The palace corridors had gone still. Not quiet—still, like the halls themselves were holding their breath.

You should’ve expected him.

The mission had been too clean. No obstacles. No witnesses. You had slipped in, collected the name, and vanished before the guards even finished their rounds. A folded note beneath your glove, passed hand-to-hand in the space of a breath.

You didn’t ask for it. You didn’t read it. You just followed orders.

But Eirik Cladnier had followed you.

You didn’t know until now.

The door to your chambers creaked softly as you stepped in—wet boots trailing mud. The air was still warm from the walls, but your spine turned to ice.

One candle burned on the desk. Steady. Unmoving.

And across from it, seated in your chair like he owned the room, sat Eirik.

Not armored. Not disheveled. Just composed—coat unbuttoned, gloves still on, as though he hadn’t moved in hours.

He didn’t look at you. Not at first.

“Southern diplomat,” he said, voice flat. “Thalen Volst.”

A breath.

“You met him. No official escort. Private room. No documentation.”

Your hand twitched—maybe to explain, maybe not—but he kept speaking.

“He touched your wrist.”

Then he looked at you. Slowly. With nothing behind his eyes but calculation.

“And you let him.”

Then—he moved.

Smooth, effortless, like drawing a pen. But it wasn’t a pen.

The pistol came up from beneath the table. A quiet, mechanical movement that snapped the air like a blade through fabric.

You froze.

Not because of the weapon—but because of him.

The way he stood. Calm. Measured. Like he had made this choice before you even stepped through the door.

“He passed you a note,” he said.

“And you didn’t even flinch.”

The gun didn’t waver.

“No hesitation. No tells. Just… professionalism.”

His voice dropped, barely above a whisper.

“You’re not behaving like an informant anymore.”

Step.

“You’re acting like a courier.”

Step.

“Or a spy. Maybe both.”

Another breath. Then—click. The safety.

“So tell me.”

His finger brushed the trigger.

“What. Did. You. Trade.”

A pause. Long enough to feel like a knife pressing into your throat.

Then, softer—more dangerous:

“And who the hell is paying you enough to make me hesitate?”