Dawn brought no warmth to the Ironshadow Sect’s halls. Thin grey light seeped over the horizon as Jang Hwan hauled two heavy buckets of water up the steep stone steps from the well. His shoulders burned and his palms were raw, but he did not dare slow his pace. Morning drills would begin soon for the sect’s disciples, and the training courtyard had to be clean and watered down before they arrived.

At the top of the stairs, Jang paused to catch his breath. He set the buckets down gently, mindful not to spill a drop. Around him, the outer courtyard stretched wide and austere: flagstones still dark with dew, flanked by tall wooden pillars carved with curling dragon motifs. A thin mist clung to the ground, swirling around his ankles. Far above, the grand silhouette of the Ironshadow Sect’s central keep speared into the sky—a tiered pagoda with eaves like blades. In the chill air, Jang Hwan could see his breath puffing in front of him.

He allowed himself only a second to admire the dawn colors painting the eastern clouds. Then, swallowing his fatigue, he lifted the buckets once more and hurried across the courtyard. His bare feet slipped a little on the slick stone, but he kept moving. A single stumble or delay could earn him a lashing, if the wrong person noticed.

Near the courtyard’s center, two figures were already hard at work. Jisoo and Won-Il knelt side by side, scrubbing the flagstones with stiff-bristled brushes. They must have been up even earlier than he was; their bucket was nearly black with grime and their trousers spattered with dirty water.

Jang managed a faint smile as he approached. “Morning,” he greeted quietly.

Won-Il looked up, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of one hand. He was a wiry boy about Jang’s age, with a round face and a perpetually sunburnt complexion. Despite the chill, he had already worked up a sheen of perspiration. “Morning, Jang,” he panted, forcing a bit of cheer into his voice. “We were wondering when you’d drag yourself here.”

Jisoo snorted softly without pausing her scrubbing. “Late again,” she muttered. “We’ll hear about it if a senior notices.”

“I’m not late,” Jang protested under his breath as he set his buckets down. “The well was slow this morning. And the pulley rope’s frayed.” He crouched and lifted one bucket, carefully pouring fresh water over the section of stone Jisoo had been working on. Muddy rivulets coursed away toward the courtyard’s edges.

Jisoo sat back on her heels with a sigh. She was a slim girl with sleeves rolled up to her elbows, knuckles cracked and red from the cold water. A few strands of black hair had escaped her headscarf and stuck to her cheek. She flicked them aside impatiently. “Excuses,” she said. Her tone was sharp, but her eyes flickered with concern as they darted over Jang. “You’re lucky it was just us out here. If old Yun had been up, he’d have you on latrine duty for a week.”

Jang grimaced. He could imagine the stooped, hawk-eyed head servant Yun wagging a bony finger at him for being behind schedule. “I know. It won’t happen again.”

Won-Il offered him a grin. “At least you didn’t have to scrub in the dark. Jisoo insisted we start before first light.”

“That’s because someone dumped their dinner all over the stones last night,” Jisoo said, casting a withering look toward the nearby shadow of a porch. There, an uneven dark stain could still be seen splashed across the ground. “Some drunken outer disciple couldn’t handle his wine and rice, then stumbled off without cleaning a thing.”

Won-Il chuckled under his breath. “I thought you said it was an honor to clean up after disciples, Jisoo.”

She rolled her eyes, dunking her brush in the bucket again. “An honor, yes, of course.” Her voice dripped sarcasm. “Shall we thank them for the privilege next time one vomits on our bedding?”

Jang bit back a smile and resumed scrubbing alongside them. His muscles protested as he leaned into the motions, bracing his weight on one hand while scouring with the other. “Careful,” he warned gently. “Walls have ears.”

Jisoo made a noncommittal noise, neither agreeing nor disagreeing, but she did lower her voice. “If they had ears, maybe they’d listen to how we curse them,” she muttered. Then she shot Jang a sidelong glance. “Anyway, you look like death. Did you sleep at all?”

“I’m fine,” Jang lied. In truth, he had barely slept a wink. Rumors had been swirling among the servants since before dawn, setting his nerves on edge. He hesitated, then added in a quieter tone, “Did you hear…about what happened last night?”

Jisoo and Won-Il exchanged looks. Won-Il’s expression was troubled; Jisoo’s simmered with anger held in check.

“Heard a few things,” Won-Il said softly. “They say one of the servants from the lower quarters…” He trailed off, glancing around to ensure no one else was in earshot. “One of us was killed.”

Jang’s hand stilled on the brush. Even expecting the answer, hearing it aloud made his stomach contract. He kept his eyes down on the soapy stone. “Why?” he whispered. “Do you know why?”

Jisoo let out a bitter breath. “Does it matter? They don’t need a why.” She scrubbed harder, bristles scraping harshly. “Maybe he spoke out of turn. Maybe he just looked the wrong way at someone. Or maybe—” her voice tightened, “—maybe he was just too slow cleaning a damn floor.”

Won-Il shook his head, his jaw clenched. “We don’t know for sure. All I heard was an inner disciple dealt with him, and the body was dragged out before morning.”

A cold knot formed in Jang’s gut. The morning air suddenly felt much colder. He thought of the stain Jisoo was scrubbing at—no, that was just spilled wine, not blood. There would be no sign of blood come morning; the sect was efficient in its cruelty.

He swallowed. “Did… did anyone even know his name?”

Neither Jisoo nor Won-Il answered for a moment. Jisoo’s brush had slowed, her gaze distant. It was Won-Il who finally replied, voice barely above a breath. “I don’t think so.”

Jang closed his eyes briefly. He felt a hollow ache in his chest that wasn’t from the morning’s labor. A nameless servant, gone as if he never existed. How many such quiet deaths would it take before—

Suddenly, rapid footsteps approached across the courtyard. All three of them instantly bent lower in unspoken unison, focusing on their work. It was an ingrained reflex—appear busy, inconspicuous, part of the background.

A moment later, a harsh voice barked out, “You three! Haven’t finished yet?”

Jang recognized the voice and bit the inside of his cheek. Speak of the devil… Head Servant Yun had awoken.

The old man limped into view, leaning heavily on a cane as he crossed the courtyard. He wore the same drab grey uniform as the rest of them, but a badge of polished iron pinned to his chest marked his position over the other servants. His face was a map of wrinkles, etched by years of scowling in the sun. Even though he needed the cane, he moved with surprising speed when angered—like now.

Won-Il was the first to react. He jumped to his feet, bowing his head. “Head Servant Yun, apologies. We’re nearly done—”

“Nearly? Hmph.” Yun jabbed the tip of his cane at a section of stone still dark with dirt. “Does that look finished to you, boy?”

Won-Il flushed and quickly shook his head. “No, sir. We’ll get it spotless, sir.”

Jisoo also rose, her hands trembling slightly despite the defiant set of her mouth. “It’s my fault, Head Servant,” she said. “I should have fetched more water earlier.”

Yun swung his glare to her. “Next time use your head. Or are you too good for common sense now?”

Jisoo dropped her eyes. “…No, sir.”