The Stray Moon
Wren keeps her head down, but I see the muscles in her jaw flex, the way her shoulders tremble not from fear, but from holding still when every nerve wants to fight.
The seer stops directly in front of Wren, so close that the cuffs brush her shin. The two of them are study in opposites: Elowen, all ice and clarity; Wren, a dark, smoldering knot of pain and refusal. The bond between us pulses, a reminder that even now, I am tied to this girl in ways the law never meant to allow.
“Stray Moon,” Elowen murmurs, voice soft but carrying. She doesn’t have to shout; the title is an indictment and a prophecy all at once.
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