The cave chilled down more now. The echo of the cavern walls held Amira's words and crawled underneath Aren's skin as some melody twisted.
Gone. The figure faded into the shadows that were swallowing the depths of the tunnels, matched with the boots of guards that echoed . Some soldiers had stayed back to observe him.
They turned and rustled their metallic armor, accompanied by the distant dripping of water in the cave-places, while Aren sat mute on the cave floor.
His wrists, bound by the rope, had formed tight depths into his flesh so that now his pale fingers tingled painfully from being deprived a blood supply.
He gazed at the thick strands down on the dusty ground below, into the dim traces she had made, still left behind like ghosts.
A laugh surfaced from his chest, dry and cracked, and floated off into the air. "Princess, huh?" he muttered to himself, his voice broken."That's what I've been hearing this whole time... all those dumb jokes... and you were dancing circles around me the entire time."
A guard strode forth, eyes demanding contempt, while boots power-kicked-above to blaze away from Aren's side.
"Shut up," the guard hisses at him cruelly ,spitting the word like poison.
Then, Aren turned back to glare at the guard. The guard wavered, moving his weight for a roundhouse kick, but before that leg was lifted, Aren lunged like a striking viper, biting deep into the man's ankle.
The stammering backward of the guard would then be clasping hips and shrieking for what good it would do him.
Now, Aren rolled across the floor to reach a spiky stone stuck upward from the ground before he began sawing and rattling at his ropes, taking in air in a harsh, ragged gasp as it scraped down his throat.
Another guard charged through like a bull roaring with sword held high. Aren charged into the knee with his shoulder in brutal precision that made the guardsman topple backward with a crash, his sword clattering away into the shadows.
The last fibers of the rope snapped. The blood rush rushed back to incite fire in the hands, bringing the painful rush of pins and needles, which however did not pause. Just in time, he reached out to grip the fallen sword and deflected that violent downward thrust that aimed to form a nice cut in his neck.
So much uproar did the cave break into that Tidal would have drifted with it. There was sound booming like thunder as blades rang together, sparks flew bright against the stone walls, while dull groans from the trapped men locked in siege rang through the dark.
Finally, when the thunder of clashing had died down, Aren stood alone, his chest rising and falling in rough waves. Sweat dripped down strands of hair lined down the dirt-streaked face with every movement.
Now, cover around him and below him, the scene of unfortunate guards, some stretched out groaning gripping wounds, while others are soon to black out.
Sliding the sword down his grip, Aren fell to the ground and pressed his back into the face of the rugged cave wall, sliding down to sit with his knees drawn up.
Arms quaking with explosive violence, and breath haggling painfully in his throat as though it were displacing itself against some great storm inside each heaving breathing.
Once again, Amira's voice rang sharp and clear in his head, Because I am the princess of Zehara.
Aren pressed his forehead against his knees and let out a long, agonizing, shattered breath that rattled deep in his chest.
And then, it seemed as if from one deep reservoir, a slow, dangerous grin began to curl dangerously across his face.
Oh, my sweet jungle star Amira," he whispered to the shadows, almost in breathy and touching tones like some nostalgic voice reliving memory. "You want a kingdom? You want power? Fine. But you forgot one thing."
His eyes roamed ahead, ablaze, and that gaze spoke of nothing playful or mocking but burning with pure, razor-sharp resolve. "You have forgotten that the Laughing Blade always has the last laugh."
Aren could drag himself up, then bow down over one of the fallen guards lying unconscious on the floor. He took off the man's dark cloak and draped it over his shoulders, while his search through the ground with his eyes turned out to be successful because he found a jagged dagger.
He wrapped it carefully in his boot before filling his belt pouch with a small serving of dried meat and a few flasks of water, which he coughed together before going.
Before going out, Aren turned once more to look into the tunnel where she had vanished. His expression softened only for an instant. For a fleeting moment, the fire flickering in his eyes bringing remembrance about them..
It was a late morning when he turned and stepped forward, each stride steadier and stronger than the last. His mind raced, pouring images into his brain of palace corridors, hidden escape passages, and the network of old allies who still owed him more than a few favors.
She seemed to break him-he seemed like, finally, the Laughing Blade of the jungle would lie still.
Aren hummed quietly-his voice rolled through the cave like an echoing ghost. It was not the laugh of a broken man but the war tune of one who had only ever started to fight.
Outside, the sun dangled overhead like high-mast ships in the green and gold flopping sea of treetops, a guardian above all, silent witness to the fierce promise that burned yet dimly in Aren's eyes.
Tomorrow, the game would change. Tomorrow, he would turn the hilt of every betrayal against its master. Tomorrow, he would hunt, strike, and laugh once more.
This time however, he'd not play nice.