It's not even surprising anymore, how easily the enemy of the enemy becomes the friend, when there's the tiniest scrap of favor to gain. The desperation of it almost makes me laugh.
I slump back against the cold stone floor, one knee folded up, the other leg stretched out, half-defiant, half-bored. My bangs fall messily across my forehead, sticking to the sweat and grime of this filthy cell. I've tied my sable hair back as best as I can, sleeves rolled up to my elbows, but every inch of me feels coated in dirt, blood, and a distinct layer of disdain. Through the narrow gap under the door, shadows pass back and forth, fleeting and indifferent.
"Why did you drag the prince there?" It's always his opening line like we're rehearsing a play we've both grown bored of. The general and me.
"I didn't." My usual response, just as disinterested.
The entire questioning scene was poorly acted. By him, by me. All by order of His Highness, the Crown Prince of Highspire. It's almost comical—how the name Emberthorn is now dragged through the mud before every masked noble who cares to watch, while my mother, the duchess, looks on in silent approval, hoping I'll get what she thinks I deserve.
The cell is dimly lit, a slant of light slipping through a slit in the door, casting dramatic shadows that creep across the floor. Typical Crown theatrics. This whole setup is supposed to intimidate me and remind me I'm just a cog in the Crown Prince's machine. As if I don't already know.
And yet he's the one calling me childish.
His brother isn't some wide-eyed innocent I dragged to look at naked paintings or hauled off to a carnival to gawk at fire-eaters. Xaden is acting as if I carried a helpless infant into the thick of a battlefield. But we both know he doesn't need a reason to hate me. That's a luxury he's always afforded himself, the same way I afford it to him.
I press my fingers to the cold stone floor, feeling the chill sink into my palm. Anger, I've learned, is best left to simmer. It's patience that keeps you sharp.
Time stretches on, marked only by the endless hum of silence. I don't know how long I've been here. Minutes? Hours? The only thing grounding me is the blood on my uniform, still sticky and dark—the remains of the demon and Xavier staining my clothes.
The Crown Prince declared that the Highspire was safe, that no scum from the Undercity would dare breach its walls. And yet here we are.
He knows perfectly well I had nothing to do with the explosion. But he needs a scapegoat. He likes his games—the sort only a prince can play, with pawns arranged in neat little rows. But I am not his pawn, and I'm certainly not going to break just because he's deemed me inconvenient.
Then, finally, I've had enough. I stand, sweeping my fingers through my hair, searching for the stray hairpin the general's lackeys missed. I lick my dried lips, bend to the lock, and—
The door swings open without warning.
I stumble back a step, startled, and immediately catch sight of him—Xaden, with that amused gleam in his stormy gray eyes, his lips quirking upward in a familiar, arrogant smile.
"About damn time," he says, flashing a glance at the general over his shoulder. He's savoring my surprise, drinking it down like it's fine wine. "Didn't I tell you? It's about damn time."
I fold into a short, mocking bow. "Your Highness."
"Yes, yes, you always do," Xaden interrupts, nodding with mock eagerness. He looks every inch the arrogant royal, hair perfectly slicked back, a stray curl falling artfully over one eyebrow, dark circles only adding to his smug, princely charm. He's not even wearing his circlet or cape, yet he radiates that unbearable I'm-better-than-you aura.
I sigh, smoothing my shirt and raising an eyebrow. "I apologize—"
"No, you don't," he cuts in, a hint of pleasure in his voice.
"If you know that, then what the fu—"
"Walk with me, Rosé," he says smoothly.
I blink. "... Pardon?" The Crown Prince has spent his entire life pretending I'm little more than dirt on his boots. Now he wants to stroll the palace grounds with me?
Xaden smirks, ignoring my disbelief. "Walk with me," he repeats as if he's asked for nothing more than tea.
We step out of the dungeon and into the blinding light of the outside. For a moment, I think it's sunlight, but it's just the reflection of his damn teeth.
The palace is strangely calm—silent, even. No running maids, no guards rushing past. Just Xaden and his shadow, Sir Digbeth, trailing behind us. I'm filthy, reeking of sweat and blood, my clothes stained and stiff, while he looks pristine, every inch the perfect Crown Prince.
The only thing that feels right about this is how wrong I look next to him.
He leads me through a corridor lined with etched stone walls, sunlight pouring down in slanted rays that cut across our path. I almost stumble, the shift from dim to bright leaving me disoriented. Every now and then, I step over the sharp, clean lines of sunlight, while he remains untouched, moving in and out of shadow like he owns it.
I hope Jeremy finds the demon with pretty lips and bony fingers.
"He's gone," Xaden says, as if reading my mind. "Jeremy tracked him to the border of the Gloam, then across the river. as far as anyone got."
I raise an eyebrow. "You followed Jeremy?"
Xaden shrugs. "How else am I supposed to know where my only blood-relative is wandering off to die?"
I bite back a retort, clenching my fists at my sides. Images of Xavier, pale and bloodied, creep into my mind, and for a moment, panic rises. I stop walking, the bile of helplessness creeping up my throat.
"Is he…?"
"Oh, he's alive," Xaden says almost lazily, stopping. He turns to face me, an infuriating smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Conscious, even. Barely. But don't worry, Rose, he'll survive your reckless little adventure."
I glare at him, a dozen retorts clawing at my throat. "I didn't—"
But he steps closer, one hand shooting out to grip my neck, pressing me back against the wall. His voice is low, the false playfulness melting away to reveal something darker, sharper.
"You know the rule, Rosé," he murmurs, his face an inch from mine, fingers pressing just hard enough to remind me of the power he holds. "We forgive three times. This was my third. You've got two left."
He releases me, his expression shifting back to that placid, princely mask as if he's just reminded me of the weather. I tug my collar back in place, trying to hide my anger, even as he noticed the absence of the dagger blade that should be pressed against his butt.
"Lost your little toy, have you?" he says, clearly entertained.
I brush past him, ignoring his chuckle, and mutter, "So why am I walking with you, Your Highness?"
He smirks, leading me toward a door just ahead. I am confused and annoyed. I frown. "No,"
"Jeremy went as far as he could. My shadows went as far as they could and got killed." He continues anyway.
He opens the door, holding it with an air of mock chivalry. Shadows stretch down the corridor before me, leading into unknown depths.
Xaden's smirk deepens. "You didn't try."
"Try what?"
He tilts his head, eyes glinting with that familiar cruelty. "The depths of the Undercity. Gloam and beyond." His voice drops to a near whisper, dangerously smooth. "You survived an explosion from there, without a scratch, Rosé. I wonder why?"
For a moment, I say nothing, feeling the weight of his words settle over me.
Even I, an "average" student, can see he's offering me a choice that isn't a choice. A threat, wrapped in silk.
Refuse, and I'll be the prince's scapegoat for the explosion, my name slandered until my life's worth nothing but mud. If not my mother will kill me. Accept, and who knows what he is barking about?
He holds my gaze, that insufferable smile tugging at his lips, knowing I understand. Either way, he's got me trapped.
"Well?" he asks, his voice so soft, so dangerously sweet.
I take a slow breath and step into the darkness beyond the door. Behind me, his chuckles follow me, low and satisfied, like he's already won.