The cave felt colder now. The echoes of Amira's words clung to the walls and crawled beneath Aren's skin like a cruel, lingering melody.
She was gone. Her figure had vanished into the shadows, swallowed up by the depths of the tunnels as the guards followed her, their boots echoing in the dark like a funeral drum. Only a few soldiers remained behind to watch over him. They shifted restlessly, the metallic clink of their armor blending with the distant dripping of cave water.
Aren sat motionless on the cold ground. His wrists were bound so tightly that the rope bit into his skin, making his fingers tingle and pale from the loss of blood. He stared at the coarse fibers, at the dusty floor beneath him, at the faint marks where her footprints still lingered like ghosts.
A dry, broken laugh rose from his chest and slipped into the heavy air.
"Princess, huh?" he muttered under his breath, his voice cracked and hoarse. "All that time... all those dumb jokes... and you were dancing circles around me the entire time."
A guard stepped forward, eyes hard with contempt. He lashed out with his boot, slamming it into Aren's side.
"Quiet," the guard snarled, spitting the word like venom.
Aren's head snapped up, his eyes glittering in the torchlight. Even bound and bruised, that untamed spark in his gaze refused to die.
The guard hesitated, shifting his weight to strike again. But before he could lift his leg, Aren lunged forward like a striking viper and sank his teeth deep into the man's ankle.
The guard let out a strangled howl and stumbled backward, trying to shake him off. Aren seized the moment, rolling across the floor toward a sharp stone jutting up from the ground. Gritting his teeth, he began sawing at the ropes, breath coming in harsh, ragged gasps that scraped at his throat.
Another guard roared and charged, sword raised high. Aren dropped his shoulder, smashing into the man's knee with brutal precision. The guard toppled backward with a crash, his sword clattering away into the shadows.
Aren felt the last fibers of rope snap. Blood surged back into his hands like fire, bringing a painful rush of pins and needles. He didn't pause. He grabbed the fallen sword and swung just in time to deflect a vicious downward strike aimed at his neck.
The cave erupted into chaos. Blades rang like thunder, sparks burst in bright showers against the stone walls, and the heavy grunts of men locked in combat echoed through the dark like the calls of angry spirits.
When the final clash ended, Aren stood alone, his chest rising and falling in ragged waves. Sweat dripped from his hair, streaking down his dirt-smudged face. His knuckles were raw, and the hilt of the sword felt like an extension of his own bones.
Around him, the guards lay sprawled and groaning, some clutching wounds, others already slipping into unconsciousness.
Aren let the sword slide from his grip and dropped to the ground. He pressed his back against the rough cave wall, sliding down until he sat with his knees drawn up. His arms trembled uncontrollably, and his breath hitched in his throat as though each inhale fought against a hidden storm inside him.
Amira's voice rang in his mind again, each word sharp and vivid. "Because I am the princess of Zehara."
Aren pressed his forehead against his knees and let out a long, shuddering breath that rattled deep in his chest.
Then, as if pulled from the depths of some hidden reserve, a slow, dangerous grin began to spread across his face.
"Oh, Amira... my sweet jungle star," he whispered to the shadows, his voice low and almost tender. "You want a kingdom? You want power? Fine. But you forgot something important."
He lifted his head. His eyes blazed now, no longer playful or mocking, but burning with pure, razor-sharp resolve.
"You forgot that the Laughing Blade always has the last laugh."
He pushed himself to his feet and bent over one of the fallen guards, tearing away a dark cloak and throwing it around his own shoulders. He searched the ground quickly, finding a sharp dagger, which he slid carefully into his boot. He gathered a small pouch of dried meat and water flasks, hooking them onto his belt.
Before leaving, Aren paused and looked once more into the tunnel where she had disappeared. For a fleeting moment, his expression softened. A flicker of warmth trembled behind the fire in his eyes, a memory of shared laughter and moonlit whispers.
Then, with a long exhale, that softness vanished. The warmth hardened into cold steel.
It was late morning when he turned and stepped forward, each stride steadier and stronger than the last. His mind raced, painting images of palace corridors, hidden escape passages, and the network of old allies who still owed him more than a few favors.
She thought she had shattered him. She thought the jungle's Laughing Blade would finally lie still.
But as he walked, Aren began to hum quietly, the sound rolling out through the cave like an echoing ghost. It was not the laugh of a broken man, but the war tune of someone who had just begun to fight.
It was late morning. Outside, the sun hung high above the jungle canopy, turning the treetops into a sea of shimmering green and gold. It felt like a watchful guardian, silently blessing the fierce promise burning in Aren's eyes.
Tomorrow, the game would change. Tomorrow, he would turn every betrayal into a blade of his own. Tomorrow, he would hunt, strike, and laugh once more.
And this time, he wouldn't play nice.