The hum of the banquet carried through the gilded corridors like a distant tide.
Silver had successfully slipped out of the public's eye. Laughter and music wove together, echoing faintly against marble and gold, but the farther Silver walked, the more the sound dulled—until all that remained was the whisper of her own footsteps.
Beyond the grand hall, the air grew colder, untouched by the warmth of wine or applause. The lanterns burned low, their light fractured across stone pillars and velvet drapes. Servants were forbidden from that wing during royal events.
That was precisely why she had chosen it as the meeting place when she sent the letters to the Secret Fangs.
She had maintained quiet contact with them through one of the maids assigned to her mansion—asking for updates about the missing rifle and forming a deliberate plan on how she would survive that night.
