At the same time, on the other side of the palace grounds, the night had grown still again, but only on the surface. Deep within the winding corridors behind the northern wing—forgotten by many, familiar only to a few—shadows blurred against shadows as a figure moved with astounding speed. Cloaked fully in black, his form was barely visible to the eye, his footsteps as silent as a whisper carried by the wind.
In his arms was the Prime Minister, his expression as calm as though he were being carried through a ballroom rather than smuggled away from a scene of betrayal and bloodshed.
The wind rustled faintly as they turned sharply, passing through crumbling archways and slipping between overgrown hedges and hidden doors. The man in dark clothes was fast—inhumanly fast—and with every few steps, the Prime Minister's long robes fluttered like a flag behind him, his silver hair catching fragments of moonlight.
