I didn't sleep that night. Not because of fear. Because of purpose.
The Prince's words echoed in my mind, circling like vultures. Secrets don't stay buried here. It wasn't a threat. Not exactly. It was a reminder. He knew. Or at least—he suspected.
And that made this next move dangerous. Reckless. But necessary. Because I hadn't come here to survive. I came here to kill a King.
--
The next morning, I fell into rhythm again. Quiet. Unseen. I carried water buckets down endless hallways. Delivered trays. Smiled when spoken to and bowed when required.
But my eyes were always moving.
Watching.
Listening.
Learning.
The palace was vast—far bigger than I'd realized. Wings upon wings of marble and gold, libraries older than nations, courtyards blooming with poisonous beauty, and towers that scraped the sky like claws.
And somewhere at its center: the King.
I hadn't seen him yet. Not directly. But I saw his shadow.
The places where silence fell like a curtain when his name was spoken. The way high-ranking Fae flinched when "His Majesty" entered a room. Even the Prince, for all his cruelty, held a subtle tension in his shoulders when the King's presence approached.
They feared him. That told me more than anything. But I needed more than fear. I needed details. So I began my hunt.
--
It started small.
An older servant—half-Fae, with tired eyes and crooked hands—swept the hallway near the eastern wing. I bent beside her, polishing brass fixtures with a borrowed cloth.
"The King stays in the eastern wing, doesn't he?" I asked casually, as if I were making idle conversation.
She glanced at me sharply. "Why would you ask that?"
"I'm trying to avoid him," I said, lowering my voice. "I've heard... things."
That was all it took. She leaned in, her voice a hushed whisper. "We all try to avoid him."
"Why?"
She paused. Then, "Because he remembers."
I blinked. "Remembers what?"
"Everything," she said, almost too quietly to hear. "Every face. Every mistake. Every little misstep. And he punishes them. Sooner or later."
She rose without another word and shuffled off, leaving her broom behind.
--
The western kitchens were louder—easier to slip unnoticed through conversations. A younger maid was peeling fruit when I sat beside her to help.
"Who cooks for the King?" I asked. "Surely not us."
She laughed. "Oh, stars no. He's got his own personal kitchen."
"Does he eat with the Prince?"
She shook her head. "Never. They don't even dine on the same floor. The King doesn't like to share."
That was interesting. I pressed, softer this time. "What's he like?"
The girl hesitated. "Cold. I've seen him once. Eyes like silver. Not like coins—like blades."
Another cook leaned in from across the counter. "I saw him kill a man once. Barely moved. Just raised his hand and—" She mimed an explosion with her fingers. "Blood on the tapestries. They didn't even take them down. Said it was a reminder."
A reminder of what, I didn't ask. I already knew.
--
By the fourth day, I'd mapped three routes through the palace that led close to the eastern wing—close enough to observe the King's guards. There were always six posted outside the arched doors. Two at the base of the stairs. Two more at the top. All in black. None of them smiled.
I found a hallway window that overlooked the courtyard leading to the wing's lower level. I sat on the ledge during my "rest break," chewing dry bread and pretending to enjoy the view.
I saw nothing. No one entered. No one left. The King was a ghost in a castle of gold.
But ghosts leave traces.
--
That night, I slipped from my quarters long after the bells rang midnight.
No shoes. No sound.
Just the soft whisper of my breath and the dagger hidden in my apron hem.
I took the long route, skimming the edges of the palace. Past servant quarters. Past the records hall. Into the quieter halls where magic hummed faintly through the walls and no torches were needed—the very air glowed faintly with power.
I followed it straight to a locked library tucked beneath a spiral stairwell. The lock was simple. I'd picked harder.
Inside, the air was thick with dust and silence. Scrolls. Tomes. Sealed letters. Many were written in ancient Fae, but enough were readable. I found a ledger listing magical experiments. A journal detailing punishments issued under the King's orders.
One note in particular stopped me cold:
Subject 17 – failed. Magic overextension resulted in total vessel collapse. His Majesty observed. Ordered no remains to be buried.
Another:
The Prince was present for today's execution. Showed improvement. Expressed no visible remorse.
I closed the book. My hands were shaking. I wasn't surprised. But it still made me sick. I tucked the page into my apron, returned the book, and locked the door behind me.
--
I slipped back into bed an hour later. Still no alarm. No footsteps. No punishment. But I knew it was only a matter of time. Because I was close now. Closer than I'd ever been. And if I kept pushing—I might finally find the King's weakness. Or I might end up like Subject 17. Either way, I wouldn't stop. Not until I buried him with his own crown.