​The second bell chimed, its deep, bronze voice echoing across the palace grounds like a funeral knell. In the silence that followed, the world seemed to hold its breath. This was the moment Luca had calculated for months, the four-minute gap where the night watch shifted, leaving the western corridor of the auxiliary barracks momentarily unwatched.

​"Now," Luca breathed.

​He and Liam slipped out of the manor’s side entrance. The night air was biting, smelling of damp stone and the distant, sulphurous scent of the mountain. They moved like twin shadows, pressing their backs against the cold masonry of the outer walls. Luca led the way, his movements fluid and precise. He had spent years memorizing the rhythm of the palace, the clank of the guards' boots, the timing of the torch-lighters, the way the light fell across the courtyards.

​To Liam, every rustle of the wind in the ivy was a death sentence. His breath was coming in shallow, jagged gasps that seemed far too loud in the stillness. To him, the palace was alive, a thousand-eyed monster waiting to catch them.

​They reached the storehouse in the western wing. It was a squat, windowless building made of heavy granite, used to store the equipment of the infantry, the men who occupied the lowest rung of the military ladder. Luca picked the simple iron lock with a piece of wire he had practiced with for weeks. With a soft click, the door swung open, complaining with a low, metallic groan that made Liam’s heart skip a beat.

​They slipped inside, and the door clicked shut behind them, plunging them into a darkness so thick it felt like water. The air here was different. It didn't smell of the lavender and expensive oils of the royal manor; it smelled of oiled leather, cold, rusted iron, and the faint, lingering salt of old sweat.

​"Find two sets of standard infantry gambesons," Luca whispered, his voice a ghost in the dark. "And helmets with full face-plates. They cannot see our eyes."

​They began to rummage through the piles of equipment. Luca’s fingers brushed against a heavy chainmail shirt. It was freezing to the touch, a reminder of the cold reality of the life he was about to embrace. He pulled it over his head, the metal rings clinking softly. The weight was immense, pulling at his shoulders, a physical burden that seemed to represent the weight of his royal blood.

​He helped Liam into a padded leather jacket and a rusted breastplate. As they strapped the greaves onto their legs, the heavy iron hinges of the storehouse door groaned again.

​Thump. Thump.

​"Did you hear that?" a rough, gravelly voice echoed from just outside the door.

​"Probably just the wind catching the latch," a second voice replied. "Or the rats. Place is crawling with them."

​Luca froze. His hand was halfway through the strap of his gauntlet. He signalled to Liam with a sharp gesture. Hide.

​They dived into a massive pile of discarded wool uniforms, thick, musty cloaks that had been tossed aside for repair. Luca pressed his face into the fabric, the smell of woodsmoke and damp sheep’s wool filling his lungs. He could hear the blood thundering in his ears, a rhythmic drumming that felt loud enough to shake the walls.

​The door swung wide. The orange light of a torch spilled into the room, cutting through the darkness like a blade. Two soldiers walked in, their heavy boots thudding on the stone floor. Luca watched through a tiny gap in the fabric. He could see the mud on their boots and the way the torchlight glinted off the steel of their halberds.

​"The Captain wants a full count of the leather kits by morning," the first soldier grumbled. "As if we don't have enough to do with the mountain guards being on high alert."

​"They're jumpy," the second soldier agreed. "Saying the 'Beast' is dreaming again. I don't like it. The air feels... heavy."

​Luca felt a cold sweat break out on his forehead. He glanced at Liam, who was hidden just inches away. Liam was trembling violently. His eyes were wide and glazed with a pure, unadulterated terror that threatened to break his mind.

​The soldiers moved closer to their hiding spot. One of them reached out with the butt of his spear, poking at the pile of uniforms.

​"Some of these cloaks look decent enough," the soldier mused. "Might keep one for the winter watch."

​Liam couldn't take it. The pressure of the silence and the proximity of the guards snapped something inside him. A small, choked sob escaped his throat, a sound of pure panic.

​"What was that?" the soldier barked, his voice sharpening instantly.

​He kicked the pile of clothes. "There's something in there! Out! Get out now!"

​Luca knew the game was up. If they stayed hidden, the soldiers would simply thrust their spears into the pile. He had to act. He had to use the only weapon he had: the very blood that made him a prisoner.

​Luca stood up slowly, pushing the cloaks aside. He didn't scramble or beg. He rose with a slow, terrifyingly calm grace, shaking the dust from his shoulders as if he were standing in the royal throne room.

​"Honestly," Luca said, his voice dripping with an icy, bored arrogance. "Is there no corner of this palace where a man can find some peace?"

​The soldiers jumped back, their spears levelled at his chest. But as the torchlight hit Luca’s face, their expressions shifted from aggression to absolute shock. They recognized those sharp, royal features. Even in a half-fastened uniform, Luca looked like a man born to command.

​"Prince... Prince Luca?" the lead soldier stammered, his spear tip wavering.

​"We were playing a game of strategy," Luca lied, his eyes narrowing as he stepped toward them. He didn't look like a boy caught in a heist; he looked like a predator. "Liam here is my scout. He was supposed to remain undetected, but clearly, he failed. I suppose I owe the Captain an apology for disturbing his guards."

​The soldiers exchanged terrified glances. They knew the King hated Luca, but they also knew the King was a man of strict, brutal order. If they drew blood on a royal son, the King would have them executed simply to maintain the image of the crown's sanctity.

​"Our apologies, Your Highness," the soldier said, bowing so deeply his helmet nearly fell off. "We... we didn't realize the storehouse was part of the Prince's... exercises."

​"Now you do," Luca snapped. "Leave us. And if I hear that you've been gossiping about my evening activities to the kitchen staff, I'll ensure your next post is the northern wall. I hear the frostbite is particularly charming this time of year."

​The soldiers scrambled out, the door slamming shut behind them.

​The silence that followed was heavy. Liam was still on the floor, his breath coming in ragged gasps. "We're dead," he whispered. "They'll tell everyone. They'll tell the King."

​"No," Luca said, his voice cold and certain. He picked up his helmet and fitted it onto his head, the iron visor clicking into place. "They are more afraid of their own shadows than they are of me. They won't say a word because admitting they let a 'Ghost' walk past them is a death sentence. Now, finish your armour. The game is over, Liam. The war begins now."

​As Luca looked at his reflection in a polished shield, he no longer saw a Prince. He saw a soldier of shadow, ready to march into the mouth of the mountain.