The palace corridor had never seemed so endless.
Silas moved like a force of nature—his boots thundering against marble, his ceremonial robe trailing behind him like an omen stitched in fury. Courtiers flung themselves against walls to avoid him. Guards, trained for war and worse, flinched at the storm in his eyes.
"South wing," he muttered, more to himself than anyone else. "Private courtyard. That's where they said he went."
The corridor turned narrow here, less ceremonial. Less gilded. More real. Fewer tapestries, more silence. More shadows.
More space for fear to crawl in.
He turned a corner sharply—and nearly collided with a maid.
The poor girl shrieked and dropped her tray of lemon water and sugared cherries.
Silas didn't blink. "Lucien. Did you see him?"
Wide-eyed and trembling, she nodded. "Y-yes, Your Grace! About thirty minutes ago! He and Lady Seraphina—heading to the gardens! The ones with the weeping fig trees and the koi pond!"
"Thank you." He was already gone.
