It was nearly midnight when Alisha collapsed onto her bed, muscles aching. She had barely closed her eyes when a deafening crack echoed through the palace—sharp enough to rattle the floor.
She bolted upright. "What was that?"
The door slammed open.
Rowan entered, pale. "Alisha, come with me. Now."
They raced through the corridors, meeting guards sprinting in the same direction. The air tasted different—colder, thinner.
The Emperor strode toward them from the opposite hall, face carved with tension. "Report."
A guard bowed quickly. "Your Majesty—one of the outer wards didn't fail. It was cut. Something sliced through it from the outside."
Alisha froze. "What could do that?"
Everyone fell silent.
Then a cold mist seeped under the door at the end of the corridor.
Torches dimmed.
A figure materialized—tall, masked, and wrapped in shifting darkness. Its mask resembled a crescent moon fractured down the center.
Rowan stepped in front of Alisha, runes glowing in his hand. "Identify yourself."
The voice that answered was layered—echoing, warped, as if spoken through a tunnel of shadows.
"A messenger."
The Emperor's expression sharpened. "Speak."
The figure raised an arm slowly and pointed directly at Alisha.
"The Shadow King summons the heir."
Alisha felt her breath hitch.
"You have one full moon's cycle," the figure continued,"to surrender yourself…or this kingdom will drown in night."
Before Rowan could strike, darkness spiraled around the messenger, swallowing him whole.
He vanished.
Alisha stared at the empty space.
Thirty days.
Thirty days until the kingdom fell apart.
She swallowed the fear rising in her throat.
"Then we don't waste a single day," she whispered.