The moon didn't just rise; it conquered the sky.
It hung over Seattle like a great, unblinking eye, bathing the terrace of the Obsidian Hotel in argent light so pure it made the city below look like a smudged charcoal drawing. Up here, the air was thin and sharp, smelling of power and crushed pine needles—the scent of deep magic.
The penthouse terrace had been transformed. The sleek, modern furniture was gone, replaced by a circle of standing stones that Ethan had somehow transported to the roof. The moon-blooms, planted in silver urns at the cardinal points, were glowing with a soft, rhythmic pulse, responding to the lunar pull like living things.
The world below—the traffic, the sirens, the chaos of human life—felt irrelevant. This was sacred ground now. A pocket of ancient law carved
