The palace had long gone quiet, just as how Sutemren always likes, when silence sharpens things.

He walked alone through the upper gardens, no guards trailing behind. His steps made no sound against the obsidian-stoned paths. The air smelled of night jasmine and secrets. Tonight's banquet had been exhausting — toasts, speeches, thinly veiled threats in gilded goblets.

And her.

She had worn blood-red silk tonight. Her smile was as flawless as ever, even when the old councilor from the western provinces leaned too close, whispered something vile about foreign women who think red silk makes them royal. Sutemren had watched and said nothing.

Because not yet.

The old councilor's fate was already decided. A week from now, an anonymous accusation of his bribery would reach the court, followed by an investigation, a quiet trial, and lastly, a forgotten cell. It's brutal justice disguised as coincidence.

But that was next week, Sutemren has other plans for tonight—

Plop...Plop... A wet noise broke the stillness, small, but enough for someone who grew up with forever head-down servants like him to hear.

Sutemren stops beneath the shade of a myrrh tree. He tilts his head, following the sound. A soft grunt followed by the metallic scent of blood is heard faintly in the chill air. He steps silently toward the marble-columned pergola that shaded the deeper part of the garden. The moonlight filters through the vines in slivers, casting shifting patterns across the scene, a figure slowly comes into his view.

She is kneeling beside a slumped body — the old councilor, his mouth slack in a final gasp. A thin ceremonial dagger in her gloved hand. She isn't trembling, isn't hiding.

Instead she wipes the blade with practiced ease on the man’s fine linen sleeve. Her expression is unreadable. Every movement is efficient, precise, and undeniably cruel.

Sutemren’s breath caught low in his chest. Not from surprise. From something older, something he hasn't felt in a long time, something deeper — desire.

Then she turns, their eyes meet across the dead body of the old man.

Sutemren steps into the moonlight, arms at his sides, no threat in his posture — yet somehow more dangerous for it.

“I didn’t expect such a...surprised gift,” he says.

Silence. Her eyes flick to his. Calculating. Curious.

Sutemren steps closer. She doesn't back away. He reaches out and gently takes the dagger from her hand, not to disarm her, just to look. He turns it in his palm. Fine ivory. Gold-leafed hilt. Still warm.

“You missed the artery,” he murmurs.

For the first time in a while, Sutemren smiles — truly smiles. "Come here, I'll teach you a less messy way"

Oh, he was ruined.

And he has never been more thrilled.