Inferna Palace — Midnight

  The palace slept beneath a canopy of cold stars.

  Stone walls loomed tall and sharp, draped in banners of crimson flame, each thread woven to command loyalty, to inspire fear. Within these halls, power whispered, and silence obeyed.

  Inferna had no excessive amount of guards. Not because the nation lacked the strength — but because Inferna refused to waste manpower over the illusion of threats. Order, she claimed, did not come from trained blades. It came from the consequences of failure, the dangers of success, and the inevitably of fear that walks faster than steel.

  Twenty-three guards patrolled the western halls that night.

  Not one of them saw the shadow slipping between them.

  ***

  Two guards moved down a polished corridor, boots clicking softly against stone. Their voices, hushed but casual, carried beneath the vaulted arches.

  “Shift’s almost done,” one muttered, stifling a yawn.

  “Lady Carmilla’s still awake,” the other replied.

  “Figures,” came the quiet chuckle. “She doesn’t sleep. I heard she reduced the number of guards again?”

  “She said it was only temporary. Only for tonight….. No, don’t look at me like that, It wasn’t my fault this time!”

  A torch guttered faintly above them, its flame twisting as though disturbed.

  One guard frowned and glanced over his shoulder. Nothing. Only silence stretching down the hall.

  He shook his head and walked on.

  Behind him, a candle fixed in the wall flickered once… and went out.

  ***

  Further below, the servant corridors buzzed faintly with distant activity. A lone maid hurried down the hallway, balancing a tray stacked with folded linens. She hummed softly under her breath, footsteps careful and quick.

  As she turned the corner, her shoulder brushed against something solid.

  She gasped — the tray rattled — but there was nothing there.

  Her humming stopped. She froze, breath shallow, scanning the corridor. Empty.

  The air, however, felt heavier. Wrong.

  She resumed walking, forcing her hum louder this time, desperate to drown out the silence clawing at her ears.

  “It was an illusion!” she mumbled, but her pace betrayed her assumption.

  Behind her, the unlit sconces trembled faintly… though no draft touched them.

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  ***

  At the heart of the palace, a sigil ward sat dormant.

  Its etched rings of crimson stone were dark, unlit, and cold.

  Once, long ago, Inferna had paid a fortune to maintain a permanent warded defense, but Carmilla had dismantled the engine herself after ascending to command. A palace drowning in borrowed power was a palace begging to be prey. Better to train soldiers than bleed coin on constructs no one truly understood.

  It had worked — until tonight.

  In silence, the Perception Veil mercenary stepped through the unguarded threshold.

  The corridor’s torches failed to notice. So did the guards. So did the stone.

  Sound bent. Light slid. Even memory struggled to anchor them.

  It was as though the palace itself refused to acknowledge they existed.

  ***

  A small candle burned low in Flora’s chamber, its light soft and warm against the folded tunics she stacked carefully on the bed. The room smelled faintly of dried lavender, quiet except for the muffled hum of her voice.

  She paused mid-fold, brows knitting. The air had shifted.

  The warmth from the candle no longer touched her skin.

  “…Roland?” she called softly, glancing toward the doorway.

  Silence.

  She shook her head and turned back to her work — and a dampened cloth pressed gently over her mouth.

  Her eyes widened, muffled breath catching, and her fingers twitched against the fabric. No struggle. No sound. Her humming stopped mid-note.

  The folded tunic slipped from her hands and landed silently on the floor.

  Flora collapsed without a sound.

  ***

  Far above, soft lamplight spilled across Carmilla’s desk, illuminating a neatly organized stack of reports. She wrote in silence, posture perfect, hair bound into an immaculate braid. Each motion precise. Deliberate. Controlled.

  The distortion entered her room soundlessly, crawling up the edge of the walls like heat haze bending sunlight. Shadows stretched unnaturally across the polished floor.

  The intruder stopped one breath from her chair.

  Carmilla’s pen stilled mid-stroke.

  She didn’t look up.

  “You’re late,” she murmured, voice quiet, measured, and cool.

  Silence answered.

  She set her pen down, closed the report neatly, and folded her hands over it.

  Only then did her crimson gaze lift, sharp as glass, meeting empty space directly.

  “You know the plan,” she said softly.

  “Make it convincing.”

  For the first time, the distortion shimmered faintly — a ripple in the air, like a mirage seen on sun-baked stone.

  A gloved hand materialized, pale against the lamplight, pressing the dampened cloth gently to her lips.

  Carmilla exhaled slowly, deliberately.

  Her eyelids lowered.

  And as she let herself fall forward, the faintest trace of a smile curved her lips.

  ***

  Two bodies.

  No sound.

  No weight.

  Flora and Carmilla were carried through Inferna’s arteries without resistance.

  Two guards passed within an arm’s reach, deep in conversation:

  “Execution plaza was a mess yesterday.”

  “Roland caused half of it.”

  “Kid’s gonna get himself killed.”

  Neither glanced sideways.

  Neither noticed the distortion brushing past their armor.

  Boots made no sound.

  Fabric didn’t rustle.

  Even Carmilla’s braid swayed wrong, weightless, untethered from the air.

  One guard shivered faintly, rubbing the back of his neck.

  “…Feels cold,” he muttered.

  “You’re imagining things,” the other said.

  They walked on.

  Behind them, silence followed like a predator.

  ***

  Deep in the lower halls, a pair of servant girls whispered over freshly stacked barrels.

  “Did you hear?” one asked, glancing nervously toward the stairwell.

  “They say the lower markets are cursed. A thief was pardoned this week.”

  “By the prince himself.”

  Her companion frowned, whispering back:

  “Doesn’t sound like a curse to me.”

  “Then why,” the first asked quietly, “does it feel like something’s watching us right now?”

  Neither turned.

  Neither noticed the third shadow slipping soundlessly between theirs.

  ***

  The palace breathed.

  Above, in a quiet chamber, Roland shifted beneath the weight of dreams, his face lit faintly by the soft glow of a balcony candle.

  On the table nearby sat Flora’s untouched tea cup, cold now, its steam long faded.

  Outside, one candle guttered faintly against the night wind.

  It bent.

  Flickered.

  Died.

  A scream echoed faintly somewhere deep in the lower halls.

  Roland stirred.

  But he did not wake.