The palace slept, or at least pretended to. In the deepest hours of night, when even the most diligent servants had retired and the corridors lay draped in shadow, three figures moved through Isolde's quarters with the silent efficiency of those who knew they were running out of time.
"Are we certain about this?" Damon asked, his voice barely above a whisper. He stood by the window, watching the empty courtyard below with the wariness of a man who'd learned to trust his instincts.
"We have no choice." Isolde's response came sharp and cold. She was pacing, her usual composure fraying at the edges like old silk. "That woman knows. Or suspects. Either way, we can't keep the maid here another day."
Kael, sprawled in a chair with deceptive laziness, twirled a dagger between his fingers.
"The merchant?" Damon turned from the window.
