside. She then covered it carefully, leaving no trace. No one would find it there.
She kept the plain dagger. It was sharp enough. More than sharp enough for what she intended. She secured it in a sheath she'd found on the fighting leathers, tucking it snugly at her hip.
A different guard, larger and sterner than the maid, waited outside her door. He wore the black and gold livery of the palace guard, his face grim.
"Lady Arin," he rumbled, his voice devoid of emotion. "His Highness, Prince Roen, awaits you in the Southern Courtyard."
Arin gave a curt nod. "Lead the way."
They walked through the palace corridors, now teeming with the hushed activity of dawn. Servants scurried, their arms laden with garlands of fresh flowers. Banners of House Kaerythene, twin serpents of silver and gold, hung from every archway, swaying faintly in the pre-dawn breeze. The air was thick with the scent of roasted meat, sweet wine, and frankincense. The festival. It was happening.
The guard led her through a grand archway and into the Southern Courtyard. It was vast, paved with dark, polished stone, and normally used for royal parades and equestrian displays. Today, however, it was an arena.
Arin stopped dead. Her eyes widened, a flicker of raw surprise escaping her carefully constructed composure.
Six guards. Not just one or two. Six. Heavily armed, their faces impassive, they formed a loose semicircle near the far wall. Why so many? Was he truly worried she would run? The thought made a bitter laugh bubble in her throat. Roen underestimated her. She wasn't a rabbit to be chased.
But then, her gaze swept upwards, and the breath left her lungs in a silent gasp.
Perched atop one of the massive, obsidian statues that flanked the courtyard was a dragon. Aenythar. Roen's dragon. Burnt red, sleek and vicious, its scales gleamed like polished embers in the rising sun. Its head, a cruel, elongated skull, was turned towards her, one eye, the color of molten slag, fixed on her with an unnerving intensity. It didn't look pleased. Not at all. Its neck was long, adorned with a jeweled harness that glittered, contrasting sharply with its scarred hide. The dragon's tail lashed once, cracking like a whip.
And on its back, a dark, arrogant silhouette against the brightening sky, sat Roen.
He looked down at her, a slow, predatory smile spreading across his face. He dismounted, a fluid, practiced movement, landing lightly on the stone. Aenythar let out a low, guttural rumble, a sound that vibrated through the ground, a growl of displeasure aimed directly at Arin.
"Such promptness, little commoner," Roen purred, his voice carrying clearly in the crisp morning air. "I almost thought you'd cower. But then, you always were more brazen than smart." He walked slowly towards her, his eyes never leaving hers, his hand still resting on the hilt of his sword.
Arin's gaze flickered from the dragon to the guards, then back to Roen. Her hands clenched. This was a spectacle. A humiliating display.
"Why all the theatrics, Prince?" Arin's voice was sharp, cutting through the silence. "The guards? The beast? I'm here. I'm not running. Unless you need a cheer squad to build your courage?"
Roen laughed, a short, contemptuous bark. He stopped a few feet from her, gesturing with a dismissive hand towards the towering dragon. "Oh, Aenythar doesn't like commoners. Bit uncouth for his refined senses. And the guards? Purely a precaution. To ensure our dear half-brother, Caldan, doesn't interfere. He has a soft spot for… stray dogs, it seems."
Arin's mind reeled. Caldan? Interfering? How would he even know? She hadn't told him. Not last night. Her face remained impassive, but a cold dread coiled in her gut. Did he really know? Had Roen somehow found out about her meeting with Caldan? Or was this just a desperate guess?
"He probably knows now," Roen said, as if reading her thoughts. His eyes gleamed with malicious satisfaction. "Whispers carry far in this palace, little mouse. Especially when they concern stolen daggers and bare chests."
Arin stood silent, her jaw tight. The pit in her stomach deepened. Roen was trying to unnerve her. To shatter her focus. The dragon, the guards, the biting words. It was all a calculated performance to make her stumble.
She would not.
She forced herself to ignore the dragon's low growls, the guards' silent presence. Her eyes locked on Roen, a laser focus. This was her fight. Her chance.
He began to circle her, slowly, deliberately, like a shark around its prey. His hand moved from the hilt of his sword, drawing the polished steel with a faint shing that echoed in the vast courtyard. The blade caught the nascent light, glinting dangerously.
"I'm going to enjoy this," Roen purred, the sound a promise of pain. He stopped directly in front of her, the tip of his sword pointing at her chest. "I'm going to let you bleed. Slowly. So you learn your place. So you remember who you are. A commoner. A little mouse caught in a lion's den."
Arin didn't flinch. Her hand, steady and firm, went to the hilt of her own dagger. She drew it, the plain steel a stark contrast to his ornate blade.
The wind picked up, swirling dust across the courtyard. The sun crept higher, painting the eastern sky in fiery streaks of orange and crimson.
The fight began.