Chapter 17: The Last Moonlight

They reached the cliffs on the seventh day.

The wind there was sharper, and the snow fell slower—like even time had paused to watch.

Frey stood on the edge, wrapped in a thick fur cloak, hair blowing wild. Behind her, Alvin stacked seaworn quartz and driftwood into a low altar, every movement precise, reverent.

“Do you remember it?” she asked, voice light.

“The view?”

“The stories.”

He nodded. “Moon rises here first. Wolves say it’s where the world ends.”

Frey smiled faintly. “Or begins again.”

She turned back to the edge. “Describe it to me.”

Alvin stepped beside her.

“The sea’s dark indigo. Icebergs float like shattered stars. And the cliffs below us—black stone streaked with silver. There’s mist in the hollows, curling like breath.”

She closed her eyes. “Keep going.”

“The moon’s rising,” he said. “It’s full. Pale gold. Like your eyes.”

Frey inhaled slowly. “And the sky?”

“Empty. But kind.”

He reached into his coat, pulled out the ash-wood pendant.