The palace gardens were supposed to be silent at night.
Silent in that reverent way that makes you lower your voice without knowing why. Silent, as if the ancient marble statues and towering cypress trees had learned the art of keeping secrets and expected you to do the same.
Silent, except for the occasional hum of crickets in the hedges and the sigh of the wind through the dark branches.
But tonight, they weren't silent.
Tonight, I heard voices.
I froze mid-step, the polished handles of the silver tray digging into my palms. Three goblets of royal wine trembled against the mirrored surface, and I prayed they wouldn't spill.
The laughter and music of the royal ball drifted behind me, muffled by thick walls of ivy and marble. The violin's sweet, lilting melody had been my companion a moment ago, but now it was gone, replaced by the subtle, unmistakable cadence of conversation.
Not servants. Not guards. The voices were deeper, their words too deliberate, carrying the heavy, clipped tone of men accustomed to giving orders… or ending lives.
I held my breath, straining to catch the words.
"Tonight," one of them whispered, his voice low and rough, like a blade dragged across stone. "We end the Crown Prince."
The words struck me like a whip.
My grip faltered, the tray tilting slightly before I caught myself.
The second voice was colder. Not just cold like winter air, but cold like the stillness before a grave is filled. "You have one shot. The garden path. Wait until he's alone."
I pressed my back into the shadow of the marble archway, every muscle rigid.
I wasn't supposed to be here. The royal gardens were reserved for nobles and their chosen companions, especially during a ball. Servants like me were meant to move unseen — in the service halls, the narrow courtyards, the kitchen's warm and smoky depths — but never here, in the moonlit maze of roses and statues.
Still… I had learned in my first month that the garden path was a shortcut from the kitchens to the grand hall. A dangerous shortcut, yes, but quicker than weaving through the crowded servant passages.
That small rebellion — that small bit of stolen freedom — had led me here.
Straight into treason.
And tonight, speed had mattered. Not for the wine. Not for the guests.
For the letter.
After three long months, now was the best time to act. The sealed missive in the prince's possession, the one my employers would pay handsomely for. I'd mapped my route carefully ever since my job here began as a maid— slip from the kitchens to the hall, then to the library, then out before anyone noticed a maid who didn't belong. But now my carefully timed approach was unraveling. The library could wait. If I didn't leave now, I might leave in chains.
My pulse thudded against my throat. I knew what would happen if I told anyone. They'd ask why I was here. They'd ask what I'd heard, how I'd heard it, and every question would dig closer to the truth I couldn't let them see.
The faint crunch of boots on gravel tore me from my thoughts.
A shadow detached itself from the rose bushes — tall, lean, dressed in black leather that absorbed the moonlight. His steps were soundless, his movements precise. His hand hovered near the dagger at his thigh, fingers curling and uncurling with the restless patience of a predator.
The assassin.
My body screamed at me to move, but my feet rooted to the ground. My breath came too shallow, too fast.
And then, beyond the marble fountain, I saw him.
Prince Kael.
He walked as though the night belonged to him, with the easy grace of a man who had never had to wonder if danger stalked his shadow. His head was slightly bowed, his black hair catching the moonlight in silver threads. The long cloak trailing behind him seemed almost an extension of the darkness, but at his shoulder gleamed the silver pin shaped like a crown — the mark of his station.
The assassin shifted, his weight poised to strike.
My chest tightened, my palms slick on the tray's handles. I thought — no, I knew — I would be killed for what I was about to do. But something in me snapped.
I didn't think.
I ran.
"Your Highness!"
My voice tore through the stillness, loud enough to carry across the garden.
Kael's head lifted sharply, his gaze locking on me. Confusion flashed in his eyes — and then the assassin lunged from the shadows.
I dropped the tray. Silver goblets crashed to the marble, wine splattering in dark arcs across pale stone.
I threw myself at the attacker. We collided in a tangle of limbs, my skirts tangling in the thorns of the roses. The blade hissed through the space where Kael's chest had been a heartbeat before.
The assassin snarled, his breath searing against my cheek. I drove my knee up and shoved him off without hesitation.
