Dusk settled gently over the inner gardens.
The last light of the sun caught along the palace stone, turning gray walls to muted gold. Water moved softly through the narrow channels that fed the central reflecting pool. The evening air carried the scent of trimmed cedar and cooling earth. Somewhere beyond the hedges, a fountain released water in slow, measured intervals.
Routine.
Predictable.
Safe.
The palace breathed differently at this hour. Day officials withdrew. Night rotation had not yet fully settled. It was a narrow seam between vigilance and fatigue.
I had dismissed the majority of attendants for the hour. The day's audit had already traveled through the corridors like a restrained tremor. Too much presence would make the walk feel ceremonial.
Only two guards followed at a respectful distance as I made my way along the outer corridor that curved toward the lower archive wing. I had intended nothing dramatic—merely a quiet inspection of the reinforcement beams recently cataloged in older sections.
Order was comfortable.
Order was deceptive.
We approached the descending stone steps that connected the upper terrace to the garden path below.
I slowed slightly.
Not out of caution.
Out of habit.
The guard who usually stood to my right—Harren, ten years in service, steady and unobtrusive—was absent.
In his place stood a younger soldier.
His armor had been polished recently. Too recently. The leather straps bore fresh oil sheen that had not yet absorbed dust.
Replacement rotation, I assumed.
Administrative adjustments had been frequent since the hearing.
He bowed a fraction too quickly when I glanced in his direction.
Not disrespectful.
Eager.
His gaze did not meet mine for more than an instant.
A minor irregularity.
Not enough to halt movement.
I stepped forward.
The first stone held.
The second felt marginally damp beneath my boot, though the day had been dry and the channels ran several paces away.
I registered it.
Filed it.
Continued.
The third step shifted.
Not visibly.
Not immediately.
A faint scrape beneath weight.
Then—
A crack.
The sound did not echo.
It split.
Stone fractured beneath my foot.
The forward edge collapsed, dragging the adjoining slab with it. My balance tilted sharply toward open air as the outer railing groaned under sudden strain.
For one disorienting instant, the world became geometry—angle, weight, gravity.
The garden path below rushed into sharp focus.
Too far.
Closer than death.
My hand caught the railing.
Wood splintered.
Pain lanced through my palm.
One of the guards lunged forward—Harren's replacement hesitated half a breath too long—before seizing my upper arm as the remaining steps sheared downward in a cascade of stone.
Fragments struck the garden path below with violent percussion. A slab shattered against the fountain's edge. Water erupted upward in fractured arcs.
For half a breath, there was no sound at all.
Then shouting.
"Your Highness!"
I did not fall.
But the terrace beneath me no longer existed.
Dust rose in pale clouds, drifting through the slanted light of dusk.
The guard's grip tightened almost painfully before he steadied me back onto solid ground.
My sleeve had torn along the forearm.
A shallow cut traced across my palm where wood had splintered through skin.
Warm.
Real.
For a moment longer than I intended, my breath did not steady.
It came sharper.
Heavier.
Not from pain.
From proximity.
I had calculated execution as ceremony.
I had not calculated the sound of stone breaking beneath my weight.
I straightened.
Slowly.
The broken steps lay below like exposed bone.
Engineers and attendants arrived within moments. Boots pounded across stone. Commands overlapped. Dust settled into hair and fabric.
"Structural fatigue."
"The foundation must have weakened."
"It was an older section of terrace."
The explanations assembled themselves quickly.
Too quickly.
An overseer knelt near the fracture line. He brushed away loose dust with careful fingers. His brow tightened—not in panic, but in concentration.
He ran his hand along the underside of the remaining stone lip and paused.
Just for a moment.
His thumb pressed against something unseen.
When he rose, his expression was neutral.
"It appears," he said formally, "that moisture infiltration may have compromised the joint supports."
May have.
His eyes met mine.
A fraction too long.
There was no moisture.
The young guard stepped back as more personnel crowded the space.
He avoided the broken edge.
Avoided the dust.
Avoided my gaze.
When Harren finally arrived at a run from the inner wing, the replacement soldier had already resumed perfect posture.
Too perfect.
"You are uninjured, Your Highness?" Harren asked, voice controlled but edged.
"Superficially," I replied.
The younger guard bowed again.
Too fast.
His knuckles were scraped.
From where?
He had been positioned above me, not below.
"Seal the area," I instructed calmly. "No one approaches until a full assessment is completed."
"Yes, Your Highness."
The formal rhythm returned quickly.
Control restored.
On the surface.
Word spread faster than dust settled.
By the time I returned to the upper wing, servants had already begun whispering.
"A section of terrace collapsed."
"He was nearly thrown over."
"Structural decay, they say."
Decay.
The palace had stood for generations. Renovations were logged. Reinforcements cataloged.
Decay does not select a single step with surgical precision.
Later that evening, Master Helvar requested audience.
Not as archivist.
As a man who had overseen structural inventories during restoration cycles.
"The terrace joints," he said quietly once the chamber doors were closed, "were reinforced six years ago. The sub-support brackets were replaced entirely."
"And?"
He hesitated.
"Failure under isolated load would be… statistically improbable."
Not impossible.
Improbable.
"Was the wood examined?" I asked.
"Yes."
"And?"
"A clean internal fracture line," he replied. "As though stress had been introduced prior to today."
Introduced.
He did not say cut.
He did not say weakened.
He did not need to.
"Thank you," I said.
He bowed and withdrew.
No formal report would reflect doubt.
Only fatigue.
When I finally allowed the physician to examine my hand, the cut had already begun to clot.
"It will scar lightly," she said.
I studied the thin line across my palm.
A narrow red seam.
It had not been parchment.
Not a rumor.
Not a seal.
Stone does not fracture in patterns that remove the precise step bearing weight unless guided.
Wood does not splinter along inner grain without preparation.
The replacement guard's hesitation replayed in my mind.
Half a breath.
Too short to accuse.
Long enough to notice.
In the previous timeline, there had been accusation.
Investigation.
Procedure.
But not this.
Not gravity.
Not the sound of stone tearing free beneath my boot.
Documentation had failed.
Procedure had failed.
Now they were testing something simpler.
Weight.
Distance.
Silence after impact.
I flexed my fingers once, ignoring the sting.
They no longer sought merely to discredit.
They sought removal.
Acceleration without caution meant fear.
If they had moved from accusation to sabotage within days, then something had unsettled them more than my audits.
The board had shifted again.
And this time, it drew blood.