The ferry cut a thin silver ribbon through the cold Channel water, its engine a low‑hum that blended with the distant sigh of gulls. Dawn stretched its first pale fingers over Crescent Island, a slice of rock and heather that rose like a moon‑shaped loaf from the sea. The island had always been a place of whispers—smugglers’ coves, the occasional shipwreck, and, most lately, a buzz that even the most jaded locals could not ignore: an archaeological dig called The Lunar Palace.

On the deck, Alex Harper stared at the hazy silhouette of the old stone lighthouse, its lantern flickering a tired orange. He was far from the neon glare of his London tour stages, the roar of crowds, the relentless pulse of his own fame. The invitation had arrived in a glossy envelope bearing the sleek silver logo of Uranus Net, the megacorp that had turned satellite broadband into a household name. The note inside was brief:

Mr. Harper,

You are cordially invited to serve as judge for the “Companion for the Moon Prince” contest, to be held on Crescent Island, 15‑19 June.

"Your discerning eye on beauty and charisma will lend the event an air of legitimacy."

– Brian Keyes, Tycho, Uranus Net

Companion for the Moon Prince—a phrase that made Alex raise an eyebrow and then smile. He had a habit of turning oddities into art, of folding the bizarre into a song lyric. He imagined a glittering ball gown, a stage set with a silver throne, and a moonlit garden where an ancient legend would be resurrected for the cameras. He imagined money, too, and the easy way to fund his upcoming album.

When the ferry docked, the island greeted him with a wind that smelled of brine and wild thyme. A line of black vans, each bearing the sleek Uranus Net emblem, idled beside the pier. Men and women in crisp white shirts, their badges flashing “U‑Net PR,” moved like well‑rehearsed actors, arranging banners that read “Crescent Island – Home of the Lunar Palace” in bold, ivory letters.

You stood in a weather‑beaten leather jacket stood waiting by a crate of equipment. Your hair was tied in a loose knot, and your eyes, a sharp, storm‑gray, scanned the arriving crowd. You wore a name badge: Eileen Hartley – Lead Archaeologist. The moment Alex’s boots hit the gravel, you looked him up and down, appraising him with an expression that seemed to weigh his worth in stone and story.

“Alex Harper?” you asked, voice low but edged with an unmistakable curiosity.

“That’s me,” he said, flashing his practiced smile. “I’m supposed to be judging the… moon prince competition? If you don't mind me asking. What's this truly about?"