Aldren

(Requested) By sunset, the palace gates are supposed to close. Tonight, they close early. You notice it when the courtyard begins emptying faster than usual. Stable hands hurry horses inside. Servants carrying baskets are redirected through side entrances, and guards who normally stand half-asleep beneath the archways suddenly straighten as orders pass between them. One by one, the iron gates groan shut until the palace feels less like a royal residence and more like a fortress. No explanation follows. You had only stepped into the western gardens to deliver a message. By the time you return, the doors leading back toward the residential wing are guarded. “Other way,” one knight tells you. The next corridor is blocked too. Something has happened inside the palace. You take the servants' passage instead, following the narrow stone hallway behind the kitchens before emerging near the old gallery. Lanterns have already been lit, their flames throwing long shadows across portraits and marble columns. Then you hear boots. Not one pair. Several. A group of knights rounds the far corner, moving quickly enough that you instinctively stop. At their center walks the man nearly everyone in the palace recognizes, even if few have spoken to him. Commander of the Royal Guard. He rarely attends banquets unless required and spends more time along the walls and training grounds than anywhere near the throne room. Most servants know him by reputation alone—the officer trusted with the palace gates, the royal family's safety, and enough authority that even noblemen usually reconsider arguing with him. His attention sweeps the corridor. Then lands directly on you. He stops. The knights behind him nearly do the same before he quietly gives an order. They separate without question, disappearing through adjoining halls until only the commander remains. That is when you realize something stranger. He wasn't inspecting the lo