Night at the Moon Altar
“Is it time?” The woman’s voice was barely audible, a soft echo behind the mist that cloaked the trees in the Moonstrike forest.
“It is,” another shadow answered from the fog—deep, resonant, as if the voice came from two places at once. “Luna Arwen will be at the altar soon. Your window is small.”
That night, the sky seemed complicit. The moon hung high, round and pale, bathing the ancient stone altar carved with old runes in its light.
The air was cold and trembling, as if the woods themselves sensed something forbidden underway.
The gray witch—Morghen—took a long breath. He wore a dull gray robe that blended with the mist. A strange flicker showed in his eyes, like the reflection of two different worlds: light and shadow.
“Don’t let her see you,” the voice r
