The palace sleeps in layers first the maids, then the guards, then the secrets. But I don't.
Tonight, I move like smoke.
Slipping past the kitchens, past the gurgling koi pond where lotus flowers rot beneath their beauty. I count my steps, avoid the creaking tiles. My fingers trace the edge of the old laundry well, just where the map said the hidden door would be.
But I'm not alone.
The moment my hand reaches for the stone lever disguised as a loose tile, a soft clink echoes behind me.
Metal. Folding.
I turn and there he is.
The man with the silver fan.
Standing in the moonlight like he stepped from a myth. No footsteps. No sound. Just the faintest gleam of moonlight catching his lashes.
"You shouldn't be here," he says. Calm. Not threatening. Which is worse.
"I could say the same," I reply.
He taps his fan once against his palm, as if considering something heavier than words. "The chamber you're trying to enter hasn't been opened in sixteen years."
"I'm not afraid of dust."
"It's not dust you should fear." His gaze sharpens. "It's the memory of blood."
A silence stretches between us. Thick. Watchful.
My wrist burns faintly, as if the ink inside it recognizes him. He watches it, then speaks again soft this time.
"They used to say ink and blood could bind a soul. That one wrong pact could split a person in two. The self that remembers… and the self that obeys."
My chest tightens. "You've been down there?"
His eyes darken. "I was born from it."
And for a single breath, I believe him.
Before I can speak again, he steps close. Too close.
"I'll let you pass once. Only once." He leans in. His whisper is ice.
"But if you open that door… you don't get to be innocent anymore."
He turns before I can answer and vanishes like fog. One blink and he's gone.
I'm alone again.
Almost.
Because now the door is open.
And the ink on my wrist is glowing.