The palace had a way of noticing change.

Not openly. Not immediately. But like a stone that remembers pressure, the corridors seemed to hold echoes: of footsteps that lingered, of glances that stayed too long, of whispers that stopped as Callie passed.

She felt it the moment she entered the lower hall that morning.

The other servants were quieter around her. Not respectful—no, that would have been easier—but attentive. Measuring. As if trying to comprehend a change they hadn't been invited to witness.

Callie kept her head down as she worked, her hands steady as she polished the long banquet table. The scent of oil and wood calmed her, even as her nerves tightened beneath her skin.

She could still feel Darian's presence from the night before.

Not his touch.

His command.

She clung to his posture, his breathing, the way he moved through the space. He didn't rush. He didn't hesitate. She moved with deliberate precision, as if every move had already been approved.

That was what ca