The empire of Atheron had been crumbling for years, though no one admitted it. Markets were quieter, crops were failing, and even the gods who once answered every prayer had gone silent. Yet people clung to the Festival of Masks, one night when masks could hide the truth and everyone could pretend the empire still lived. For Lyria, it was not a night of celebration. It was a night of survival. She pushed through the crowded plaza, her heart hammering. Under her plain cloak, she still wore the white linen of a temple priestess, a mark that had once made her sacred but now marked her as hunted. The gold mask on her face was not a costume. It was protection. The music, laughter, and lantern light blurred around her as she kept her head low and her steps quick. Soldiers patrolled the edges of the plaza, searching for her. She needed to reach the Moon Shrine, her only chance of escape. A sudden grip on her wrist made her spin. The stranger was tall, broad, and impossibly calm. His mask was carved like a wolf, black and sharp, silver lines catching the lantern glow. “Stay still. They will see you if you run,” he said. Her instinct screamed to pull away, yet something in his voice held her. He guided her through the crowd like a shadow, his hand firm but careful. When they were clear of the patrols, he let go. “You should not be wearing gold,” he said. “And you should not be wearing a wolf mask,” she replied. They did not ask names. Tonight, they were strangers. Yet she could not stop looking at him. He leaned against a pillar, eyes fixed on her, and for reasons she could not name, her chest tightened. She did not know that he would soon drag the empire to its knees. She did not know he was the Shadow Prince. She did not know that this single encounter would change both their fates.