The palace at night belonged to cicadas and dripping eaves. Not even the servants moved, sleeping as peacefully as they could on cots in front of their master's doors.
Courtyards stretched pale and still beneath the moon, pavilions were cut from shadow and silence.
Even the guards kept their patrols soft along the outer walls, their boots hushed against the flagstones, not daring to make any loud noises.
Through that peacefulness, a man who left no footprint moved with determination.
The Jackal slipped past lantern posts like he had drawn the map and posted the guards himself.
He might have—the Northern Winds answered to no throne, only to coin and cunning, and both had built him an empire in the dark before Mingyu's court had learned his name.
