59: ASHES OF THE FIRST MOON

AYLA – POV

The wind bit through my cloak like it held a grudge.

High on the ridge overlooking the valley, I stood alone—the last trace of moonlight curling through the treetops, dyeing the ash-smeared rocks with the palest blue. Below, the camp slumbered in uneasy silence. Fires burned low. Wolves curled together for warmth. No songs. No stories. Just waiting. A forest full of breathing ghosts.

My hands wouldn't stop shaking.

Not from the cold. Cold, I could handle it. I had grown up with frost in my bones.

This was something else. Something older. A knowing, rooted and wild.

The First Luna's voice no longer echoed. She didn't need to speak. Her pulse lived beneath my ribs now, deep and constant like the thrum of the earth. And I couldn't tell where her magic ended and mine began.

Was that what it meant to awaken?