The clock struck eleven, and I was still walking corridors I'd already memorized.
Fourth patrol of the night. Unnecessary. Obsessive. But sleep wasn't coming anyway, and standing outside Sebastian's door listening to silence felt worse than moving. At least moving gave the illusion of purpose.
Rain misted against the tall windows, turning London into watercolor beyond the glass. The palace was quiet except for the occasional creak of old wood settling and the distant murmur of night staff going about their routines.
I should've been tired. Should've felt the weight of the day pressing down. Instead, I felt wired. Alert. Like my body knew something my mind hadn't caught up to yet.
The chandelier kept replaying in my head. The way the bolt had snapped. The angle of the fall. The fact that I'd pulled Sebastian out of his chair seconds before tons of metal and crystal would've crushed his skull.
Too close.
Footsteps approached from the east corridor. Soft. Measured. A servant in palace livery appeared, young man with nervous eyes.
“Mr. Volkov?” He stopped a respectful distance away. “His Majesty requests your presence in the gardens.”
I stared at him. “Now?”
“Yes, sir. He said immediately, if possible.”
No reason given. No context. Just a summons in the middle of the night to meet the King in the gardens without guards or witnesses.
Every instinct I had screamed protocol violation.
But the servant was already retreating, clearly not expecting refusal. And something in the way he'd delivered the message felt less like command and more like plea.
I followed.
The corridors leading to the gardens were lit by lanterns that cast long shadows across marble. My boots were too loud in the silence, each step echoing like a countdown to something I couldn't name.
The door to the Midnight Gardens stood open. Rain drifted through in fine mist, carrying the scent of roses and wet earth. I stepped through into darkness broken by moonlight and the glow of scattered torches.
The gardens were beautiful in a way that felt deliberate. Engineered. White roses bloomed everywhere, their petals catching light like they were lit from within. Ivy crawled over stone arches. Fountains whispered in the dark. The whole place felt like a secret the palace was keeping from itself.
King Alexandre stood beneath an arch of ivy at the far end, coat open despite the cold, no guards visible anywhere. Just a silhouette carved from moonlight and sorrow, staring at roses like they held answers.
I approached slowly, scanning the shadows out of habit. Looking for threats. Finding none except the king himself.
“Your Majesty.”
He turned, and I saw exhaustion carved into every line of his face. “Mr. Volkov. Thank you for coming.”
“You summoned me.”
“I asked. There's a difference.” He gestured vaguely at the gardensaround us. “Couldn't sleep. The palace feels heavier at night. Like all the ghosts wake up when everyone else tries to rest.”
I understood that more than I wanted to. “Walls remember too much.”
The words surprised me even as I said them. Too honest. Too revealing. But the King looked at me like I'd given him something he needed.
“Yes.” He exhaled, breath misting in cold air. “They do.”
He started walking deeper into the gardens, and I followed because that's what you did when kings moved. We walked in silence past beds of roses and reflecting pools that turned the moon into something broken.
He stopped at a glass pavilion tucked between hedges. Candlelight glowed inside, warm against the cold. A bottle of brandy sat on a small table with two glasses.
“Sit with me,” he said. Not quite an order. Not quite a request. “Just two men with too many ghosts.”
I should've refused. Should've maintained distance. Professional boundaries existed for reasons.
