Ronan
The palace was never truly asleep.
Even in the hours between the last council wine and the first clang of the kitchen bells, there was always guards exchanging shifts, the scuff of boots along stone, the faint moans of a servant’s tryst through unseen cracks in the walls.
I’d walked these halls for years, and I knew their rhythm the way a wolf knew the cadence of a hunt.
Tonight, I was hunting for the weaknesses in it.
The guardhouse sat tucked into the west wing, warm from the fire in the hearth and smelling of leather oil and wet wool.
I leaned casually against the doorframe, nodding to the two men inside. One was bent over the rotation board, chalk in hand, the other unlacing his boots.
“Running smooth tonight?” I asked, keeping my tone easy, the way I would any other ni
