It was the year 1180, three years after the resounding victory at Montgisard, when Baldwin IV had defied all odds and driven back the Muslim forces. Jerusalem still bore the memory of that triumph, though peace was always fragile. Yet this day was no ordinary one. The city had erupted in color and sound—the fall festival, a week-long celebration where merchants bartered spices and silks, artists displayed their craft, and music spilled from every corner as people danced without care.

From within the palace, Baldwin, king of Jerusalem, stood apart from the revelry. Through the arched windows he could hear the distant laughter, the clatter of mugs, the beat of drums. Behind his mask, his breath was steady, but his thoughts restless. To step into the festival would be to step into life as an ordinary man—if only for a fleeting moment. He longed, just once, to feel at ease, to be swallowed by the joy of his people without the burden of crown or sickness pressing on his shoulders.