They call it paradise.

Elysium, a land touched by the gods, shaped by loving hands, blessed with eternal balance. The poets sing of it. The priests preach it. Children fall asleep to stories of how the divine swept across the continent and carved a kingdom so perfect that even the seasons bow at its borders.

I believed it once. When I was small. When sunlight still felt like safety.

But even paradise has shadows, if you care to look. And I have spent ten years learning to see in the dark.

The great houses kneel before House Hyperion, founders of the realm, bearers of the crown, the ones who stand above all. United, they say. Loyal. Watch their hands instead of their smiles. Count the daggers they hide in their sleeves.

House Ersa, the Secret Keepers. Guardians of the North who hunt truths and hoard them like weapons. House Helios, the Wall, soldiers who hold lines no one else can, their Ironwill magic hardening mind or body, but never both. House Hecate weaves the Empire's arcane craft from a citadel that scrapes the sky. House Triton commands storm and sea. House Eos, far to the south where the sun lingers longest, calls the rain that feeds the Empire's hungry belly.

And then, there is House Selene.

The Moonlit Shadows. Silent. Unseen. Relentless.

My house.

We learned to disappear long before I understood why that might be necessary. Shadowguard, they call our gift. The skill of being wholly unnoticed. I used to think it was magic.

Now I know it's survival.

The gods may have shaped this land. But they left monsters in it too. Some wear crowns. Some wear chains. Some wear the faces of men who smile while they cut you open to see what's inside.

So when they tell you Elysium is paradise,

Ask yourself: who's telling the story? And who paid the price for it?