The Rise Of The White Luna
My real one, white, long, rippling, flowed behind me, trailing like smoke.
Below me, the kingdom pulsed. Awake and Peaceful.
Above me, the moon shone full and pale, watching like an old friend.
I didn’t cry.
I didn’t speak.
But inside me, something ancient stirred. Something I knew would live long after I was gone.
The White Luna was never a gift from the gods.
She was born in fire.
In betrayal.
In war.
And she rose for every broken soul who thought they weren’t enough.
The wind howled once, like it agreed.
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