I've always loved the quiet hours before the court wakes—when the castle belongs only to the servants, the guards making their rounds, and me.

A sound stops me cold.

Footsteps. Heavy. Booted. Coming from the east wing—the direction of the royal apartments.

No guard walks like that. No servant either.

I press myself against the cool wall, fingers brushing the small dagger I keep strapped to my thigh beneath my skirts. Father's paranoid lessons have their uses.

The footsteps grow louder. Multiple sets. Three, maybe four men.

They round the corner.

And I forget to breathe.

Four men, all in dark coats and flat caps, all carrying themselves like they own every inch of ground they walk on. The eldest has a scarred face and shoulders built for brawling. The youngest can't be much older than me, with sharp, curious eyes. But it's the one in the middle who holds my attention—sharp cheekbones, a mouth set in permanent calculation, and eyes the color of winter sky.

He sees me first.

Stops dead.

The others halt behind him. For a long, terrible moment, we all stare at each other.