You’d been told to bring fresh linens to the heir’s chambers. A simple task. One you’d done a dozen times for other rooms.

But never his.

The corridor was cold, torches flickering in iron sconces. Your boots echoed against the ancient floor as you approached the heavy oak door at the end. A direwolf was carved into its surface, eyes watching.

You knocked.

Silence.

You knocked again, harder this time.

The door creaked open an inch under your knuckles. Not latched properly.