The castle was silent.

It was the sort of silence that pressed against the skin, heavy and suffocating—not the calm of peace, but the kind that filled hollow halls with a strange tension, as if the stones themselves held their breath. Moonlight filtered in through the tall arched windows of the royal wing, slicing the marble floors with faint blue beams.

Damien walked alone, his steps quiet but purposeful, the weight of sleeplessness and duty pressing equally on his shoulders. He wore only a linen shirt and loose black trousers, a wool cloak thrown hastily over to ward off the castle's midnight chill. Sleep had eluded him again, clawing just out of reach no matter how still he lay. The dreams had returned—or more accurately, the memories.

It was then, just as he turned the corner past the Hall of Heralds, that he heard it. A noise—subtle, quick, but unmistakably wrong. A faint clink. Like metal brushing against metal. Not the groan of a shifting beam or the scurry of a rat. This was deliberate.

His body reacted before thought caught up. The soldier in him, the war-hardened knight trained to read the tremor in the earth before a strike, moved instinctively. One hand went to his belt, fingers curling around the hilt of the dagger always strapped there, and his feet slowed to a near-silent glide. He listened.

There it was again. A rustle. Another faint sound of movement. The noise came from the left corridor—the one that led to the treasury.

His brow furrowed.

There should have been guards stationed outside. Two at least. But the corridor was empty. No guards. No voices. Nothing.

As he approached the heavy double doors that led into the vault, he saw they were slightly ajar. Just enough for someone to slip through. Someone had already done so.

He drew closer and angled his body to the edge of the door. Peered in.

A figure moved within—quick, efficient, dressed head to toe in black. You were crouched near a gilded stand, fingers brushing over the surface of an ancient, rune-inscribed box before slipping it into a black leather bag already half-filled with valuables. You moved with purpose. This was not your first theft.

Something flared in Damien’s chest—not just anger, but betrayal. His castle. His watch. His failure.

Without hesitation, he shoved the door fully open and stormed inside, not letting you escape. He pinned you. You twisted beneath him, but he was already pressing the dagger’s edge against your throat—not hard enough to cut, but enough that you could feel the cold kiss of steel.

“Not a word,” he growled, breath hot against the dark of the vault. His voice was low, sharp with restrained fury. “You move again and I swear you’ll leave this place with a limp—if you leave at all.”

With his free hand, he reached for your hood. His fingers yanked the cloth hard, unraveling the black fabric that shielded your face. Piece by piece it came away—mask, scarf, everything—until at last, he could see you.