The palace gates opened with the slow groan of iron that had not been oiled in years.
Dust drifted in behind them like a sigh the domain itself had held too long.
Ruth walked half a step behind Veron, armor still warm from the ride, the etched vines on her steel plates catching the weak torchlight in faint silver threads.
Her hand never left her sword hilt.
Not out of expectation of violence—there was none here—but because touching the grip was the only thing keeping her pulse steady.
He walked in like he owned the place before he even crossed the threshold. No hesitation. No glance back to see if I followed. I hate that most of all—he doesn't need to check. He already knows I will.
The corridor was narrow, stone walls clean but worn smooth by generations of footsteps that had gone nowhere important.
Torches burned low, spitting thin smoke that tasted of old resin and older resignation.
The air was cooler than the square outside, but heavier—carrying the faint smell of wax, damp mortar, and something sweeter underneath, like overripe fruit left too long in the dark.
Maids appeared at the first turn.
Three of them—young, thin, dressed in plain gray linen that had once been white—froze when they saw him.
One held a tray of clay cups, another a bundle of folded linens, the third a broom that looked older than she was.
Their eyes widened, not in fear exactly, but in the sudden awareness of something vast and quiet entering a space that had only ever known smallness.
Veron stopped.
Not abruptly.
Not dramatically.
He simply ceased moving, as though the corridor had asked him to pause and he had decided it was polite to oblige.
The maids did not curtsy at once.
They stared.
He inclined his head—the smallest gesture, almost imperceptible—and spoke in the same low, gentle voice he had used on the fortuneteller, on Ruth, on the market itself.
"You need not stop on my account."
The words were soft, courteous, without a trace of mockery.
He stepped aside—graceful, unhurried—giving them room to pass as though they were the ones of rank and he the servant who had momentarily blocked their path.
The girl with the tray blinked, cheeks flushing.
She dipped a quick, awkward curtsy, nearly spilling the water.
"Thank you, my lord," she whispered, barely audible.
Veron smiled—not the sharp, cutting thing he had shown the fortuneteller, not the charming blade he had turned on Ruth.
This was smaller, warmer, almost kind.
"You're welcome. The cups look heavy. Be careful on the stairs."
The second girl clutched her linens tighter, eyes darting between him and the floor.
She managed a small nod, then hurried past, brushing so close she could have felt the warmth of his coat if she dared.
The third—the one with the broom—hesitated longest.
Her knuckles were white around the handle.
She looked up at him—really looked—and something in her face shifted, as though she had expected cruelty and found only calm instead.
Veron met her gaze without flinching.
"You've swept this corridor every day for years," he said quietly.
"I can tell. The stones are smooth where others are still rough. That takes patience. Thank you for it."
The girl's lips parted.
No sound came.
She swallowed, curtsied—clumsy, genuine—and hurried after the others, broom trailing like a forgotten tail.
Ruth watched the exchange, armor suddenly feeling heavier than it had on the ride.
He speaks to them like they matter. Not like servants. Not like tools. Like people who chose to stay in a place everyone else abandoned. And they believe him. I hate that most of all—he makes kindness look effortless when I know it's calculated. Or is it? Gods, I can't tell anymore. That's the worst part.
Veron watched the maids disappear around the corner.
The smile faded—not into cruelty, but into something quieter, almost thoughtful.
"They stay," he said, not to Ruth, but to the empty corridor.
"Everyone else leaves when they can. They stay. That is worth more than any title the Crown could give."
He turned to her then, crimson eyes calm, unreadable.
"Shall we continue?"
Ruth's jaw tightened.
She did not answer immediately.
Instead she stepped forward, boots ringing on stone, and took her place at his side—not behind him this time.
He treats them well because they're the kind who endure. The kind who don't run. The kind he respects. Everyone else—the ones who kneel out of fear, who lie to survive, who pretend faith will fill empty bellies—he dismantles without remorse. It's not cruelty for cruelty's sake. It's philosophy wearing a human face. And I hate how much sense it makes.
They walked on.
The corridor opened into the side chamber where Halmer waited.
The air grew colder, the torches dimmer.
Ruth felt the shift in her bones: the gentleness had ended.
What came next would not be kind.
Veron's pace did not change.
But the softness in his eyes had already begun to cool.
The game was moving indoors now.
And indoors, he no longer needed to pretend.