Samara tightened the cloth around her hair one final time before stepping out.
Her fingers lingered there a moment longer than necessary, pressing the fabric into place as if force alone could keep the truth beneath it hidden.
The white strands were concealed.
For now, that was enough.
She exhaled slowly, steadying herself, then stepped into the corridor.
It was already alive.
Servants moved with practiced urgency, footsteps quick and purposeful against the stone floors. Some carried trays heavy with polished silverware, others bundles of freshly laundered linens that still held the faint scent of soap and sun. No one spoke loudly. No one wasted time.
The palace did not wake gently.
It surged into motion.
At dawn, it breathed differently. Efficient. Unforgiving. Alive in a way that left no space for hesitation.
Samara fell into step along the edge of the corridor, her presence blending into the rhythm of movement around her. Invisible.
That was what she needed to be.
