Carmine stepped into the staff quarters, her eyes narrowing as she caught sight of the maid. The woman was awake, her hand clutching a knife as though it were an extension of her body. Carmine's instincts sharpened instantly, her assassin's training rising to the surface.
"Well," Carmine said evenly, her voice calm but alert, "what does a maid have to go through to keep a knife by her side?"
Before she could take another step, the maid vanished in a flash of movement. In an instant, the blade was pressed against Carmine's neck.
The steel was cold, but Carmine did not flinch. Her eyes met the maid's, steady and unyielding. "Who are you?" she asked.
The maid's voice was low, almost a whisper. "My name is Glinda. I worked as a spy for the royal family. Now, I serve as a maid." She lowered the knife slightly, her gaze flickering to the scars on her own hands. "These marks… they are from the overwork Isabelle forced upon me."
Carmine's breath caught for a moment. The sight of those scars stirred memories she had buried — nights of endless training, wounds that never healed, the weight of service that had nearly broken her. She saw herself reflected in Glinda's pain. With a quiet nod, Carmine stepped back. "Rest," she said softly. "You've earned it."
She left the room, her thoughts heavy, and entered the hallway. The silence was broken by a faint sound — a moan, muffled but unmistakable.
Carmine followed it, her curiosity piqued, until she realized its source. Emily, in her chamber, was tangled awkwardly with the bed lamp, lost in her own indulgence.
Carmine blinked, her expression unreadable. "Oh well," she muttered under her breath, shaking her head. Without another word, she turned away and retired to her own bed, exhaustion finally overtaking her.
The palace was filled with knives, secrets, and shadows. And the night was far from quiet.
To be continued…