It was the shattered vase that did it.
An antique from the First Moon Dynasty. Glass spun with molten silver, a relic kept sealed in a private case on the fourth floor of the East Wing. No servant ever touched it.
But now it was gone.
Shards like starlight dusted the stone floor, and the panic that followed was swift, merciless.
"Find the responsible party," the steward growled. "Now."
Servants scattered like startled birds.
And 01911, cleaning a hallway two corridors away, was summoned without explanation.
She stood before the shards, silent. The steward paced like a blade unsheathed. Others hovered nearby—the nymph, the banshee, the silver-eyed boy who never blinked. Watching. Not speaking.
"She was near the wing," someone muttered.
"She scrubs the floors there every dusk."
"She's human. They don't understand value."
The murmurs hardened like frost.
"I didn't break it," 01911 said softly.
No one listened.
The steward's slap came fast, and she staggered to one knee. Her cheek burned. "Speak when asked," he snapped.
She bit her lip. The stone floor blurred for a moment, the scent of iron curling in her nose.
"She should be punished," someone offered.
"Publicly."
"It would remind her of her place."
The steward turned to the guards. "Bring the rod."
And so they did.
She was dragged to the hall outside the servant quarters. Not the great hall—not noble enough for their attention—but public enough to teach a lesson.
A post stood at the center, and she was forced to kneel beside it. Her tunic was torn at the shoulder to bare her back.
"Five lashes," the steward declared. "For negligence, and for lying."
She didn't fight.
There was no point.
The first blow came sharp and fast. White heat flared through her spine. She clenched her jaw.
The second landed—then—
"Stop."
The voice was calm. Too calm.
Everyone turned.
Thalen stood at the edge of the corridor, his silver hair a mess, eyes burning like stormlight. He walked forward slowly, like one who had considered not stepping in—but now had decided.
"She didn't do it," he said.
The steward frowned. "You have no—"
"I do."
He held up his hand.
In it: a glimmering shard of the vase. Embedded in a scrap of velvet—green velvet.
"Who wears that shade?" Thalen asked, too pleasantly. "It isn't human cloth. It's noble court attire. I believe young Lord Riven was showing off the relics to a group of moonborn yesterday. Loudly. Drunkenly."
Gasps rang out like bells.
The steward's face paled.
"You're accusing a noble—"
"I'm pointing out evidence," Thalen said. "And reminding you that beating a human without proof is still discouraged in the North."
A silence fell.
Then, from the shadows near the arched corridor, a deeper voice cut through it all.
"I'm pleased someone remembers the laws."
Everyone froze.
Lord Fenris stepped into view, his black cloak trailing behind him like smoke, his gaze unreadable.
He approached with a slow, dangerous grace.
His eyes locked onto the steward. "What number is this human?"
"01911, my lord," the steward said quickly, bowing.
Lord Fenris turned his gaze to her—still kneeling, still bleeding, still silent.
"She did not cry out," he said softly. "Even once."
The words weren't praise.
They were… curiosity.
Then he looked to Thalen. "You've done well."
Thalen gave a small, mocking bow.
The Alpha's eyes returned to the girl.
"Unbind her."
No one moved.
"I said—unbind her."
The command cracked like thunder.
She was released. Her tunic pulled back into place. A cloth offered—but she didn't take it.
Lord Fenris watched her for a long moment. Then he spoke, low and quiet, just to her:
"Tell me, human. Why did you not defend yourself louder?"
Her throat was raw. She swallowed.
"They wouldn't have believed me," she said simply.
He studied her.
Then turned.
"She'll dine in the servant's upper hall from now on. And she's to be assigned lighter duties until her wounds heal. Do not disobey."
He vanished into the shadows.
The hall remained frozen for a beat.
Then, slowly, the crowd dispersed.
Thalen lingered just long enough to meet her eyes.
"You're lucky," he said. "He's never looked twice at anyone without fangs."
01911 didn't reply.
Because luck had nothing to do with it.