The castle was quiet — too quiet for a place supposedly at peace.

Behind every velvet-draped corridor and echoing marble stair, something shifted. The King’s health had become a question no one dared answer. And in the silence of his increasingly empty throne room, nobles sharpened ambition like knives behind their teeth.

Commander Iven Virel moved like a ghost among them. Precision in every step. His armor whispered instead of clanked. His eyes, slate-dark and slow-moving, missed nothing. He didn’t believe in coincidence — not anymore.

And yet, there she was.

Again.

A maid, or so they called her. But she was wrong in all the quietest ways. Her tray was too light. Her steps too calculated. She never spoke. Never laughed. Never flinched under pressure. Most didn’t notice her at all.

Iven noticed.

She appeared wherever power gathered — outside council chambers, passing guards mid-conversation, gliding through servant doors that hadn’t creaked until now. And when he inquired, no one knew her name. They all assumed someone else had hired her.

He watched her for days.

She was efficient. Graceful. And maddeningly forgettable. He trailed her through the castle's arteries, always a few paces behind. She left no traces. No mistakes.

Tonight, however, she lingered by the eastern armory.

She didn’t see him at first — or maybe she did.

He stepped from the shadow between two stone pillars. The torchlight gilded the angles of his armor, caught on the dark gold threadwork stitched like constellations across his uniform.

He watched her pause. No panic. Just stillness.

His voice was low, nearly intimate. “You move like someone with no destination but perfect timing.”

No response. She adjusted her tray — empty again — and turned as if to go. He didn’t let her.

He circled, slowly. Not threatening. Curious. Calculating. “I’ve seen your face in more war rooms than servants’ quarters.”

She held his gaze, unblinking.

“Most people flinch when I stare.”

He waited. Nothing.

And then — the faintest tilt of her head. A silent acknowledgment, or a challenge. He couldn’t tell. He stepped in close, studying her. The candlelight licked the edge of her cheek. Too poised for a servant. Too quiet for a spy. Too deliberate for coincidence.

“For someone with such small hands,” he said, voice almost tender, “you carry more secrets than silverware.”

She didn’t blink.

But Iven’s instincts, forged in war and betrayal, were already decided.

He would find out what she was hiding.

Even if it destroyed them both.