Beneath the Waning Moon
He reached into a box and withdrew two pendants.
He extended one toward me. A moonstone carving on leather cord. My breath caught—nearly identical to the one Lysandra had shattered, holding my pup's first image. Inside this stone, encased in crystal, floated the preserved memory of my lost pup's ultrasound, glowing faintly.
"I had this crafted for you," he said softly. "To help you remember him. To remember what we created."
For a fragile second, my heart trembled.
Then he withdrew the second pendant—identical, but Lysandra 's stone was larger, clearer, lined with diamond-dust that caught firelight and scattered it into cruel, glittering shards.
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