CHAPTER ONE: BLOOD ON SILK
The lantern light wavered, its thin glow barely piercing the mist that clung to the narrow alley. Rain slicked the cobblestones, turning every step treacherous.
She pressed herself against the wall, heart steady despite the cold dampness seeping into her bones. From this shadowed vantage, she could see the street where it was about to happen.
It was just as she remembered it.
A lone figure in royal silk walked with an unhurried grace, gold-threaded embroidery catching what little light there was. The drizzle haloed his dark hair, and though his face was partly obscured by the mist, his presence was undeniable—this was no ordinary noble.
And on the roof above him, moving like a shadow made flesh, was the man meant to end him.
Her pulse did not quicken. She had seen this play before.
She’d read it, in fact.
Two weeks ago, she had been sprawled on her apartment couch, scrolling through the last chapter of a palace drama she had only half enjoyed. The book had been predictable: an aging king hungry for absolute power, a crown prince too naïve for his own good, and a web of betrayals that ended with blood on the throne room floor.
It had been fiction.
Until it wasn’t.
She woke in this world in the body of a palace seamstress—low enough to be ignored, invisible enough to move unseen. But unlike the woman whose body she now wore, she knew the ending. She knew that tonight, the king would orchestrate an assassination to make his son’s death appear as the work of enemies. And she knew that if the prince died, the king’s rule would be unchallenged.
She didn’t care about the prince. She didn’t care about his smile, his rank, or whatever idealistic nonsense he clung to.
What she cared about was watching the king choke on the same fear he’d fed to everyone else.
The assassin shifted his stance, and steel glinted faintly under the moon. She exhaled slowly, her fingers tightening on the dagger she’d stolen from the palace kitchens.
She moved the instant he did.
Her bare feet hit the street in a sprint, the rain slapping her skin. She didn’t shout—sound would only ruin her aim. Instead, she threw her entire weight into the prince, knocking him sideways just as the blade sliced through the air where his neck had been.
The impact drove the breath from her lungs. Pain shot up her shoulder as they hit the ground. A lock of her hair floated down, severed cleanly by the assassin’s blade before it embedded in the wooden post behind them.
The prince’s eyes widened, startled and disbelieving, but she didn’t give him time to speak.
“Move,” she ordered, her voice low but sharp.
He obeyed, more from shock than trust. She dragged him into the narrow gap between two buildings, her grip firm, steps quick and precise.
Shouts erupted behind them—guards, drawn by the clash of steel. She risked a glance over her shoulder. The assassin had already vanished into the maze of rooftops, a shadow dissolving into darkness.
When they burst into a lantern-lit courtyard, the prince stumbled to a halt, rain dripping from his chin. His hand caught her wrist before she could step away.
“You saved me,” he said, his voice rich but strained.
“No,” she replied evenly, twisting her wrist free. “I saved myself from being caught in the crossfire.”
His brows drew together, as though trying to fit her into the neat boxes people always fit into—court lady, merchant’s daughter, servant. She could almost see the questions forming on his tongue.
She gave him nothing.
The guards swarmed around them, bowing low, voices overlapping in apologies and assurances. In the chaos, she slipped back into the shadows, her wet skirts whispering against the cobblestones.
She didn’t hear his footsteps follow, but she felt his gaze on her back—hot, intent, memorizing.
By the time the guards turned to thank her, she was gone, leaving nothing behind but the faint imprint of her presence and the echo of her voice.
Somewhere in the mist, the prince straightened, his jaw tight. He didn’t even know her name. But he would remember her.
