The morning air in the palace was thick with silence, the kind that stretched and curled through the corridors like an invisible fog. Even the usually bustling servant quarters had quieted, as if the palace itself was holding its breath.
Good. Let it hold its breath forever.
I hadn't been summoned in five days. Five blessed, silent days. No cold gazes. No smug smiles. No walking on a tightrope with knives hanging overhead.
Just cleaning. Folding. Fetching. Scrubbing.
The kind of mindless work that lulled my nerves, allowed me to think behind my mask. Every chore, every dull task, was a blessing in disguise. I could move without drawing attention. I could listen without being watched. And most of all, I could plan.
There were whispers again this morning. Something about the King preparing to meet with one of the western envoys. Some high-ranking noble from Chishma, I think. That meant more guards, more eyes… but also more opportunities. If the King was distracted, the palace would shift. And in that shift, I might find cracks wide enough to slip through.
The upper levels of the east wing were quiet that day, abandoned save for the guards stationed like statues at regular intervals. I'd volunteered to deliver a stack of newly pressed linens to the guest suites—just close enough to the royal quarters to keep my ears open.
"Keep your head down, don't linger," the head maid had warned.
Of course. But I had no intention of lingering. Just listening.
I moved through the hall with practiced ease, skirts swishing just above the polished floor, hands steady on the stack of crisp white linens. Another maid might have been lost in thoughts of daydreams, or songs, or gossip. Not me.
My mind mapped every turn of the corridor, every servant that passed, every guard that so much as blinked. The layout was slowly etching itself into my memory like a map sketched in charcoal—rough, incomplete, but growing clearer with every passing day.
The King's wing was heavily guarded, of course. Too many eyes for me to linger near his chamber doors. But the servants' routes—the back passageways, the narrow stairwells used for food and laundry and silence—they would be my entry points.
Someday. Not now. Not yet. But soon.
I turned the corner, attention fixed on the tapestry lining the far wall—a useless thing, more gold than thread, depicting some ancient Fae conquest. My eyes narrowed. The edge of it didn't quite rest flat against the wall.
A hidden passage?
Mental note made, I shifted my grip on the linens—and collided with something solid.
The stack slipped from my arms in a flurry of linen and panic, fluttering down around my ankles like oversized snowflakes. My breath caught in my throat as I staggered back and looked up, into a face I had not seen in five days.
The Prince.
Of course.
His eyes landed on mine, then flicked downward, taking in the scene with slow, glacial disapproval. He wore no crown, no cloak—just a deep charcoal tunic that somehow managed to make him look even more predatory.
My stomach twisted, and I fought back a snarl. "Forgive me, my lord," I said quickly, dipping into a bow so low my spine ached. "I wasn't watching where I was going."
His voice was quiet, but cutting. "Clearly."
I dropped to my knees without another word, gathering the fallen linens with shaking hands. Not from fear. From rage.
Five days. Five peaceful, quiet, tolerable days. And now this. I could feel his gaze like a knife in my back as I worked, too aware of how exposed I was, how vulnerable. My fingers clenched tighter around the last sheet, crumpling it slightly.
His boots stepped closer. One. Two.
"Lira," he said, that name again like a blade made of silk. "Have you been avoiding me?"
"No, my lord," I replied, forcing my voice into something light and docile. "I have only gone where duty calls."
He was quiet for a beat too long, so I looked up—carefully, warily. His expression was unreadable, but there was something behind his eyes I didn't like. A flicker. Like a game he was playing only he knew the rules to.
"You've been quiet," he said softly.
I gave a small, polite smile. "I was told to keep my head down."
"Hmm." He tilted his head slightly. "I imagine it's easier, not speaking. Less room for... mistakes."
I nodded. "Yes, my lord."
He studied me for another long moment, and then, finally, stepped back.
"You dropped a sheet," he said.
I blinked. "My apologies—"
"Behind you."
I turned, and there it was. The last linen, partially caught on the edge of the tapestry.
He knew. Not everything. Not even close. But he noticed where my eyes had gone.
I reached for it slowly, keeping my hand steady as I freed the fabric from the slight tear where the tapestry lifted. The wall behind it felt different. Hollow.
Not now. Not yet. I stood and turned with the bundle clutched tight against my chest. "Thank you, my lord," I said.
He said nothing. I waited a beat longer. Then two. "You may go," he finally said, his voice bored now, distant again.
Good.
I bowed and stepped past him, praying my footsteps wouldn't betray the rush of adrenaline in my veins.
He didn't follow, and I didn't look back. Not until I turned another corner, heart pounding, lungs tight. I'd nearly ruined everything. Or maybe… Maybe I'd gained something, too.
Because now I knew of a hidden passageway. A passageway to what, I didn't know. But I would find out.
And when I did, I'd be one step closer to ending this.
To ending him.