The palace never slept.
It only learned how to breathe quietly.
Cael felt it the moment he left the council wing...the subtle shift in air, the way footfalls echoed half a second too late, the absence of servants where there should have been many.
Surveillance.
Crude, but effective.
So the Chancellor doesn't trust silence alone.
He adjusted his pace, neither rushing nor lingering, letting himself appear like just another shadow moving through the labyrinthine corridors. His path bent naturally toward the eastern wing...unused halls, forgotten storage chambers, the sort of places no noble bothered to remember.
Perfect places to die.
Cael stopped abruptly.
The torch ahead flickered.
Not from wind.
From movement.
His body reacted before thought. He twisted sideways as steel whispered past where his throat had been a heartbeat earlier. Pain flared across his shoulder as the blade grazed flesh...but shallow. Controlled.
One attacker.
The assassin dropped from the ceiling beam in a fluid motion, cloaked in matte black, face hidden behind a smooth mask etched with thin sigils.
Professional.
Cael didn't retreat. He stepped in.
The assassin adjusted instantly, short blade reversing grip, aiming low...kidney, femoral artery, places meant to end fights fast.
Cael caught the wrist.
The contact sent a jolt through his arm...not Pulse, but memory. His grip tightened automatically, bones grinding together.
The assassin hissed, surprised.
Too late.
Cael drove his forehead forward.
The mask cracked. The assassin stumbled back, barely keeping footing.
"Who sent you?" Cael asked calmly.
The assassin laughed.
And bit down.
Cael cursed and slammed the man against the wall just as a sharp crack echoed from inside the mask. Blood spilled down the assassin's chin as his body went limp.
Poison capsule.
Expected.
Cael eased the body to the floor, already searching. No insignia. No markings. Only a small medallion hidden beneath the collar.
A single sigil.
Angular. Familiar.
Chancellor's office seal.
Not proof. Never proof.
Just a message.
Cael wiped the blood from his knuckles and straightened as footsteps approached from both ends of the corridor.
Guards.
He moved.
Not running...never running. He slipped through a service passage just as armored boots thundered past the intersection.
"…secure the body!"
"…seal the wing!"
"…notify the Chancellor immediately!"
Cael disappeared into darkness, pulse scars burning faintly beneath his ribs.
By dawn, the palace was buzzing with rumors.
A failed assassination.
Officially, it was blamed on "lingering cult activity."
Unofficially?
Fear spread.
Cael listened from the upper terrace as servants whispered, as guards tightened formations, as nobles avoided certain corridors.
And at the center of it all...
Lord Halverin.
The Chancellor stood before the throne later that morning, hands folded neatly, expression grave.
"Security will be doubled," he announced. "Anyone found near restricted areas without authorization will be detained."
A pause.
"And if the fallen hero's seal reacts again…"
His eyes flicked...just briefly...toward the eastern wing.
"…we will respond decisively."
Cael watched from behind a marble balustrade, eyes cold.
You're testing the waters, he realized. Not trying to kill me.
The assassin had been bait.
Halverin didn't want him dead yet.
He wanted to know what had come back.
Cael turned away, cloak whispering softly.
"Careful," he murmured. "If you look too closely…"
His fingers tightened.
"You might remember who I was."