Rain sheeted off the eaves, each drop ringing tiny, hurried notes against the bronze gutters as Jang slipped from the dorm shadows. Midnight lamps along the colonnade had been dimmed to blue coals— the Quell-Lantern hour— but their muffled glow still carved treacherous pools across the flagstones. He timed his breaths with the gusts of wind, moving only when a burst of rain rattled roof tiles loud enough to hide his footfalls.

A single patrol jingled at the far end of the yard, the tethered flame of its lantern trembling like a nervous eye. Jang pressed himself to the cold wall, feeling damp stone soak the sleeves he had already shortened for stealth. The guards ambled on, complaining about wet boots; the moment their laughter curved away, he darted into the kitchen alley.

Here the scent changed, grease and soy clinging to the night air even after the cook-fires had died. Rats scurried at his approach, nails scratching tin sheets stacked for morning wash. Ahead, the service hatch gaped—a squat wooden flap barely a servant’s width—overlooked because no one expected thieves among the drudges. Jang eased it open; hinges hissed only a breath.

Inside was blacker still. Across a cramped passage the larder stair dropped steeply, each riser coated in flour dust that squeaked underfoot. He kept a hand on the wall to feel the turns— one… two… third landing. A barred grate marked the boundary between kitchen stock and archive stores. The padlock there hung inert; Brother Cheol never locked it after evening inventory, convinced no sane thief prized moldy beans or mouse-nibbled yams. Jang slid the bolt, heart thudding with each metallic clack that sounded impossibly loud in the hush.

The air changed again, cooler, tinged with the dry musk of parchment and cedar. A single slit-window near the ceiling let in blade-thin moonlight; dust motes drifted like faded prayers. Jang ducked behind a stack of rice sacks, lit the stump candle he’d hoarded from breakfast trays, and shielded the wavering flame with his palm. Tallow stank faintly, a comforting cloak around the sharper odor of old grain.

In the teardrop of light, the pantry became a cave of soft edges: burlap mountains, barrel forests, a lone table scarred by cleaver cuts. He set the candle there, breaths settling to a slower drum. Each flame-pulse gilded the damp on his brow, and for a moment he simply listened— rain whispering against the high vents, distant thunder rolling low like a beast that would not quite wake.

Satisfied the night was his, he tugged at the inner hem of his tunic. Two silvered spider-silk stitches parted— the Fang Stitch Kwan had taught him— and the fragment slid free, warm from the press of his skin. Even folded it seemed to breathe, silk edges frayed but proud, charcoal ink glinting oily under candlelight. Jang’s pulse skipped. He laid it flat with reverent fingertips, smoothing loose threads as though they were wounded flesh, then exhaled a silent vow:

No chains, only keys.

Thunder answered somewhere beyond the roof, a deep rumble that shivered the little flame.