The service entrance was exactly where the map said it would be.
Leximus pressed his back against the cold stone wall, the fog thick around his ankles, his breath misting in the air. The alley was narrow, barely wide enough for two men to pass, and the gas lamp at the far end had burned out hours ago. Darkness pressed against them from all sides, thick and patient.
Mira stood at his shoulder, her hand resting on the echo-stone in her pocket. Dylan was behind her, his breathing slow and even. Alex had gone ahead to speak with the soldier.
They waited.
The minutes stretched. The fog swirled. The cold inside Leximus was steady, patient. He had learned to wait. He had been waiting for five months.
A soft whistle came from the darkness ahead—two short notes, then a long one. Torin's signal.
Leximus moved.
The service door was iron, rusted, the paint peeling in long strips. The lock was old, a simple mechanism that any competent thief could pick. But Leximus didn't pick it. He pressed his palm against the cold metal and un-wrote the seal. The lock clicked open without a sound.
He pushed the door inward and stepped inside.
The corridor beyond was narrow, the walls close, the ceiling low. Gas lamps burned at intervals along the walls, their flames low, casting long shadows that stretched across the floor. The air smelled of beeswax and old wood and something else—something sweet, like perfume, like the scent of people who had money to spend on smelling good.
Alex stood at the end of the corridor, his hand raised in a signal to stop.
"The soldier is dealt with," he whispered. "He'll be gone for ten minutes. After that, we're on our own."
"Ten minutes is enough," Leximus said. "We need to find our positions. Mira, the western corridor. Dylan, the kitchens. Alex, stay here—keep the door open."
"And you?"
"Eastern corridor. Near the banquet hall."
They moved.
The palace was a maze.
Leximus had studied the map for weeks, had traced every corridor, every door, every junction until he could walk the route in his sleep. But the map was flat, lifeless, a sketch of stone and ink. The real palace was different. The real palace breathed.
He could feel it as he moved—the weight of centuries pressing down from above, the echoes of footsteps that had worn the stone smooth, the whispers of servants who had passed this way before him. The cold inside him stirred, responding to something beneath the surface, something old and patient and hungry.
Echo-Walk, he thought. Not now. Not here.
He pushed the awareness aside and kept moving.
The eastern corridor opened into a wider passage, the ceiling higher, the walls paneled in dark wood. Gas lamps burned brighter here, their flames steady, casting a warm glow over the floor. Portraits lined the walls—generations of kings and queens, their painted eyes following him as he passed.
He found the door Dylan had mentioned. It was small, unmarked, half-hidden behind a tapestry. He pressed his ear to the wood and listened.
Voices. Movement. The clink of glasses and the rustle of fabric.
The banquet hall was on the other side.
He found a niche in the wall, a shallow alcove where a statue had once stood, and pressed himself into the shadows. The cold inside him spread, wrapping around him like a second skin, and he became invisible. A blind spot in the world's attention.
He waited.
Mira found her position in the western corridor, behind a column near the servants' stair.
From here, she could see the entrance to the grand hall, where the nobles would arrive. The regular soldiers stood at attention, their uniforms crisp, their faces blank. They carried no weapons that she could see—this was a banquet, not a battlefield—but their postures were alert, their eyes scanning the crowd.
She counted them. Twelve at the main entrance. Six more at the side doors. Two at the base of the staircase leading to the royal apartments.
The Avatars were harder to spot.
They wore the same clothes as the other guests, the same suits and gowns, the same jewels and silk. But Mira had been a Tide-Born long enough to recognize the signs. The way a man's skin seemed to shimmer in the gaslight—Fire, barely contained. The way a woman's dress moved without wind—Air, coiled and waiting. The way a servant's footsteps left no mark on the marble floor—Earth, silent and patient.
She counted eight of them. Four at the main entrance, two at the side doors, one at the staircase, and one she couldn't place, moving through the crowd like a ghost.
The King's personal guard, she thought. The one who answers only to him.
She pressed her back against the column and watched.
Dylan had never been inside the palace kitchens.
