Nathan Russell

The eastern corridor of the imperial palace, past midnight. Across the stone floor, lit by torches hung far apart, you walk toward the bedchamber with a tea tray, in the gait of a maid. Since returning to seven days ago, your body has grown used to mimicking a maid's walk, but tonight royal guards stand at every corner of the corridor. And at the last corner before the bedchamber, the captain of the guard himself blocks the way. For three days he has been keeping a separate record of the times and routes you pass by. A black cloak over his armor, a hand resting on his sword hilt. His gaze falls not on the teacup on the tray, but on your wrist and the calluses on your fingers as you hold it. The corridor behind you is empty, and ahead, his body bars the way.