A jolt of adrenaline shot through Xana. She spun around, heart hammering a frantic tattoo against her ribs, to face the source of the voice. A hulking figure stood framed in the moonlight filtering through a nearby window. Captain Volkov, the head of the palace guard, his face a mask of granite under his feathered helm. He was a man renowned for his stoicism and unwavering loyalty to the Emperor.
"I-I just..." Xana stammered, her mind a whirlwind of panic. Her carefully constructed facade of a clumsy servant girl was crumbling faster than a sandcastle in a storm.
Volkov's gaze swept over her, taking in the disheveled state of her hair, the smudge of mud on her cheek, and the telltale glint of the key clutched in her trembling hand. Recognition flickered in his steely grey eyes, a flicker that sent a fresh wave of terror crashing over Xana.
"A serving girl shouldn't be wandering these halls after dark," Volkov rumbled, his voice devoid of warmth. "Especially not near the Imperial Archives."
His words hung heavy in the air, a silent accusation. Xana knew she was cornered. But backing down wasn't an option. The truth about her past, the key to her very identity, lay just beyond that oak door. Taking a deep breath, she forced a semblance of calmness into her voice.
"I was… delivering a message, sir. From the Head Maid. Urgent business." It was a flimsy lie, but it was all she had.
Volkov's gaze narrowed, scrutinizing her. The silence stretched on, each passing second an eternity. Finally, he spoke, his voice a low growl. "The Head Maid would know better than to send a slip of a girl like you on such an errand. Especially at this hour."
Desperation clawed at Xana. She had to buy time, to distract him somehow. Her eyes darted around the dimly lit hallway, landing on a nearby vase overflowing with lilies. In a split second, she made a decision.
"The flowers, sir!" she blurted out. "They wilted faster than expected. The Head Maid needs fresh ones for the Emperor's chambers by morning, and I…" Her voice trailed off, feigning clumsiness. "I tripped, sir. Lost my footing."
Volkov's gaze flickered towards the vase, then back to her. A flicker of annoyance crossed his face, but for a fleeting moment, his stoic facade faltered. Xana pressed her advantage.
"Please, sir," she pleaded, her voice trembling slightly. "The Head Maid will have my head if I don't deliver these flowers. They have to be the freshest blooms from the Royal Gardens."
A beat of silence. Then, to Xana's immense relief, Volkov grunted. "Very well," he muttered. "But make it quick. And next time, stick to your duties." He gestured vaguely down the hallway. "The gardens are that way."
Relief washed over Xana, so intense it almost made her knees buckle. She bowed low, gratitude lacing her voice. "Thank you, sir. I won't disappoint you."
As Volkov turned and began to walk away, his broad shoulders momentarily blocking the entrance to the archives, Xana darted forward. Her nimble fingers fumbled with the key, the precious metal cold against her skin. With a satisfying click, the lock yielded. She slipped inside, the heavy oak door swinging shut behind her with a soft thud, plunging her into darkness.
For a moment, Xana stood there, her heart pounding against her ribs. She fumbled for a tinderbox she kept hidden in a secret pocket of her worn dress, the one Elara had gifted her years ago. A spark ignited, casting a flickering golden glow on the towering shelves crammed with ancient scrolls and leather-bound tomes. The air hung heavy with the scent of aged parchment and forgotten knowledge.
Taking a deep breath, Xana steeled her nerves. This was it. The truth, the key to her past, lay hidden somewhere within these walls. But as she ventured deeper into the labyrinthine archives, a chilling realization dawned on her. The knowledge she sought wasn't just about her origins. It was about a secret far more dangerous, a truth that could not only shatter her world but ignite a rebellion that would shake the very foundations of the Empire.