Halvra's eyes gleamed like a trap snapping shut.
"You," she said, pointing at Vanella, "take these linens to the western wing. The one that hasn't been touched in weeks. Make sure everything is spotless."
Vanella bowed quickly. "Yes, Matron."
Halvra smirked faintly. "See that you don't soil it… or you'll answer for it."
Vanella didn't know that the wing was forbidden to everyone but the King. She didn't know the trap was meant for someone else—the matron's intended target, a servant she deemed arrogant, would have been punished. But Vanella's name had been the first to slip from her lips.
Carrying the tray, Vanella's hands were steady. She tried not to think about the quiet, polished halls. Every shadow seemed to stretch longer than it should. Her heart beat too fast. She reminded herself to breathe.
The western wing was silent, dust motes dancing in the streams of light from high windows. Vanella moved slowly, meticulously placing each cloth, until she heard it: the faint echo of footsteps behind her.
She spun.
A man stood there, casually dressed, hair disheveled as if he had been training or sparring. His gaze was sharp, calculating. His presence filled the hall.
Raven Darward Acosta.
Vanella froze. Her mouth went dry. She had heard tales of the King's wrath—but seeing him here, so close, unexpected, terrified her in a way nothing else had.
He studied her silently, then stepped forward. "Who are you?" His voice was calm, but it cut sharper than a blade.
"I… I am a captive from Rossenvale, Your Majesty," she said, voice steady despite the tremor in her stomach.
He tilted his head. "A servant?"
She lowered her gaze. "Yes, Your Majesty."
Raven circled her slowly, eyes never leaving hers. He paused, inches away, leaning slightly as if smelling out lies. "You shouldn't be here," he said finally. "Do you know that?"
Vanella nodded, though inwardly panic clawed at her. "No, Your Majesty."
He studied her for a long, tense moment. Most servants would have whimpered or knelt immediately. But Vanella's eyes… they burned with something else. Madness, rage, grief, but contained—controlled.
He stepped back, letting out a breath only he could hear. "Interesting," he muttered under his breath.