Somewhere above the clouds, the royal palace gleamed like a distant star—untouchable, unreachable, carved from marble and guarded by steel and sorcery.

Down here, the streets were slick with mud. A cat screeched in an alley. Someone coughed behind a boarded window.

At the edge of a crooked rooftop, a figure crouched low, breath misting in the cold air.

Below, a carriage clattered past, its lantern swinging—a nobleman’s crest painted on the door. Heading toward the castle gates.

One hour until midnight.

One hour until the shift change.

And one girl, barely seventeen, with calloused fingers and a heart hammering against her ribs, was about to do something very, very stupid.

The royal vaults.