The Crescent Heir
The night was alive with something unspoken.
The moon hung full and shameless in the sky now, no cloud daring to cross its path, no mist brave enough to blur its light. It poured silver over the city, deliberate and unhurried, but it was strongest here — over the Ashworth estate, in Sophia's apartment — as though the moon itself had chosen a favorite. Her window glass caught the light and transformed it, bending it into something amber, something warm, ancient. The kind of light that didn't just illuminate a room. It awakened it.