The Broken Luna Returns
This time, I didn’t flinch.
The book flared in my hands. Light, bright and white, erupted from it, washing over the forest floor. The shadows were erratic as if it as in pain, if that was even possible. It was twisting and writhing, trying to retreat.
The figure screamed too, its voice a mixture of rage and fear. “You cannot—she is not ready—”
But the light didn’t stop. It surged through me, through the ground, through the forest itself.
And then—silence.
Bab Populer