The palace never truly slept.
Even in the small hours, when most corridors lay dark and silent, there were always footsteps. Soft-soled servants carrying trays, guards changing shift, messengers slipping between wings with sealed letters. Tonight the footsteps carried a different rhythm: hurried, uneven, the sound of men trying not to be heard.
Commander Draven moved through the lower service passages like a shadow that had learned to carry a sword. His silver hair caught the occasional torch flare, turning it to cold moonlight. He carried no lantern; he had long ago memorized every turn and dead-end in this part of the palace. Tonight he needed darkness.
He stopped outside the laundry storeroom.
The door was ajar.
Inside, a single candle burned on an overturned crate. Its flame trembled as though afraid of what it illuminated.
A body lay face-down on the flagstones.
