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Kallias steps closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. “I’m very good at being discreet.”

“You’re about as discreet as a bonfire in a library.”

Maxim clears his throat, his lips twitching with amusement. “You’ve already been assigned to tidy his chambers tonight. We can bring some tapestries up from the vaults, and if anyone asks, the prince decided to do some redecorating.” He smirks, his deep brown eyes glinting. “It wouldn’t be the first time.”

I sigh, the weight of the plan settling heavily on my shoulders. “All right, lead the way.”

I fall into step several paces behind them, and my posture folds in on itself, shoulders rounded, chin ducked—efficient, silent, unseen.

Master Dimos would be impressed.

I keep my head bowed as we glide through the dim corridor, stealing glances from beneath my lashes. But my eyes continue to find Kallias’s back.

The more time I spend with him, the harder he is to pin down. The prince who looked at me with such disdain when he’d agreed to hide me in the palace barely two months ago feels like a figment of my imagination now. That Kallias had burned with a cold kind of fire, untouchable.

But this Kallias? He’s different.

Even after he asked me to spy for him, I’d expected him to keep his distance, to treat me as a tool he could wield and discard when it suited him. Instead, he’s become more involved, more present. It’s clear he’s not going to stand by while citizens of his kingdom go missing.

I can’t decide if it’s admirable or dangerous. Maybe both.

And then there’s the drinking—or lack of it. I haven’t seen him drunk since the night Maxim and I found him in the eastern gardens. That version of him had been raw, unguarded, and far too vulnerable for someone who wears arrogance and boredom like armor. But tonight, his eyes are sharp and focused.

I shove the thoughts aside as the vault door looms ahead. The guards flanking either side might as well be carved from the same stone as the statue I hid behind, given how silent and still they are. That is, until they bow deeply.

“Your Highness,” they say in unison.

They rise, and I avert my eyes to the floor.

The door creaks open on reluctant hinges, and I follow Kallias and Maxim inside. I get a brief glimpse of a stairwell landing before the door closes behind us with a final, echoing thud, and we’re thrown into darkness.

My heart skips a beat as a flame comes to life in a sconce on the wall, the sudden light casting long, flickering shadows across the stone.

We descend a spiral staircase carved into cold stone, the air growing cooler with every step. One by one, the sconces lining the walls ignite as we pass, their flames leaping to life in a ripple of light that chases away the dark. The flickering glow dances across the curved walls, gilding the rough-hewn stone with a restless golden sheen.

When we finally reach the lower floor, the staircase spills into a black void, the light from the last sconce above barely reaching the threshold. The darkness is absolute, pressing in on all sides.

Then, with a soft whoosh, every sconce in the corridor ahead ignites in rapid succession, their flames flaring bright. The sudden illumination reveals a long, wide corridor lined with heavy wooden doors.

“Impressed, Poison?” Kallias tosses a smug smile over his shoulder.

“Hardly,” I lie, tearing my eyes away from his stupidly handsome face and taking in the corridor once more. “Which door is it?”

Kallias strides forward and stops in front of the first door on the right.

“This one,” he says, reaching for the handle. But when he twists it, the door doesn’t budge. He frowns as he tries again, harder this time. Still nothing.

“This one’s typically not locked,” he mutters, more to himself than to us.

I step closer. “Well, it is now,” I say, already reaching beneath my skirt for the thigh holster strapped to my leg. My fingers find the familiar weight of my picks, and I pull them free.

“Do you carry those everywhere?” Kallias asks.

“Always,” I reply, nudging him with my shoulder. The brief contact sends a spark of heat and energy tingling along my arm.

The door is old, the iron bands tarnished, but the mechanism is surprisingly intricate. I kneel, and my fingers work quickly, the picks sliding into place with practiced ease. The familiar resistance of the tumblers is almost comforting, a small piece of control in a situation that feels anything but.

Maxim steps up to my other side and leans in.