The path to the Lunar Sanctum didn't begin with a door, or a threshold, or any physical gateway.
It began with a breath.
Lyra stood at the edge of the silver platform, her staff shimmering faintly at her side. Before her stretched an ocean of still moonlight, as smooth as glass and just as cold. Each step forward echoed not in sound, but in pulse, like her very soul was resonating against the will of the divine realm.
The Sanctum didn't want intruders.
It wanted willing pilgrims.
She had to mean each step.
Lyra tightened her grip on her staff. "No pressure," she muttered, then stepped forward.
The moment her foot touched the surface, it rippled. Not like water. Like memory.
The entire realm shifted.
