That night, just like the one before, two shadows slithered across the palace grounds, moving with lethal precision toward the southern wing—where the concubine's chamber lay guarded by only a handful of men.
One of the guards suddenly groaned, clutching his abdomen. "I—I need the latrine," he gasped, already stumbling away before anyone could question him.
The others barely had time to glance at each other before a second shadow slipped silently into the barracks. He moved like a ghost, swift and silent—his presence no more than a breath in the dark. In a flash, he was upon one of the sleeping guards. A sharp strike to the temple, a thud. Unconscious.
He sprinted along the palace wall, ducking beneath torchlight, then vanished into the shadows of a crumbling tool shed nestled against the eastern perimeter.
