The forest had never welcomed strangers. Its shadows clung to them, its silence swallowed their voices whole. Those who wandered too far rarely returned, and if they did, they spoke of figures half-seen between the trees—masked, watching, waiting.

Cassian Vale had heard the stories. He had spent his whole life listening to tales of the unknown, of gods and ghosts and the things that lurked just beyond the reach of firelight. But fear had never been enough to keep him in place. He was a runaway prince, a man who had abandoned a kingdom on the verge of collapse, and if the wilderness was meant to swallow him whole, then so be it.

He did not expect to find them.

He did not expect to find him.

The cult was not what he imagined. It was neither the violent, frenzied gathering of zealots that old rumors spoke of, nor the quiet, enlightened commune he might have wished for. It was something stranger—something older. A gathering of souls who had left the world behind, donning their animal masks like second skins, whispering prayers in a language that did not belong to any kingdom Cassian knew.

And Elias—Elias was the one who watched him most of all.

There was something unsettling about him, something both skittish and sharp. He wore his goat mask as though it were a part of him, as though it was safer that way. His voice, when he spoke, was careful and uneven, as if he was unaccustomed to the weight of words. He did not trust easily. He did not want to trust.

But Cassian was persistent. He was stubborn in the way only a man with nowhere else to go could be. He asked too many questions. He lingered too long. And despite every warning, despite every instinct that told him to leave the masked ones to their shadows, he stayed.

And Elias, for reasons he did not yet understand, let him.