The palace corridors stretched before Irmin. White ribbons draped the golden sconces, their flames seeming to burn lower beneath the weight of mourning.

  Guards stood at rigid attention at every intersection, their armour gleaming, their eyes distant. They saluted as she passed.

  Everything felt wrong—too quiet, too still.

  She had barely managed to remove her riding gloves, still stiff with the night’s chill, when a messenger appeared.

  “Commander. General Eberhard requests your immediate presence.”

  Of course he did. She nodded, tucking the gloves into her belt. The leather was worn at the knuckles—she’d need new ones soon. The thought felt absurdly normal amid all this carefully orchestrated grief.

  The general’s office door stood open, spilling lamplight across the threshold. General Eberhard stood at the great oak table, his shadow stretching long across maps and scattered correspondence. He didn’t look up as she entered.

  “Explain to me why I’ve spent the morning fielding complaints from three different noble houses about unauthorised searches of their properties.”

  “Sir, I—”

  “No.” He looked up. “You will listen. The Kingdom balances on a knife’s edge. Every noble house watches for signs of weakness, every foreign power tests our resolve, and you—” He jabbed a finger at a particular document. “You decided this was the perfect time to antagonise our strongest allies.”

  “Well, that might not be so easy. I need to speak to Lord Darius.”

  “No. That won’t be possible.”

  Irmin’s mouth dropped open. “Won’t be possible?”

  “This is a delicate game.”

  “You think this is a game? I need to speak to Darius. He’s wrapped in this—”

  “Perhaps you should take a page from your sister Elana’s book. Show some diplomacy.”

  Irmin scoffed. “With respect, sir, while we waste time on political niceties, my father’s killers walk free. The evidence—”

  “The evidence suggests nothing except your inability to see past your own grief.” He shook his head. “I understand your pain, Irmin. But your father’s funeral approaches, and with it, representatives from every major house and foreign power. We cannot afford to appear divided.”

  Irmin clenched her jaw. “And what if division already exists? What if the killer walks among those representatives?”

  “Then we handle it through proper channels.” He gathered several papers, arranging them with precise movements. “We’ve received concerning reports. Suggestions of involvement from unexpected quarters. But until we can verify—”

  “What reports?” She stepped forward. “If you have intelligence about the assassination—”

  “The military must present a unified front. Certain elements within the court already question whether emotion compromises your judgement.”

  “Is that so?” She could lose her command if she pushed too hard, too fast. And without that authority, without access to military intelligence…

  “The funeral will be a symbolic moment for us all. A chance to show strength through unity. I need your word that you’ll maintain protocol. No unauthorised investigations, no confrontations with noble houses.”

  She wanted to argue, to remind him of all the times her instincts had proven right. But his expression left no room for debate. “You have my word, sir.”

  “Good. Dismissed.”

  She turned on her heel, keeping her steps measured until she cleared the doorway. Only then did she allow her nails to bite into her palms.

  In her quarters, she spread her gathered evidence across her desk. The dagger caught the lamplight, its sigil raising more questions than it answered.

  She felt Berthold’s concern press against her mind.

  “They’re hiding something,” she told him. “Eberhard, the noble houses, all of them. Playing their political games while the real threat grows stronger.”

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  “Then we hunt carefully. Watch. Wait. Strike only when we’re certain.”

  She pulled a fresh sheet of parchment from her desk, beginning to list names—servants, guards, stable hands. People who saw everything. The kind of witnesses the nobles wouldn’t think to silence—because they never thought of them at all.

  Her father had taught her that lesson when he’d said, “The best intelligence comes from those with no stake in the game.” She had forgotten that in her rush for justice, letting anger make her moves too obvious.

  Time to change tactics. Let them think they’d leashed her.

  Someone would talk. Someone always did.

  And when they did, she would be ready.

  Irmin pushed back from her desk, the chair’s legs scraping against the stone. The evidence before her blurred as exhaustion and grief pressed at the edges of her mind. She needed perspective and needed her sisters.

  The thought struck her with unexpected force. When was the last time they’d really talked? Not the careful dance of court formalities or quick updates between duties, but actually spoken as sisters?

  Irmin strapped her sword back on, its familiar weight offering little comfort.

  The corridors seemed longer tonight, the shadows deeper between the mourning ribbons that draped every torch bracket.

  Elana’s quarters lay in the diplomatic wing, where even the architecture conveyed careful negotiation—graceful arches and elegant stonework designed to impress foreign dignitaries. Irmin’s boots seemed too loud on the polished floor as she approached her sister’s door.

