The White Wolf Luna
“We make our own essence.”
Rowan’s blade slashed through the Hunger, his silver magic anchoring them all. “And we’ll keep it.”
The Hunger screamed, its figure fracturing, and the wound pulsed, not with destruction but with creation—a new light, not red, not gold, but blue, born from their unity, their defiance, their love. The fragments dissolved, their essence woven into the world, their screams now a song, joining Agnes’s.
The wound sealed, and the world steadied, its golden horizon flaring brighter, its stars reborn in blue light. The Hunger was gone, but its whisper lingered, soft and cold, a single word: Forever.
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