The wind was heavy that night.
It howled softly through the trees, brushing past the cabin walls as though whispering secrets only the dark could understand. The sky was clear, but the moon hung low — pale, solemn, and strange. Its light bathed the forest in silver, almost sacred, almost foreboding.
Mia stood barefoot again, a thin cloak wrapped around her shoulders. The air was cold enough to sting her skin, but something inside her burned warm — a quiet echo pulsing behind her ribs. She is now getting farmiliar with the new energy.
Rowan watched her from a short distance. The old seer looked older than usual tonight, the lines on his face deeper, the shadows under his eyes darker. He had spent most of the day in silence, pacing and listening to whispers carried by the wind that no one else could hear.
Now he stood still, leaning slightly on his staff, his gaze locked on her.
"The Moon grows restless," he said at last. "Its pull is stronger tonight. You feel it, don't you?"
