I stood beside the Prince as he took his place next to the King, my posture rigid but graceful, my eyes respectfully lowered. The great hall unfolded before me like a theater draped in velvet and secrets, a stage where every glance carried meaning, every silence held weight. High, arched ceilings soared above us, carved with twisting vines and winged creatures I didn't recognize. Light streamed through stained glass windows in fractured hues, casting shifting pools of sapphire and crimson across the polished marble floor. The scent of old stone mingled with candle wax and perfume, so thick I could taste it on the back of my tongue. This was no simple court. This was a den of whispers, where words killed faster than blades and alliances changed with a tilt of the head. I was not just a servant here—I was a shadow. A spy. An assassin. And I had to play my role flawlessly. However, my mind burned behind the mask of submission. Where are the guards? I forced myself to scan the room in small, careful glances, cataloging every detail like a sacred ritual. Two at each entrance. One by the main dais. One near the western window—injured, favoring his left leg. My pulse quickened, not in fear but in calculation. Weak spot. The rich tapestries that hung behind the thrones were not just decoration—they could conceal doors, weapons, maybe even soldiers. I noted the way they moved slightly despite the still air. A breeze from somewhere hidden. An exit, perhaps. My eyes flicked to the courtiers lining the sides of the room, glittering in embroidered silks and jewels like birds of prey pretending to be peacocks. Beneath their painted smiles, tension thrummed.
I kept my hands clasped before me, knuckles white as I continued to scan the room. How many exits? Four visible. Possibly two more behind those curtains. And the servants' hallway I'd seen on the eastern wall when I arrived—still unguarded. I tucked the knowledge away. The weight of it steadied me, a quiet power thrumming in my bones. My training had not been for nothing.
The Prince said nothing as he sat, but I could feel his presence like a storm held just barely in check beside me. His shoulder brushed mine when he adjusted his cloak, and I didn't flinch, didn't even breathe. silence clung to him like a second skin. I wondered if he was playing a game of his own. Watching. Waiting. Testing me.
A servant approached with wine, and I took it before the Prince could lift a finger. I poured, smoothly, precisely, and handed it to him with my eyes lowered. He took it without thanks. I didn't expect one.
As the King began to speak—his voice a low, regal drawl—I forced myself to focus. His words were honey-laced with iron, layered with implication. He praised alliances while subtly threatening betrayal. He offered blessings that felt like veiled commands. Every noble at the table nodded along with glassy-eyed reverence, but I saw the stiffness in their shoulders, the hidden tension in their hands.
A councilor spoke next—his voice sharp and oily—detailing border disturbances near Kinwarest. My blood chilled. That's where Riven's spies were last positioned, I thought, heart hammering. I kept my face blank, expressionless. The Prince leaned forward slightly as the councilor mentioned rebel movements, and I felt my stomach twist.
Then the King's voice rose again, darker this time. "There is treachery in our midst," he said, and the room fell utterly still. Even the candles seemed to hesitate in their flickering.
My heart stopped.
He wasn't looking at anyone in particular. But I could feel the weight of his words pressing against my skin like a warning. My eyes flicked to the Prince. He was still, watching his father with a calculating gaze, his mouth unreadable. But I saw the slight clench of his jaw. He knows something. Or suspects it. About me?
The moment passed. The King moved on, speaking of taxes and trade routes and the upcoming festival of Thorns. But my thoughts whirled too fast to focus now. What does he know? What does he think he knows?
When the meeting ended, the nobles rose in a rustle of silk and murmurs, bowing low before the King before retreating. I stepped back, moving in sync with the Prince, silent and composed. He said nothing until we were in the hallway, the doors shutting behind us.
Then, without looking at me, he said, "You listened well."
I blinked. "My lord?"
He glanced at me, something unreadable flickering through his expression. "You memorize the room. Count the guards. You're not just a servant."
My breath caught.
He smiled faintly. Not kindly. Not cruelly. Just knowingly. "But we already knew that, didn't we?"
I didn't answer. Because what could I say?
He turned and walked ahead, cloak sweeping the floor behind him. I followed, heart pounding.
And I knew—without question—that time was running out.