  She raised her hand to knock, then hesitated.

  What would she say?

  Her hand dropped.

  “You should know,” Berthold said through their bond. “She would want to see you.”

  But Irmin was already turning away, her steps carrying her towards the scholar’s wing where Adelinde spent her days surrounded by books and ancient artefacts.

  The air grew cooler as she descended, tinged with the metallic scent that always surrounded ravenglass research. Light spilled from beneath Adelinde’s laboratory door.

  Her youngest sister probably hadn’t slept since their father’s death, throwing herself into research the way Irmin threw herself into training.

  Again, she reached for the door.

  Again, her hand fell away.

  What could she offer Adelinde? Empty comfort? False promises that everything would be alright?

  “They’re your sisters,” Berthold said. “Your family.”

  “And what good is family now?” The thought came bitter and sharp. “Father is dead. Someone killed him while I flew pretty patterns in the sky, while Elana played politics, while Adelinde buried herself in books.”

  She stalked through torch-lit corridors, barely noticing where her feet carried her until she stood before the palace chapel. Candlelight flickered through stained glass, painting the courtyard in fragments of colour.

  Her hand touched the door, then withdrew as if burned. She couldn’t face it—the quiet, the weight of tradition.

  “Irmin.” Berthold’s voice carried gentle reproach. “You can’t run forever.”

  “Watch me.”

  She spun away from the chapel, her pace quickening until she was nearly running. Her feet knew the way, carrying her to the training yards where she’d spent countless hours drilling with sword and spear and mace.

  The practice dummies stood silent in their rows, stuffed with straw and wrapped in leather. She grabbed a mace from the weapon rack, its weight familiar in her hand.

  Without bothering to remove her formal armour, she swung.

  The first impact shuddered up her arm. The second came harder, faster. Soon she lost count, letting the rhythm of violence wash away thought.

  Sweat ran down her face despite the night’s chill.

  Her shoulders burned, muscles protesting at the abuse. She welcomed the pain, let it ground her in the simple reality of body and weapon and target.

  “He’s dead.” The words emerged between strikes.

  “He’s dead and I couldn’t save him.”

  The mace’s head shattered the dummy’s shoulder.

  “I was right there.”

  Another blow sprayed straw across the packed earth.

  “Right there!”

  The dummy’s head went flying, landing with a dull thud in the dirt.

  Still she swung, reducing its torso to splinters and scattered straw.

  When nothing remained but the central post, she switched to another target.

  And another.

  Her world narrowed to impact and destruction, to the need to hit something, break something, make something else feel the pain that threatened to tear her apart.

  “This solves nothing,” Berthold said.

  “I don’t want to solve anything!” Irmin punctuated each word with a blow. “I want to hurt something! I want to make something bleed!”

  “And will that bring him back?”

  The mace slipped from her grasp, clattering against stone. She stood amid the destruction she’d wrought, chest heaving, arms trembling with exhaustion.

  “I don’t need your wisdom.” Her voice cracked. “I don’t need kind words. I need…” She drew a shuddering breath. “I need to know who had him killed. I need to know why. I need to make them pay.”

  “And you think you must do this alone?” Berthold’s presence wrapped around her mind. “Your sisters suffer too, each in their own way. Elana masks grief with duty, Adelinde with research. But they hurt as you hurt.”

  “They didn’t see it happen. Didn’t watch him fall. Didn’t feel his blood on their hands while they tried to…”

  She couldn’t finish. The memory rose sharp and terrible—her father’s face as the blade struck, the surprise in his eyes, the words she couldn’t hear over the roaring in her ears.

  “I failed him. I was supposed to protect him. To keep him safe. And I failed.”

  “You are not alone in this burden. The Kingdom needs all its daughters now. United, not divided by grief.”

  She looked down at her hands, scraped raw from the mace’s grip. Somewhere in the night, a bell tolled, marking another hour closer to the funeral, to the moment when they would commit their father’s body to the ground.

  “I can’t face them.” The words emerged small, vulnerable. “Not yet. Not until I have answers. Not until I can give them something more than shared pain.”

  “Then we use the funeral to hunt. We watch. We gather evidence. But remember, you have allies in this fight. When you’re ready to see it.”

  Irmin retrieved the fallen mace, returning it to its rack with a sigh. Her arms ached, her breath still came too quick, but the blind rage had burned itself out, leaving clarity in its wake.

  Someone had killed her father. Someone had tried to break the Kingdom’s foundation. And they would pay for both crimes.

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