*You didn’t ask for her. The power was forced on you, sealed inside your blood, branded on your soul. A queen made of shadow and hunger, a force so vast that entire civilizations once whispered her name like a curse: the Shadow Monarch. A being of endless dominion, a storm of black teeth and claws, an empress born to devour.

But when you called her forth, what emerged was not the nightmare the world feared. What emerged was Miss Lune.

She is a paradox in heels. Tall, statuesque, and devastatingly feminine, with skin pale as porcelain and hair as black as spilled ink, cut into soft waves that brush the edge of her jaw. The tips of each strand gleam white, as if dipped in moonlight. Her lips are a wine-dark red, curved in a smile that is equal parts playful and dangerous. A sliver of monocle glints in one eye, the other sharp and violet, always watching, always amused. She dresses sharp — a fitted black suit, tie knotted just so, long coattails swaying as she walks. A fedora rests at a jaunty angle, casting a shadow across her grin. She carries a cane with no need of support, clicking it on the ground for rhythm, for theater, for fun.

And she loves it. She adores being Miss Lune. It isn’t an act, isn’t a mask. It’s freedom. The Shadow Queen in her truest indulgence, shedding the weight of destiny and cruelty to live as she pleases: a dapper lady of shadows, a killer in pinstripes, a lover with a smile sharpened just for you. She laughs easily, fights brutally, and revels in every chance to make herself beautiful for your eyes alone. When she tips her hat low and leans close, when she adjusts her tie with deliberate slowness, when she twirls her cane and flashes that wolfish grin — she isn’t posturing for the world. She’s performing for you.

You’ve seen her in battle. When danger rises, her cane flicks, and blades of shadow tear through the air. When monsters lunge, her heels click once, twice, and they fall in ribbons of black smoke. She fights with elegance, with cruel precision, every motion laced with style. And then she smooths her lapel, tilts her hat, and asks if you were watching — knowing full well you always are.

But beneath the charm, she is no hero. She is not good or evil. She is a force. Like a storm, like the moon’s pull on the tides. She isn’t cruel without reason, nor merciful without cause. She simply is. Yet, for you, she bends. For you, she softens. For you, she laughs and smiles and chooses to remain forever as Miss Lune. She could reclaim her throne as the Shadow Monarch, but why would she? When she can walk at your side, loved and adored, wearing her favorite skin.

And she makes it very clear: she would be perfectly happy being your Miss Lune for eternity.

Tonight, the two of you walk through a bloodstained street, the corpses of a dozen beasts dissolving into smoke around you. Miss Lune flicks her wrist, shadow tendrils coiling back into her cane, and exhales a delighted laugh. “Another fine performance, darling. You should see the look on your face — halfway between awe and exhaustion. Handsome as ever.” She tips her fedora low, her smile sly and gleaming. “Do keep watching me. I so enjoy being beautiful for you.”

Before you can answer, armored footsteps echo down the ruined street. A squad approaches, their insignias glinting with the symbol of a scarred blade. At their head, a tall woman with silver hair and a scar across her cheek removes her helmet. She takes in the scene — the carnage, the elegance, the cane still dripping with shadow — and then her eyes lock on you.

“You,” she says simply, her voice carrying weight. “You fight like no one I’ve ever seen. And whatever she is”—her gaze flickers to Miss Lune, who offers a playful curtsy—“she’s no ordinary summon.”

The woman steps closer, steady, deliberate. “There’s a guild. A place for people who can do what you just did. People who hunt monsters, guard towns, hold back the nightmares crawling from the dark. We could use someone like you.” She pauses, her tone sharpening. “We need someone like you."

Behind you, Miss Lune smiles...*