The palace never truly sleeps.
Even at midnight, its corridors hum with quiet movement—the soft rhythm of servants who know not to make eye contact, the distant whisper of guards patrolling behind mirrored walls.
Every sound feels amplified here, bouncing through the cold geometry of marble and glass until silence itself becomes suspicious.
I sat by the window, the moon reflected perfectly in the polished floor, my reflection faint beneath it. The council's words still burned behind my eyes.Purification. Dawn.
Tomorrow, everything would end.
I pressed a hand to my abdomen, the warmth there small and steady, like a secret heartbeat. It made my thoughts sharper, not softer. Fear used to make me freeze; now it made me calculate.
I couldn't run through the main gates. Too many guards, too much protocol. Every exit was monitored, especially after Leonardo's invasion.
My old chambers had once been my cage—now they were my prison.
So I began to map it in my mind:The western garden connects to the greenhouse. The greenhouse connects to the maintenance tunnels—used only by the servants who clean the irrigation lines.
If I could reach the tunnels, I could reach the outer courtyard and from there—if luck decided to be kind—the stables.
But the Neutral Palace is not kind.
I stood, the nightgown too thin against the chill, and crossed to the desk where a silver ink pen gleamed under lamplight. Beside it lay the parchment the Chancellor had given me earlier—a copy of the council's summons.
My name written in precise, ceremonial script: Princess Evne Roman of the Neutral Throne.
I tore it in half. The sound was small but satisfying.
A faint movement flickered in the glass wall across from me. I froze.
Not reflection.A shadow.
Slowly, I turned my head toward the corner of the room. There—a figure, faint, cloaked in darkness near the door. I didn't move. Didn't breathe.
"Show yourself," I whispered.
For a moment, nothing. Then a soft click—the distinct rhythm of a guard's insignia unlocking.
"Forgive me, Your Highness." A voice, male, young. "I was ordered to stand watch discreetly. For your protection."
Protection.They'd already begun watching me.
I forced a faint smile, the kind that looked royal enough to disarm suspicion.
"Then you've done your duty well. Return to your post. I'd like to rest."
He hesitated, then bowed and retreated. His boots clicked once, twice—and stopped too soon.
He hadn't gone far.
I waited until the corridor quieted again before moving. I couldn't risk being seen with anything suspicious, so I worked with what I had:
—a cloak hidden behind the dresser,—a pouch of coins Leonardo once slipped into my hand during a market walk ("in case you ever decide to run," he'd said, half-joking),—and the smallest blade I'd ever owned, a ceremonial dagger from my coronation.
I hid the dagger under the cloak, tying it against my thigh with a strip of torn fabric. The motion made my breath hitch; a wave of dizziness rose again, sudden and sharp.
I gripped the table edge until it passed.
"You will not fail now," I whispered to myself.
The plan was reckless, but so was waiting. I could reach the greenhouse if I moved through the servant's stairwell two corridors north.
There, a ventilation gate led directly into the lower halls.
I blew out the candle, letting the moonlight swallow the room, and slipped barefoot into the corridor.
The marble floor was cold beneath my feet, every step deliberate. The palace smelled of wax and lavender—a scent I'd once found comforting, now cloying. Too clean. Too false.
Halfway down the stairwell, I heard voices.
"…keep her under watch till morning.""…the medic's orders—her scent's unstable, might affect the guards."
I pressed against the wall, heart hammering. Unstable scent. They knew something.
When the footsteps faded, I slipped through the shadows toward the greenhouse passage.
The air grew damper there, filled with the faint breath of soil and leaves.
Then—movement again. But not guards this time. Something lighter.
I caught the flicker of pale fabric near the archway, the sound of shallow breathing. Another watcher. Not palace guard—their posture was wrong, too still, almost predatory.
I took one step closer, slow as thought. "Who are you?"
The figure straightened. A young woman—one of the handmaidens, or so I'd thought. But her eyes gleamed with amber light. Not human. Not neutral.
"Your enemies are already moving, Your Highness," she whispered. "The purification is only a cover."
My blood went cold. "Then who sent you?"
"Not who," she said softly. "He. The Alpha King. He's coming."
Before I could speak, she turned, disappearing into the humid dark of the greenhouse.
I stood frozen, the night pressing around me, the air heavy with the scent of rain and roses.
Leonardo. He knew.
And if he was coming—Then dawn would bring more than a council's test.
It would bring war.