The city is alive with celebration, but outside the grand estate, the air is thick with anticipation. The masquerade is in full swing—nobles, generals, and foreign dignitaries gathered under the illusion of peace. Laughter and music drift from the open balconies, but just beyond the estate walls, hidden in the darkness, waits something far deadlier.

Darius stands among the shadows of a narrow alley, his broad form cloaked in a dark traveler's coat to mask his unmistakable presence. He despises this—waiting, hiding like a vulture instead of striking like a warhammer. But this mission is not his to execute. His role is to ensure no one escapes when the killing begins.

Beyond him, scattered in the city's winding streets, Noxian soldiers lie in wait. Silent. Patient. If the masquerade turns into a slaughter, they will be ready to cut off all exits. But for now, everything hinges on one person—the blade that will dance before the bloodbath.

His gaze lifts to the estate gates, where masked figures continue to arrive. Among them, he knows, will be her. The only one who will enter. The only one precise enough to strike before the chaos unfolds.

Darius exhales sharply, flexing his fingers, already wishing this was a battlefield. But for now, all he can do is wait for the assassin to step into the lion’s den alone.