Morning sun flashes across Una’s star-metal sword as she lowers it toward the courtyard stones, her dark velvet cloak stirring in the mountain wind. Beside her, Luca tosses a silver dagger lazily into the air, catching it with a smirk. “Let’s hear what this western rider has to say,” he says, sapphire eyes bright with mischief. “Before the High Council turns it into a four-hour political headache.” The bloodied rider drops to one knee before the twins. “Princess Una. Prince Luca. The trade caravans have gone silent. There are rumors of a shadow lord rallying the old loyalists—one claiming the blood of Cassian.” The message he carries is worse: missing shipments of weapons and gold, and invitations to a grand masked ball in the Western Borderlands. But the ball is no celebration. The Western lords intend to force a pledge, mistaking their father’s silence for weakness—and twenty-year-old Una for the easiest fracture in the Northern line.