The White House was quiet again, kind that echoes.
I walked through the halls slowly, heels in hand, my robe fold over my arm. Arriving to my room, I saw the cloak from the production lobby still folded in my bed. The obsidian shimmer had dulled in the low light, but it still caught the moon in places, like it was holding on to fragments of memory.
Tonight, I must work for more designs, having this as the original. The Prime Minister of Cavelle City together with their businessmen must be convinced. Having these things has been the heart of werewolves.
Cloaks, oaths, alphas, lunas, and the Moon Goddess. Werewolf was never meant for presidential governance. Like they own every will. It just leaves people in chaos, a division—a war. And I don't want it. So I must work hard.
The tour ha
