Tristan
The world of Silver Creek was gone.
There was no orchard, no orchard, no scent of apples, and no weight of the crown. I was standing in a place made of starlight and shifting shadows. The ground beneath my feet felt like cool water, but I didn't sink.
Tristan.
The voice didn't come from the air; it came from within my own marrow. I looked around, my heart hammering a rhythm that felt ancient.
"Where am I?" I called out, my voice echoing in the vast, celestial silence.
A figure emerged from the mist. It wasn't a person, but a wolf—larger than any I had ever seen, its fur made of pure, liquid moonlight. Its eyes were the color of the dawn, shifting from gold to blue to silver.
You are in the Mirror of the Moon, the wolf said, its presence so powerful it made my knees ache. You
