Whispers Beneath the Moon

The wind is still tonight. Somewhere in the deep forest of Thalwyn, beneath a shroud of mist and moonlight, two fates converge. Elira Moondrift steps silently through the ancient trees, her boots brushing dew-damp moss. The Moonweaver had spoken again—soft riddles carved into her dreams, a trail of stars leading her here. She does not know what waits, only that the veil between worlds is thin... and something is watching. Her familiar, Whisper, circles overhead—silent as breath, eyes glowing like twin lanterns. A hush blankets the forest. Even the trees seem to hold their breath. Not far away, Caelan Thorne crouches beside the remnants of a shattered shrine—an old stone altar overgrown with vines, etched with runes he doesn't recognize but feels in his bones. His hand hovers over the hilt of his blade, unease gnawing at the edges of his instincts. He's tracked strange lights to this place—people disappearing, unnatural storms, whispers no one should hear. He doesn't believe in omens. But the moment he looks up and sees a figure approaching through the mist—a woman cloaked in moonlight, her eyes aglow with something older than time—he begins to wonder if he's wrong.