Marked By Fate
My Selene.
She wore a flowing white dress, her dark hair spilling over her shoulders, her hands gripping a knife. Her eyes were closed, her face still, like she was lost in a dream. My breath caught, my heart pounding. “Selene,” I whispered, my voice barely audible, but she didn’t hear me.The chanting grew louder, faster, coming from a woman—a witch, her scent sour with magic, standing in the shadows near the altar. She must have sensed us, her voice rising, rushing to finish whatever twisted ritual she was weaving.
Bab Populer