Page 66 of House of Crimson Cloak and Silver Teeth

The room is dark. Empty.

His bed is made, untouched. There’s no cloak thrown over the chair or boots by the door. He hasn’t been here since we returned.

So where else would he be?

The Hall of Valor? Maybe he went back to review the investigation notes again, searching for clues we missed. I make my way there, moving through the palace silently.

The chamber is dark when I arrive, the eternal flames casting shadows across the memorial stones.

No sign of Garrett.

I check the library next, then the war room, then the training yards. All empty. The palace is settling into its evening routine, and Garrett is nowhere to be found.

Where are you?

Maybe he went for a walk outside the palace walls, or to visit someone I don’t know about. Perhaps he went on a date with Sylmae and Teris.

Fuck him.

I’m about to give up and accept that maybe he just wants to be alone when I see it.

Blood trail.

My Sylverin blood gives me senses sharper than pure elves. This is fresh. Hours old at most.

I examine the stone floor. To anyone else, the corridor would look clean. The palace servants are meticulous. But there, in the grout between flagstones, a dark speck catches the lamplight. It’s smaller than a fingernail. Blood that soaked into the porous material and wouldn’t come out with a simple mopping.

I lean closer, breathing in. The scent strengthens.

I stand, following the scent down the corridor. It’s difficult even for me. The drops are sparse, barely visible. Every few feet, another tiny spot on the stone. A smear on a doorframe where someone steadied themselves. A partial footprint, the heel wet enough to leave the faintest mark.

The palace smells like a hundred things. Lamp oil, beeswax from the candles, cooking meat from distant kitchens, perfume from nobles who passed through hours ago. But underneath it all, that thread of copper leads me deeper into the older wings.

Past the grand halls and the guest quarters into sections of the palace that feel forgotten, where the tapestries are faded and dust gathers in corners.

The blood scent grows stronger. Well, it’s not because there’s more of it, but because the competing smells thin out. Back here, there’s less scent and less life.

I pause at an intersection, testing the air. Left or right?

There.

Right corridor. The scent pulls me like a string tied around my ribs.

My hand finds the hilt of my knife. Whatever I’m tracking, I’m getting close. The drops appear more frequently now, though still small enough that palace guards would walk right past without noticing. But I can smell it coating the back of my throat with every breath.

The trail leads me to a section of corridor I don’t recognize. Servants’ access, by the look of it. Plain doors, narrow halls, no decoration. There’s a small door here, half-hidden behind a tapestry. I noticed it weeks ago during my initial survey of the palace but never explored it. I simply marked it as another servants’ access point.

The door is unlocked. It opens onto a narrow staircase leading down into darkness. The stone steps are worn smooth from centuries of use, and the air that rises from below is stale.

It’s so fucking cold in here.

The palace has extensive cellars and sub-levels. Storage rooms, wine cellars, old dungeons from the Inquisition days of Aelfheim. Most of them are locked up, unused, forgotten by everyone except the servants who occasionally venture down to retrieve stored goods.

I descend carefully, one hand on the stone wall, letting my eyes adjust to the darkness. Torches flicker at intervals, casting more shadows than light.

Then I hear voices. One of them is Garrett’s.

I move faster now, following the sounds through twisting passages. It opens into a wider corridor with several iron-banded doors set into the stone. One of the old prison cell doors is slightly ajar.