My hand brushed something cold — the hilt of a ceremonial sword leaning against a marble bench. It was not made for killing, its edge dull, but it was steel.
And I had once been trained to wield steel.
Before the night the Crown's soldiers tore my father's crest from our gates. Before my family's land was divided among nobles loyal to the throne. Before I became nothing more than a maid in a borrowed uniform, pretending I had never been anything else.
The grip was too smooth, the balance off — nothing like a proper soldier's blade — but the moment my hand curled around it, something inside me shifted.
For the first time in years, I remembered what it felt like to hold steel.
The garden blurred for a heartbeat.
I was twelve again, standing in the courtyard of our estate, the banners of House Varlen fluttering overhead in gold and crimson. My father's voice carried across the training yard — low, patient, but edged with the authority that made even the grizzled armsmaster obey.
"Again," he'd said, after my wooden practice blade slipped in my sweat-slick hands.
"I'm tired," I'd complained, flexing aching fingers.
He'd crouched so we were eye-level. "Tired is when you learn the most. Your mind must command your body, not the other way around. Now—stance."
I'd obeyed, sliding one foot back, lifting the blade.
His hands adjusted my grip — one firm on the pommel, the other guiding the point forward. "You will not always have the strength to win," he'd told me. "But you can have the skill to survive."
A whistle of air snapped me back to the present — the assassin's dagger slicing toward my ribs.
I moved without thinking, my body obeying old commands. The blade rose, catching the strike in a burst of sparks.
The shock of steel meeting steel jarred my bones, but my stance held.
He pressed forward, testing me, our blades locking in the narrow moonlit path. His eyes narrowed — he hadn't expected resistance from someone in a maid's gown.
I twisted my wrists, forcing him to pivot. My feet shifted over crushed rose petals, just as my father had taught me to shift over loose gravel.
Steel met steel in a shower of sparks.
He was stronger. But I was faster, every movement guided by an old rhythm my body hadn't forgotten. My heart pounded, my breath ragged. The roses whispered around us as we circled the gravel crunching underfoot.
He lunged; I parried. My arm ached from the impact, but I shifted my stance, forcing him back toward the marble bench. His blade whistled past my shoulder, close enough that I felt the wind of it.
The second strike nearly disarmed me. My hands slipped on the hilt, the sweat cold against my palms.
Think. Breathe. Move.
A wrong step on his part — the faintest overreach — and I drove my blade into his wrist. His grip faltered. The dagger fell. And as he stumbled, it turned in his own momentum and buried itself in his side.
The sound he made was more exhale than scream. His knees buckled, and he crumpled into the crushed roses.
Silence settled over the garden, broken only by my ragged breathing and the faint music drifting from the ballroom.
I stood panting, the sword still in my hands. My gown was torn, the fabric streaked with blood — his or mine, I couldn't tell. Beneath my shoes, the roses lay flattened, their petals scattered like crimson snow over the pale marble.
Kael was watching. Not the assassin. Not the sword.
Me.
His eyes were dark, unreadable, as though trying to peel back the layers I'd built around myself.
"Who are you?" His voice was calm, but there was something dangerous beneath it — not anger, not yet, but something close.
Before I could answer, shouting erupted from the garden's entrance.
The guards poured in, spears raised, boots striking the marble with sharp finality. They fanned out in a ring, surrounding us.
One pointed at me. "She's armed!"
Another sneered. "A maid with a sword? That's death by royal decree."
The weight of the blade seemed to double in my grip.
If I told the truth, it wouldn't matter. The law didn't care about motives — only about violations. If I lied, I might survive long enough to try again.
Kael stepped forward. The silver crown pin at his shoulder caught the moonlight, sharp as a blade's edge.
"Take her," he said, his voice cutting through the murmurs. "I'll decide her fate myself."
The guards moved instantly. Hands like iron clamped onto my arms, wrenching the sword away.
As they dragged me toward the gates, I twisted for one last look.
Kael stood exactly where I'd left him, framed by moonlight and roses, watching me with an expression that made my blood run cold.
Not suspicion. Not gratitude.
But something far more dangerous—as though he already knew every secret I'd spent my life trying to bury.