Night didn't fall. It caved in.
The sky collapsed into smoke-colored velvet, the moon veiled behind clouds that moved like whispers of a dying breath.
Inside the palace, all was hushed, golden lanterns flickered low in their jade holders, casting shadows like secrets against the stone walls.
I slipped out of my chamber alone, draped in robes the color of midnight oil. No maids. No escorts. Only me in silent, unarmed to the blind eye.
But under the embroidered belt, I slid the sword from its sheath.
It wasn't made for killing.
Not technically.
The blade was thin, flexible, almost delicate, meant for practice drills in courtyards where no one bled.
But i had sharpened it.
I had honed it alone in the dead hours, grinding steel against stone until its edge could slice through silk in the wind.
I wrapped it in the hem of my robe, hilt tucked beneath the folds, as if i carried nothing but fabric.
I did this every night now.
Because when they smile too much at court, when the tea tastes sweeter than it should, when the guards glance too long at your doors, it's only a matter of time.
But tonight… I wasn't preparing for war. I just wanted air.
The southern garden lay deserted.
Lotus leaves floated in the pond like forgotten prayers.
Bamboo stalks creaked overhead.
The air tasted of jasmine and stillness.
I moved between stone lanterns, my steps light, almost reverent. Petals drifted like snowfall.
Then—
snap.
A twig broke.
Too sharp.
Too close.
I froze.
My hand found the hilt beneath my robe. I didn't breathe. I didn't blink.
And then, he stepped out of the shadows.
Cloth masked his face. His robe was black, no insignia. But the blade in his hand gleamed cruel and curved, and his eyes—
Cold, purposeful.
The kind of eyes that had watched blood pool too many times.
He didn't speak.
He lunged.
I drew the blade mid-motion, the sound of steel slicing air cut through the stillness.
His sword met mine with a shriek.
The clash reverberated through my arms.
He was strong.
He struck again, fast, relentless.
I blocked, barely.
His blade kissed my arm.
Fire exploded under my skin.
Blood gushed.
I gasped, staggered.
Warmth soaked through the robe.
My arm trembled, breath snagging in my throat.
But i didn't fall.
I pivoted.
Slashed low.
He didn't expect it, my blade sliced through the side of his hand.
A grunt.
A hiss of breath through clenched teeth.
He pulled back, blood now leaking between his fingers.
He readied again.
But before the next strike—
Another rustle.
From behind.
He paused.
He fled.
Just like that—gone.
I stood there, blood dripping from my elbow, painting the stone beneath me.
A petal caught in it.
Soft. Innocent. Soaked in red.
I pressed the cloth to the wound, choking on the pain.
My vision blurred, not from blood loss, but rage. Cold, bitter rage that tasted like iron and betrayal.
I staggered back toward the corridor.
Each step, a silent scream against the stone floor.
That was when she found me. Maybe she was coming to check if i needed tea or anything.
"Elise," I breathed.
She fell to her knees, white robes flowing like water, her hands fluttering near my wound but too afraid to touch.
"I—my Lady—what happened—?"
"Help me up," I whispered.
I barely made it to the cushioned seat by the window. My whole side throbbed. Elise's eyes were wild.
"Send for the physician," I told her.
She hesitated. "Should I—should i inform—"
"No," I snapped, then softer: "No one must know. No one."
Her throat bobbed. "Yes, Princess."
She vanished down the corridor.
I waited.
Not with patience, but with precision.
I sat with blood-soaked silk and a heartbeat like thunder.
The physician came swiftly. Unnamed. Chosen for discretion. His hands were cold, his voice colder.
He didn't ask questions.
Only treated the wound.
When he left, Elise remained, her small hand on mine, shaking.
"You should sleep," she whispered.
"I will."
I didn't.
Morning broke, but i didn't.
No summons. No guards. No eyes watching through slit windows.
Just the low sun spilling gold over the bloodied bandage on my arm.
Then, he came.
Lucien.
No warning.
Just the soft sound of the door closing behind him.
I sat still by the window.
Light pooling on my lap like mercy.
He stood, framed by shadow. Regal. Composed. Hands behind his back.
But i didn't look at him. Not yet.
I looked at the guard behind him.
Tall. Silent. Clean uniform.
And then, I saw it.
His left arm.
Bandaged beneath the silk.
The fabric bunched in a way that no formal robe should. A stiffness in his wrist, a slight awkward bend in his posture.
And then i knew.
That was the hand i struck.
That was the man who tried to kill me.
I memorized every detail, because no one else would carry this truth but me.
"You're hurt," Lucien said.
His voice held no weight. No warmth. It was… factual.
I didn't rise. "I rolled in my sleep," I murmured.
He nodded once.
No disbelief.
No care. "You should be more careful."
"In my own room?" I asked, tilting my head. "How careless of me."
Silence stretched long between us, like a blade drawn slow.
Then, I looked at the guard again.
Let him feel my gaze like steel against the back of his neck.
His shoulder twitched.
I smiled faintly.
"I suppose," I said, "everyone bleeds eventually."
Lucien's eyes snapped to mine.
He didn't blink. Didn't breathe. "Is that a threat?"
"No," I said. "An observation."
A muscle ticked in his jaw.
He didn't ask who hurt me.
Because he already knew.
He didn't offer to protect me.
Because he already chose his side.
He simply said, "I'll have food brought to your chambers."
"I'm not hungry."
"You look pale."
"Then look away."
He stared at me for a long, silent second.
And left.
The door closed like a tomb sealing shut.
But i stayed still.
One hand pressed to my wound.
The other gripped the hilt of the blade hidden beneath the cushions.
Because i knew now.
They weren't sending messages.
They weren't warning me.
They were trying to erase me.
And the order came from him.
Lucien.
My husband. My protector. My executioner. The Crown Prince.
Let him pretend.
Let him dress the wound with silk and politeness.
Let them all play the palace game.
Because i remembered the blood.
I remembered how his man bled under my blade.
And the next time i draw this sword, I won't aim to warn.
I will aim to kill.