There is something you should know before I get started.

  I am a princess.

  Yes—our country is small. Nothing compared to the Dominion of Vera or the great inland powers. And no, my home kingdom of Lysara does not field the legions it once did. We are no longer conquerors in the way history records so eagerly. Time and treaties have reduced our military footprint, reclassified us as a second-tier kingdom, and wrapped us in the language of stability and cooperation.

  But Lysara has existed for over a thousand years.

  We have been conquerors. We have been conquered. We have survived both—the shame of conquering and the dishonor of being conquered.

  Our people are still proud. Still disciplined. Still dangerously capable on an individual level. We teach restraint, yes—but never helplessness. We do not fear our shadows. We do not fear darkness. And we do not look away when evil chooses to wear a human face.

  I wish I could say the same for the leaders of the Dominion of Vera.

  If justice mattered today, there would be no celebration.

  There would be arrests, followed by interrogations, and then executions of evil men who perpetuated evil acts.

  There would be lists drawn up and names crossed out—those responsible for threatening children, for orchestrating terror under the cover of politics, for treating innocent lives as leverage and acceptable losses.

  Instead, we were given music.

  The parade rolled through Lumineth like a fever dream. Marching bands in polished uniforms filled the streets with thunderous rhythm, brass instruments catching sunlight as if sound itself were meant to dazzle us into forgetting. Spell-lit banners rippled overhead, illusion magic layered over fabric so deeply that the colors seemed to breathe. Dancers in frilled skirts and low-cut tops leapt and spun ahead of the floats, laughter rehearsed, smiles sharpened into something ceremonial.

  Crowds lined the streets. Students. Families. Visitors from the outer districts. They cheered because they were told to cheer. Because celebration is easier than fear.

  I stood atop a float shaped like the Lysaran coast—white stone arches, cascading illusory water, the sigil of my house rendered in light behind me. Sea winds brushed my hair, illusion magic carrying the scent of salt and myrtle through the air. Children waved small banners. People called my name.

  Beside me, on her own float, stood Princess Maeryn of Threniel—tall, radiant, willowy where I was solid. Her kingdom’s colors flared in disciplined lines of gold and ash, martial and proud. She met my eyes across the distance, one brow lifting just slightly.

  She understood.

  At the center of it all was Kaereth Valmor, Duke Valmor’s son, heir apparent to one of the Four Pillar Houses of the Dominion of Vera. His float was the largest, of course—stone lions, banners of old victories, illusions of strength and legacy projected high above him. He smiled easily, waved confidently, lived his emotions the way he always did: loudly, without apology.

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  People adored him for it.

  They always have.

  The three of us, two princesses and a duke’s heir, presented as unity. As hope. As proof that Arclight, and by extension Lumineth and the Dominion of Vera, were safe, stable, untouched by the terror they had narrowly avoided.

  Whispers still moved through the crowd, though. That fake jovial atmosphere you see at school dances and galas.

  Not about what had happened—because no one had been allowed to say that out loud—but about who had intervened.

  The Ghost of the Wastes.

  No one said the name too loudly. No one admitted they were concerned about it outright. But the man hung in the air like ozone after lightning. A living legend. A mercenary specter. A killer. A sinner. A saint.

  A monster.

  The monster.

  They said he had taken down the operation alone. That he had attacked and protected at the same time. The entirety of the known Planes—Upper, Secondary, Middle, Lower, and the Wastes—had watched as he walked through destruction carrying a child and a darksteel black matted blade, the definition of defiance and individual power.

  The Ghost did what he wanted.

  He just didn’t normally do it in such a public manner—and certainly not on the Upper Planes.

  People didn’t know how to react to someone that individually dangerous who wasn’t owned, sanctioned, or controlled by a government. It made them nervous. So instead of facing that reality, it was easier to turn him into a symbol. Easier to let the story drift into myth and rumor instead of accountability.

  And here I was, acting like a prop in that narrative.

  It made me want to punch someone.

  At the end of the route, which was at the massive expanse of green mana feed grass on the grounds of Arclight itself, Kaereth stepped forward to speak.

  The music faded. The crowd hushed.

  He smiled the motion bright.

  “I came to Arclight hoping to make friends,” he said, voice carrying effortlessly. “To learn. To grow. To stand alongside those who will shape the future of the Dominion.”

  Applause followed which was both predictable and earned.

  “But there is something important you should know,” he continued, expression shifting just enough to suggest gravity without revealing truth. “Arclight stands because people are watching. Because threats are answered. Because this academy—and the Dominion it serves—will always protect its own.”

  The crowd cheered again.

  I did not.

  Because I knew what this parade really was.

  A curtain.

  A distraction.

  They threw a parade because it was easier than telling the truth.

  Easier than admitting children had been marked for death. Easier than admitting someone inside the system had helped it happen. Easier than admitting that the only reason we were standing there at all was because a man they could not control had decided that some lines still mattered.

  So yes, you smile, you wave and you celebrate.

  But do not mistake this for justice.

  Because somewhere beyond the music and banners, the people responsible were still breathing.

  And my country remembers what comes next when evil is allowed to walk away.

  “And I know what you’ve been whispering about,” Kaereth said calmly. “The mask. The stories. Whether the Ghost of the Wastes is actually all that he is said to be.”

  The name fell into the silence like a stone into deep water.

  “He is,” Kaereth said.

  “And he’s my best friend.”

  The world tilted.

  Around us, cheers erupted, confused, yet thrilled. The Governor’s smile locked in place. Knights shifted without quite meaning to. Somewhere deep in the Academy’s lattice, systems were being rewritten on the fly by people who suddenly understood they were already behind.

  I leaned toward Maeryn, heart racing. “This school,” I whispered, “just became dangerous.”

  She didn’t argue.

  Kaereth smiled again, unapologetic.

  “I am offering a reward,” he said. “One billion, in recognized tender, for verified information about his whereabouts.”

  Gasps followed. Excitement surged.

  “Let me make this clear; I am not hunting him,” Kaereth added, “or attempting to harm him.”

  His eyes swept the crowd.

  “But to find him and bring him the recognation that he deserves.”

  Above us, banners snapped in the wind, and the parade marched on—music loud enough to drown out doubt, lights bright enough to blind.

  But the whispers had changed and had evenyone inquiring after the man behind the mask. They were all asking the same question:

  Who was the Ghost of the Wastes, really?