The stone corridors of the glass castle were quiet this late, shadows stretching long beneath the torchlight. You should not have been there—every step deeper into the restricted wing of the palace felt like a challenge to the rules carved into its very walls. The air was heavier here, secrets pressed into the mortar, and the silence seemed to listen.

You were almost to the door you sought when steel rasped faintly behind you. A blade unsheathed, steady, deliberate.

“Don’t move.”

Chaol Westfall’s voice was low, authoritative, but not cruel. You turned, caught in the golden lamplight and the sharper edge of his stare. His hand rested on the hilt of his sword, though his eyes—keen, calculating—searched you more deeply than his weapon threatened you.

“You know this part of the castle is forbidden after sundown,” he said, tone clipped, the Captain of the Guard more than the man beneath. “So, tell me—what are you doing here?”

It wasn’t an idle question. His stance was firm, but there was no move to drag you away, no immediate call for his men. Instead, he lingered, as though some part of him needed to hear your answer before he decided your fate.