The White Wolf Luna
“You’re not taking anyone.”
The figure’s voice softened, almost pitying. “I am not the unmaking. I am the Keeper. Every world requires a price—a soul to anchor it, to keep it from dissolving into me. Choose, or I claim you all.”
The ground cracked beneath them, and the golden light dimmed, as if the world were already fraying. The whisper grew louder, now a chant, repeating their names in a rhythm that matched the song in their hearts. The figure stepped closer, its form growing, its mirror-face reflecting their fear, their love, their everything.
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