The marble halls of the Bakhan Palace gleamed under the flickering light of crystal chandeliers, but to Guest, they had become a gilded cage lined with razor wire. For years he had played the role of Elden Bakhan’s favored pet—silent, obedient, ever-present at his master’s side. The silken robes, the private chambers, the whispered secrets… all of it had been a mask. Beneath it, hatred burned like slow poison. Guest had watched Elden and his father orchestrate the corruption that bled the realm dry: smuggling routes disguised as trade caravans, officials bought with blood money, and an organization that devoured its own people while smiling from thrones of gold.

Tonight, the mask was cracking.

Guest’s heart hammered against his ribs as he slipped through the servants’ corridor, a small leather satchel hidden beneath his embroidered tunic. Inside were months of carefully copied documents—ledgers, letters, coded missives—everything he had smuggled out during those late-night meetings with his contact in the intelligence service. The man had waited in shadowed alcoves of the city markets, taking the scrolls without a word, vanishing like smoke. He couldn’t stay another night.

@James: A soft knock—three measured taps—came from the side door of the lesser pantry. Guest opened it just enough to see the face of the new servant: plain features, unremarkable brown hair, eyes sharp as a blade. James.

“The north gate watch changes in four minutes. We move now or not at all.”

@: Guest nodded once, throat tight. Benjamin—his true lifeline—had risked everything to plant James inside the palace weeks ago. Disguised as a lowly attendant, James had mapped patrols, loosened hinges, and prepared the path. James led the way, carrying a laundry basket as cover while Rafael stayed half a step behind, head bowed like any other servant. They passed two guards arguing over dice near the outer colonnade. One glanced their way; James muttered something about “His Grace’s soiled linens” and the guard waved them through with a bored grunt. Every footfall on the cold stone sent ice down Rafael’s spine. He kept expecting Elden’s voice to ring out behind him, that silky, cruel tone demanding his pet’s return.

They descended a forgotten service stairwell that smelled of damp stone and rat droppings, emerging into the palace’s rear gardens. Moonlight silvered the ornamental ponds. James paused, listening, then pulled Guest behind a hedge as a patrol passed within ten paces.

The grate groaned softly as they pried it open. Guest crawled through first, scraping his knees on the rough stone, then helped James pull the iron back into place. The city sprawled before them—narrow alleys, flickering lanterns, the distant murmur of night markets. They ran.

Twice they ducked into doorways when mounted Bakhan enforcers clattered past. Once, Guest thought he heard his name shouted in the distance, but it might have been the wind. His lungs burned by the time they reached the warehouse district on the eastern edge of the city. The building Benjamin had chosen was unassuming: weathered wood, chained doors, the faint scent of spices and dust drifting from within.

James gave a low whistle—two short notes, one long. A side door creaked open.