I didn't sleep that night.
Not because of fear—but because fear had become a rhythm in my blood, constant and unwelcome, like a second heartbeat.
The walls of the palace were not walls at all—they were paper-thin veils, painted to look like stone. And I was beginning to see through them. Every whisper I heard in the halls had a second meaning. Every bow I received came with a shadowed glance. Even silence had learned how to lie.
They feared me. But not enough to stop.
A knock at the door pulled me from the scrolls I'd been poring over—records of food deliveries to my mother's wing. I had already memorized the kitchen staff's names, the guards assigned to that corridor, even the cleaning women who swept the outer hallway. I was commander now, but I had no delusion of power. I could fight on the battlefield, yes—but here, within the palace, war came dressed in silks and soft shoes.
I opened the door.
It was Lark, one of my youngest spies. Barely fifteen, scrawny, with a face too sharp for his age and eyes that belonged to someone who'd already seen too much.
"They made a move," he whispered, slipping inside. "North Tower. Third floor."
I turned.
"Who?"
He hesitated, then reached into his coat and pulled out a small rolled note, sealed with wax—but not the royal crest. This one bore a falcon's claw wrapped in thorns.
A hidden seal.
I broke it. Read quickly.
"The Shadow Claw," I murmured aloud. "A subsect of the Council. Operates independently."
"And dangerously," Lark added. "They smuggled something in. Not poison. Not a blade."
My stomach coiled. "Then what?"
"A person."
I stared at him. "Alive?"
He nodded. "Assassin. We think female. Small. Disguised as one of the servants. She's supposed to get close to your mother's chambers."
A chill slid down my spine like a wet knife.
"When?" I asked, voice flat.
"Tonight."
I gathered my most trusted soldiers in silence. No horns. No announcements. We moved like shadows through the outer halls, cloaks drawn tight. I'd ordered all known corridors leading to my mother's wing sealed—except one. A trap.
I would be the bait.
I wore no armor. Only a black tunic, tightly laced, and soft-soled boots that made no sound. A single dagger rested on my thigh. My sword was with me too, though I doubted I'd be able to use it in the tight quarters of the tower corridor.
I dismissed the maids. Locked my mother's chamber from within. I knelt beside her bed, just watching her breathe.
She looked peaceful. As if the danger stalking her didn't exist. As if the palace hadn't become a nest of serpents coiled around her bedframe.
"I will protect you," I whispered, brushing a strand of silver hair from her face. "Even if it means burning this palace to the ground."
The corridor outside her room was dimly lit, lined with empty vases and ornamental blades too blunt to be of use.
I waited.
Minutes turned to an hour.
Then—I heard it.
Not footsteps. A breath.
It came from the shadows behind the columns across the hall. My pulse slowed. My hand found the dagger.
The door creaked.
And she moved.
Small. Fast. A blur of motion dressed in servant's gray, but her steps made no sound. She carried no visible weapon, but I saw the glint of steel just as she reached the door.
I struck first.
The dagger flew from my hand, slicing across her shoulder. Not deep, but enough to slow her.
She whirled around—and for the first time, I saw her face.
Young. Maybe nineteen. Her eyes black as soot, her skin inked with foreign markings down one arm. She didn't flinch.
She charged.
I dodged left, caught her wrist, twisted—and she spun beneath my arm, slamming her elbow into my ribs. Pain flared, sharp and immediate, but I didn't let go.
She was trained. Fast. Efficient. But not fast enough.
I kicked her back—hard—and drew my sword.
That gave her pause.
A heartbeat of hesitation.
It was all I needed.
We clashed.
Steel rang in the narrow corridor, loud as thunder. She ducked low, aiming for my legs, but I jumped back, slicing downward. She leapt sideways, rolled, and came up with a knife drawn from her boot.
She smiled.
"You're better than I expected," she said in a voice like wet gravel. "But they said you would be."
I didn't answer.
Words weren't necessary.
I moved faster now. No more games. My sword blurred in the dim light, each strike pushing her back. Her blade nicked my arm once—twice—but then I disarmed her with a flick and kicked her square in the chest.
She hit the wall.
Hard.
Slumped down.
Bleeding.
I stepped closer.
"Who sent you?" I asked, voice low.
Her lips twitched. "They call you warrior goddess," she said. "But you're just a child playing war."
I raised my blade.
She laughed.
And then bit down on something in her mouth.
Her eyes widened. Foam bubbled.
Poison.
She crumpled before I could stop her.
Dead.
We found her tattoo again on her hip—an emblem of the Shadow Claw, sketched in ink and blood. But more disturbing than her death was the ring she wore—identical to one I'd seen in the possession of a noble in the east wing. A small thing, easy to miss. But now, unmistakably a mark of allegiance.
My spies fanned out that night, spreading silent as whispers through every corridor.
The palace wasn't just crawling with threats—it had become a battlefield.
And my mother?
A ticking target.
I doubled the guards.
Checked her medicines myself.
Sent two spies to follow the healers home.
If they so much as looked suspicious, I would burn their homes to the ground.
Later that night, Lark returned again. Pale.
"There's more," he said. "Not just the assassin. Not just the Council."
I turned slowly.
"What is it?"
"They're planning something bigger," he said. "It's not just about your mother. It's you."
My throat tightened.
"They don't want you dead," he said. "Not yet."
My eyes narrowed. "Then what?"
"They want you broken."