They were larger than he had imagined—cavernous, really, with vaulted ceilings and massive fireplaces and long tables covered in food. The servants moved through the space like ants, carrying trays and platters and pitchers, their faces flushed with heat, their arms straining under the weight.
He stood near the pantry door, his hands clasped behind his back, his expression blank. The cook's assistant—Marta, the one the cult had placed here years ago—had given him a uniform and a tray of empty glasses. He looked like he belonged. He hoped he looked like he belonged.
"Don't just stand there," a voice snapped. A man in a white apron, his face red from the heat, gestured toward the grand hall. "The nobles are arriving. Take those glasses to the sideboard."
Dylan nodded and moved.
The corridor from the kitchens to the grand hall was narrow, crowded with servants carrying food and wine and linens. He pressed himself against the wall to let them pass, his tray held steady, his eyes scanning.
The sideboard was in an alcove off the main hall, hidden behind a screen of carved wood. He set the tray down and stepped back, his back against the wall, his eyes on the entrance.
The nobles were arriving now. He recognized some of them from the portraits Leximus had shown him—House Claude, House Velle, House Jeville. The children, nervous and wide-eyed, their hands clutching their parents' sleeves.
He watched them all.
Alex stood by the service door, his hand resting on the iron latch.
The soldier had returned from his patrol. He stood a few feet away, his back to Alex, his eyes on the alley. He didn't look at the door. He didn't look at Alex. He just stood there, breathing, waiting for his shift to end.
"How much longer?" Alex asked.
"Another hour," the soldier said. "Then the night shift comes on. You'll need to be out by then."
"We will be."
The soldier nodded. He didn't ask questions. He didn't want to know.
Alex pressed his back against the wall and waited.
Leximus heard the King arrive before he saw him.
The sound of footsteps, measured and deliberate, echoing through the corridor. The murmur of voices, hushed and respectful. The rustle of fabric and the clink of medals.
He pressed himself deeper into the alcove, the cold inside him wrapping around him like a shroud.
The King walked past his hiding place without looking. He was tall, broad-shouldered, his hair dark with streaks of grey. He wore a military uniform—medals on his chest, a sword at his hip—and his face was the face of a man who had never been told no.
Beside him walked a boy—twelve years old, with hair the color of embers and eyes the color of smoke. Prince Lumian. He wore a dark suit, his posture perfect, his expression bored.
Behind them, a girl.
Sheila.
Leximus's breath caught.
She was small for her age, her pink hair pinned up in a style that made her look older than she was. She wore a red dress—the color of House Karmis—embroidered with gold thread, the fabric shimmering in the gaslight. A silver necklace hung at her throat, the pendant a mountain rising from a lake.
She looked terrified.
But she didn't show it. Her back was straight, her hands were steady, her face was calm. She smiled when the servants bowed. She nodded when the Prince spoke to her. She performed.
Leximus watched her pass.
The cold inside him was no longer steady. It was surging, pulsing, reaching toward her like a hand trying to close a distance that couldn't be closed.
Sheila, he thought. I'm here.
She disappeared into the banquet hall.
The door closed behind her.
Leximus pressed himself back into the shadows and forced the cold to be still.
Not yet. Not now.
He had what he came for. The layout. The guards. The Avatars. The route.
Now he needed to get out.
He found Mira in the western corridor, behind the column where she had been hiding.
"I saw her," he said.
"Your sister?"
"Yes."
Mira's face was unreadable. "Is she safe?"
"She's alive. That's all I know."
They moved through the corridors, silent, invisible, their footsteps barely whispering on the stone. Dylan met them at the servants' stair, his tray discarded, his uniform stained with wine.
"The kitchens are chaos," he said. "No one will notice we're gone."
Alex was waiting at the service door. The soldier had moved on, his patrol taking him to the other end of the alley.
"Now," Alex said.
Leximus pushed the door open.
The fog was thicker than before, the gas lamp still dark. They slipped into the alley, one by one, and disappeared into the night.
The palace loomed behind them, bright and warm and full of lies.
Leximus didn't look back.