CHAPTER 772: I’M YOUR MAID TOO (2)

He made a small sound that might have been a laugh if he’d let it grow up. "Right," he said, his voice faintly rough but amused. "Then do me the honor of setting the pace."

Lira turned slightly, the dim light tracing the edge of her jawline. "Near people, I go first. In dead space, you do. Your ghost stays behind both of us." Her tone was steady—practical—but there was warmth beneath it, the kind that came from knowing someone well enough to joke about danger.

Mikhailis smirked and tilted his head toward the small blue glimmer half-hidden in the shadows. The lens pulsed faintly.

Accepted. I enjoy being demoted to furniture.

"Good," Mikhailis murmured, pushing the door just wide enough to let them slip through. "You were never a good conversationalist anyway."

Insult received. Efficiency unchanged.

They moved like water pouring from one vessel into another—soundless, fluid, sure. The door shut softly behind them, cutting off the amber light of the alcove. The faint clack of the latch echoed once and died. For a heartbeat, neither spoke. The air of the corridor felt cooler, the kind of chill that hummed faintly in the bones of old castles. Lira adjusted her pack; the leather creaked softly, like a whisper from another life.

Three soldier-ants scuttled ahead, their dark carapaces barely visible, antennae sweeping the air for trip-lines. Three others vanished upward, dissolving into the thick line of the rafters. Mikhailis watched as the worker ants spread themselves thin along the wall’s seams—like ink spreading through paper—until even their movement blended into the stillness of stone.

He followed close behind Lira as she guided them down the narrow passage. Her movements were economical, exact—her boots met the floor as if she was apologizing to it. The faint sway of her ponytail mirrored her steps, and though she said nothing, her focus painted every breath she took. There was something oddly elegant about her silence—it was the silence of someone who had learned to survive in it.

They turned into the dry channel, the same one by the herb beds. Mikhailis remembered marking this route long ago, back when he was still learning how the castle breathed. Stone keeps fewer secrets than soil, he thought. But at least it doesn’t lie. His fingers brushed the wall once as they walked. Smooth. Cold. The frost was beginning to bite the mortar.

Lira raised her hand suddenly, a silent order. Mikhailis stopped instantly, his gaze flicking toward the corner ahead. The faintest hum reached them—two guards, perhaps young, their voices barely rising above the rhythm of their breath. It wasn’t prayer exactly; more like men trying to remember the sound of calm. Lira looked back at him, eyes steady. He nodded once, then took a slow breath.

In for four. Out for six.

He stepped when they did, their footfalls melting into the hum like two invisible notes added to a song. The corridor opened, and they slipped past the stair without even stirring the air. When they reached the bend, Mikhailis allowed himself a small, private smile—the kind of satisfaction that came from making no sound at all.

The kitchen smelled faintly of roasted barley and salt, though what simmered in the pot was anything but generous. A single cook stirred with the absent rhythm of exhaustion. Chalk markings crawled down the side of a barrel: neat, disciplined rations. Cerys’s handwork, he noted instantly. That woman had a talent for turning scarcity into an illusion of plenty. "She still hides holes under perfect arithmetic," he whispered under his breath. Lira caught the remark and pressed her lips together, a restrained smirk ghosting over her features.

They passed through like ghosts in uniform—steward and clerk, as convincing as truth could make them. The cook didn’t even lift his head. People who’d seen too much knew better than to look closely at those who didn’t want to be seen.

The infirmary was quieter than usual. The smell of vinegar bit through the air, sharp enough to clean thought. Two cots stood empty, blankets folded precisely—promises of rest unclaimed. Riska’s ledger hung from a nail, its corner bent with the habit of use. Lira’s gaze lingered for a moment before she shook her head, just barely. "Not today," her eyes said. Mikhailis gave a slight nod in agreement. A clean floor tells better stories than the people on it. They passed through without a sound.

The chapel stair came next. Two kneelers murmured under their breath, their shoulders moving slightly with the cadence of quiet faith. Mikhailis timed his step to the whisper of their words—each motion soft, deliberate. Faith is useful, he thought dryly, if it teaches rhythm. He touched the postern door’s frame and paused. The bell-wire was still where he’d left it. He ran two fingers along it, finding the tension and the little wedge he’d placed to mute its ring. He removed it gently, almost reverently. The wire lifted, sang a higher note as it returned to its rightful tautness.

