Moonlight fractured through the ancient trees like shards of glass, illuminating Aria's breath as she stepped into the clearing. The boundary between spirit and reality shimmered here—silver light leaking from every rune-carved stone. The air hummed with power, a delicate tension crackling beneath every footstep. All around, the Circle of sisters and brothers stood in vigil: Rowan at her left, Elena to her right, Solene and Marcus behind her—echoes of hope and heartbreak entwined.
And at her center, on a dais of moonstone, Mara hovered, silhouetted against the pale orb in the sky. Wings of lunar flame rippled behind her, and her eyes burned with ancestral malice. She wore the beauty of Eliot's Gothic legends: terrifying, ancient, beautiful.
"Aria Thorn," Mara's voice rolled across the clearing, echoing as if the forest itself spoke. "Last daughter of this line. You stand before me, her blood pulsing, yet ready to defy me."
