I did not sleep.
Sleep was a luxury for people who were not scheduled to be murdered.
I sat at the small writing desk near the window, candlelight trembling across parchment I pretended to read. Every sound—the faint crackle of wax, the whisper of silk when I shifted, the distant echo of footsteps—felt sharpened, like the palace itself had grown teeth.
The clock chimed again.
One.
In the memory, this was the hour.
I rose silently and moved toward the door, pressing my ear against the cold wood. Nothing. Too quiet. The palace at night was never silent—not truly. There were always guards murmuring, servants moving, a living rhythm beneath the stone.
This silence was intentional.
A soft scrape reached me then. Barely audible. Metal against metal.
My pulse spiked.
Someone was unlocking the outer corridor gate.
Not my door.
Yet.
I stepped back, scanning the chamber quickly. The bed, the heavy curtains, the wardrobe carved with the royal crest. My gaze snagged on the narrow panel beside the bookshelf—one I had never noticed before tonight.
Memory stirred.
A passage, the queen's mind whispered faintly. Hidden.
Of course there was.
Palaces were built on secrets.
I crossed the room swiftly and pressed my palm against the carved rose at the panel's center. There was a click, soft and final. The panel shifted open just enough to reveal darkness beyond.
Cold air brushed my face.
Footsteps sounded in the corridor outside my chamber now. Measured. Unhurried. Whoever was coming knew exactly where they were going.
They weren't afraid of being caught.
That terrified me more than haste ever could.
I slipped into the passage and pulled the panel shut just as the sound of a key sliding into my door echoed through the room.
My heart thundered so violently I feared it would betray me.
The passage was narrow, stone pressing close on either side. I moved carefully, guided more by instinct than sight. The darkness felt familiar, as if this body had walked it before—even if the queen herself had never used it to save her life.
The door creaked open behind me.
Boots crossed marble.
A man's voice spoke quietly. Calm. Confident.
"She should be asleep."
Another voice replied, lower, amused. "She won't wake."
A chill crawled up my spine.
They were inside my chamber.
I pressed my hand against my mouth to keep from breathing too loudly. My nails bit into my skin as I listened, every word searing itself into my mind.
"Make it clean," the first voice said. "No noise."
"As always."
Footsteps approached the bed.
Silk rustled.
Then—confusion.
"…She's not here."
Silence fell, sharp and dangerous.
"What do you mean, not here?"
"The bed is untouched."
My stomach twisted violently.
"Search the room," the first man snapped.
I moved.
The passage sloped downward slightly, opening into a larger corridor lit by narrow slits of moonlight. I didn't stop to think where it led. Thinking wasted time.
A shout erupted behind me.
"She's gone!"
The sound of steel leaving a sheath rang through the stone.
I ran.
My slippers slapped softly against the floor, breath tearing from my lungs as I followed the passage's twists blindly. The palace above felt like a beast awakening—distant footsteps, shouts echoing faintly as the hunt began.
A hunt for me.
The passage ended abruptly at a narrow door. I slammed my shoulder into it, pain flaring as it burst open, spilling me into a dimly lit corridor I recognized instantly.
The eastern gallery.
Guards were stationed at the far end.
Relief surged—brief, foolish.
Before I could call out, a figure stepped from the shadows ahead of me.
Tall.
Broad-shouldered.
Blocking my path with effortless authority.
I skidded to a halt, heart slamming against my ribs.
Moonlight caught his face as he lifted his head.
Sharp features. Dark hair pulled back neatly. Eyes like polished steel—cool, assessing, unreadable.
Prince Alaric.
The Crown Prince.
For a fraction of a second, we stared at each other.
In that instant, the memory and the present collided violently.
This was the man who had watched her die.
Or arrived too late.
Or allowed it to happen.
I didn't know which version of him stood before me now.
"What are you doing here?" he asked quietly.
Not surprised.
Not confused.
Watching me like a chess piece that had moved unexpectedly.
Behind me, footsteps thundered closer through the passage.
I made my decision.
"Someone tried to kill me," I said.
His eyes sharpened immediately.
Silence stretched between us, heavy and electric.
Then he moved.
In one swift motion, he pulled me behind him, placing his body squarely between mine and the approaching danger. His hand lifted, signaling the guards at the gallery's end.
"Seal the corridor," he commanded coldly. "Now."
Steel clashed as guards surged forward.
The assassins burst from the passage seconds later—and died just as quickly.
Blood splattered across marble.
I didn't look away.
I couldn't afford to.
When it was over, Prince Alaric turned to face me once more.
Up close, he smelled of steel and smoke, of danger restrained by discipline. His gaze swept over me, sharp and thorough, as if searching for wounds—or lies.
"You should be dead," he said quietly.
My breath caught.
"So I've been told," I replied.
For the first time, something flickered across his face.
Not amusement.
Interest.
"Come with me," he said. "This palace is no longer safe for you."
I met his gaze steadily, fear burning beneath my calm.
"It never was," I said.
His lips curved faintly—not a smile, but something close.
And in that moment, I knew two things with terrifying certainty:
The man standing before me was either my greatest ally—
Or the reason I had died in the first place.
And loving him might be far more dangerous than trusting him.