Outside, the air bit his face—cold, honest, unforgiving. Frost clung to the edge of every stone, making the ground sparkle like a warning. The herb beds were ghosts of their summer selves, brittle stalks bowing under white weight. The dry channel stretched ahead like a frozen scar through the courtyard. Mikhailis pulled his collar higher, eyes narrowing as he scanned for signs of motion.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. Breath left their lips in silver clouds that dissolved quickly. Behind them, the castle’s outline was still, almost contemplative, its towers faint silhouettes in the half-light.

The city awaited, crouched beneath a blanket of pre-dawn quiet. Lamps burned dimmer—thrifty, calculated—casting pools of amber light that never quite touched each other. Shutters were sealed, the smell of frost mingling with coal smoke. Lira pulled her hood lower, her stride smooth and controlled. Mikhailis followed half a pace behind, hands clasped before him in the careful gesture of a man who belonged everywhere and nowhere.

If challenged, they had a line prepared: steward delivery to east watchhouse.

But no one asked. The guards at the corner watched the frost, not the people in it.

The streets were heavy with quiet. The kind of silence that holds weight. Mikhailis watched the thin fog coiling above the cobbles, every little shift betraying the way the air moved through the city. He took note of the small details—patterns others ignored. Lamp oil rationing was working; flames burned with a consistent dull glow. The night no longer wasted light. The sound of drums was gone. Even the rhythm of distant boots seemed fractured and irregular. He smirked faintly. Cerys again. She doesn’t just command soldiers—she bullies rhythm itself.

Market stalls stood like skeletal ribs beneath their tied canopies. Chalk freeze notices marked every second door, scrawled with warnings for the morning’s traders. The bread lines were penned, ropes already drawn but waiting for their crowds. The smell of stale flour mixed with cold metal. Mikhailis’s fingers twitched slightly, itching to note the pattern.

He pulled out the small tablet, the screen muted against the faintest gleam of dawn. His thumb danced quickly, typing shorthand annotations as they moved: oil efficiency 0.62, crowd density below forecast, rhythm variance holding. It wasn’t habit—it was survival disguised as curiosity.

Beneath his coat, the blue light pulsed faintly again.

Four window openings within one block. One patrol echo behind—distance increasing. Two unsafe alleys flagged: broken glass field likely to betray.

Mikhailis didn’t reply aloud. He gave a soft tap to his coat pocket, the signal for acknowledgment. Then he and Lira stepped off the main lane, keeping to the washhouse roofs. Their boots brushed against the slick frost of tiles, movements precise. Every time she glanced back, Lira’s eyes were steady, alert, yet touched by something softer—trust, perhaps. She didn’t need to speak; their rhythm said enough.

They dropped into the tannery lane. The sharp scent of ammonia hit them instantly, stinging his throat and eyes. Mikhailis’s mouth curled into a thin grin. "No one hides crime in a tannery," he muttered. "The air already testifies."

Lira’s breath left her nose in a soft puff. "You’re the only man I know who compliments a stench," she said quietly, a wry note buried under the words.

"Stench is honesty," he replied. "It doesn’t pretend to be perfume."

At the next corner, the faint sound of a latch came to life. A shadow of a man in a decent cloak was fiddling with the scriptorium door—one that should have been sealed. Lira’s nose twitched again, her instincts sharper than steel. "Ink’s wrong," she whispered. "Marleon river dye, but the quill’s ours."

Mikhailis’s gaze flicked once to the would-be intruder, then away. "We let Aelthrin’s hounds have the first bite," he murmured. "They’ll taste the difference by dawn."

Noise was temptation, and temptation was death. They left it alone.

Their steps led them to the mill wall, a long stretch of shadow that framed the faintest strip of light from above. They walked side by side but not together—each aware of their spacing, their sound, their presence. They lowered their hoods when the wind cut against them, then raised them again when it turned. Even their breath moved in synchrony, plumes rising and fading with equal rhythm. Two ghosts walking home to nowhere, he thought.

The river’s edge arrived dressed in mist. Hoarfrost hung heavy on the reeds, and the earth underfoot turned soft, sticky with thawing mud. The faint sound of running water filled the silence, the kind that made the world feel wide again. Mikhailis crouched, motioning the soldier-ants forward. Two darted to the timber cribbing at the riverbank and knocked their heads against it, a low, dull sound like tapping wood for truth. The second impact revealed a soft give—a peg shifted slightly. Recent passage. Sloppy work. He frowned.

Lira knelt beside him, her breath visible in the cold. "Too recent," she whispered. "Someone else used this path."

"Someone careless," Mikhailis murmured. "That’s worse than an enemy—it means they thought they were safe."