Alora's Windsong
Beside it, a new standard waited, white field, silver crescent, a braid of storm-blue at the edge: Lyra’s crest.
Lyra walked with her arm in Ryker’s, her white hair braided with the blue tips she’d asked me to do for her; we matched. Her winter blue formal gown was studded with hundreds of tiny moonstone crystals that caught the light when she moved. It was full-length and elegant, a queen who had walked through fire and chose softness anyway. The murmur that rolled through the pack wasn’t noise. It was belonging, family, cheers called out of a thousand throats at once, she had always been their beloved Luna.
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