Irithiel moved through the labyrinthine halls of the Imperial Palace with silent purpose, her boots barely brushing the polished marble floors. Her rank as the personal guard of King Vesryn and Queen Loreleia granted her unparalleled authority, but with it came an equal weight of responsibility. One misstep, one failure, and her life would be forfeited—a price she had sworn to pay the day she took her oath.
As she descended a spiral staircase leading to the covert operations wing of the palace, her mind churned over the plan. Corvyn was no ordinary cook. He had operated with precision and cunning, suggesting a level of training that surpassed simple kitchen duties. This was no random act of treachery; it was methodical and deliberate.
